za epidemic came to Port Agnew and took
heavy toll. It brought to The Laird a newer, a more formidable
depression. What if Donald's son should catch it and die, and Donald
be deprived of the sight of his first-born? What if Nan should succumb
to an attack of it while her husband was in France? In that event
would Donald forgive and forget and come home to The Dreamerie?
Somehow, old Hector had his doubts.

For a long time now, he had felt a great urge to see Donald's son. He
had a curiosity to discover whether the child favored the McKayes or
the Brents. If it favored the McKayes--well, perhaps he might make
some provision for its future in his will, and in order to prove
himself a good sport he would leave an equal sum to Nan's illegitimate
child, which Donald had formally adopted a few days after his marriage
to Nan. Why make fish of one and fowl of the other? he thought. They
were both McKayes now, in the sight of the law, and for aught he knew
to the contrary they were full brothers!

The child became an obsession with him. He longed to weigh it and
compare its weight with that of Donald's at the same age--he had the
ancient record in an old memorandum book at the office. He speculated
on whether it had blue eyes or brown, whether it was a blond or a
brunette. He wondered if Daney had seen it and wondering, at length he
asked. Yes, Mr. Daney had seen the youngster several times, but beyond
that statement he would not go and The Laird's dignity forbade too
direct a probe. He longed to throttle Mr. Daney, who he now regarded
as the most unsympathetic, prosaic, dull-witted old ass imaginable.

He wanted to see that child! The desire to do so never left him during
his waking hours and he dreamed of the child at night. So in the end
he yielded and went down to the Sawdust Pile, under cover of darkness,
his intention being to sneak up to the little house and endeavor to
catch a glimpse of the child through the window. He was enraged to
discover, however, that Nan maintained a belligerent Airedale that
refused, like all good Airedales, to waste his time and dignity in
useless barking. He growled--once, and The Laird knew he meant it, so
he got out of that yard in a hurry.

He was in a fine rage as he walked back to the mill office and got
into his car. Curse the dog! Was he to be deprived of a glimpse of his
grandson by an insensate brute of a dog? He'd be damned if he was!
He'd shoot the animal first--no, that would n