Mary Daney's heart fluttered. "I have trusted to your honor, Nan--although I didn't say so in the beginning--not to mention my visit or this interview to a living soul." "My 'honor!'" Nan's low, bitter laugh raked the Daney nerves like a rasp. "I think, Mrs. Daney, that I may be depended upon to follow my own inclinations in this matter. I suspect you have been doing some talking yourself and may have gone too far, with the result that you are hastening now, by every means in your power, to undo whatever harm, real or fancied, has grown out of your lack of charity." "Nan, I beg of you--" "Don't! You have no right to beg anything of me. I am not unintelligent and neither am I degraded. I think I possess a far keener conception of my duty than do you or those whom you have elected to represent; hence I regard this visit as an unwarranted impertinence. One word from me to Donald McKaye--" Terror smote the Samaritan. She clasped her hands; her lips were pale and trembling. "Oh, my dear, my dear," she pleaded, "you wouldn't breathe a word to him, would you? Promise me you'll say nothing. How could I face my husband if--if--" She began to weep. "I shall promise nothing," Nan replied sternly. "But I only came for his father's sake, you cruel girl!" "Perhaps his father's case is safer in my hands than in yours, Mrs. Daney, and safest of all in those of his son." The outcast of Port Agnew rose, filled her apron with the driftwood she had gathered, and called to her child. As the little fellow approached, Mrs. Daney so far forgot her perturbation as to look at him keenly and decide, eventually, that he bore not the faintest resemblance to Donald McKaye. "I'm sure, Nan, you will not be heartless enough to tell Donald McKaye of my visit to you," she pleaded, as the girl started down the beach. "You have all the assurance of respectability, dear Mrs. Daney," Nan answered carelessly. "You shall not leave me until you promise to be silent!" Mary Daney cried hysterically, and rose to follow her. "I think you had better go, Mrs. Daney. I am quite familiar with the figure of The Laird since his retirement; he walks round the bight with his dogs every afternoon for exercise, and, if I am not greatly mistaken, that is he coming down the beach." Mrs. Daney cast a terrified glance in the direction indicated. A few hundred yards up the beach she recognized The Laird, striding briskly along, swinging his stick, and with his two English setters romping beside him. With a final despairing "Please Nan; please do not be cruel!" she fled, Nan Brent smiling mischievously after her stout retreating form.