alue. I had hoped to pass it on
to you intact, unencumbered, an inheritance of some worth. Land,
you will eventually discover, Johnny, is the basis of
everything. A man may make a fortune in industry, in the market.
He turns to land for permanence, stability. All that is sterling
in our civilization has its foundation in the soil.

Out of this land of ours, which I have partially and
half-heartedly reclaimed from the wilderness, you should derive
a comfortable livelihood, and your children after you.

But I am afraid I must forego that dream and you, my son, your
inheritance. It has slipped away from me. How this has come
about I wish to make clear to you, so that you will not feel
unkindly toward me that you must face the world with no
resources beyond your own brain and a sound young body. If it
happens that the war ends soon and you come home while I am
still alive to welcome you, we can talk this over man to man.
But, as I said, my heart is bad. I may not be here. So I am
writing all this for you to read. There are many things which
you should know--or at least which I should like you to know.

Thirty years ago--

Donald MacRae's real communication to his son began at that point in the
long ago when the _Gull_ outsailed his sloop and young Horace Gower,
smarting with jealousy, struck that savage blow with a pike pole at a
man whose fighting hands were tied by a promise. Bit by bit, incident
by incident, old Donald traced out of a full heart and bitter memories
all the passing years for his son to see and understand. He made
Elizabeth Morton, the Morton family, Horace Gower and the Gower kin
stand out in bold relief. He told how he, Donald MacRae, a nobody from
nowhere, for all they knew, adventuring upon the Pacific Coast, questing
carelessly after fortune, had fallen in love with this girl whose
family, with less consideration for her feelings and desires than for
mutual advantages of land and money and power, favored young Gower and
saw nothing but impudent presumption in MacRae.

Young Jack sat staring into the coals, seeing much, understanding more.
It was all there in those written pages, a powerful spur to a vivid
imagination.

No MacRae had ever lain down unwhipped. Nor had Donald MacRae, his
father. Before his bruised face had healed--and young Jack remembered
well the thin white scar tha