He swung the child from the sands, and while pretending to consider carefully the infant's weight, he searched the cherubic countenance with a swift, appraising glance. "Healthy little rascal," he continued, and swung the child high in the air two or three times, smiling paternally as the latter screamed with delight. "How do you like that, eh?" he demanded, as he set the boy down on the sand again. "Dood!" the child replied, and gazing up at The Laird yearningly. "Are you my daddy?" But The Laird elected to disregard the pathetic query and busied himself gathering up the bundle of driftwood, nor did he permit his glance to rest upon Nan Brent's flushed and troubled face. Tucking the bundle under one arm and taking Nan's child on the other, he whistled to his dogs and set out for the Sawdust Pile, leaving the girl to follow behind him. He preceded her through the gate, tossed the driftwood on a small pile in the yard, and turned to hand her the apron. "You are not altogether happy, poor girl!" he said kindly. "I'm very sorry. I want the people in my town to be happy." "I shall grow accustomed to it, Mr. McKaye," Nan answered. "To-day, I am merely a little more depressed than usual. Thank you so much for carrying the wood. You are more than kind." His calm, inscrutable gray glance roved over her, noting her beauty and her sweetness, and the soul of him was troubled. "Is it something you could confide in an old man?" he queried gently. "You are much neglected, and I--I understand the thoughts that must come to you sometimes. Perhaps you would be happier elsewhere than in Port Agnew." "Perhaps," she replied dully. "If you could procure work--some profession to keep your mind off your troubles--I have some property in Tacoma--suburban lots with cottages on them." The Laird grew confused and embarrassed because of the thought that was in the back of his mind, and was expressing himself jerkily and in disconnected sentences. "I do not mean--I do not offer charity, for I take it you have had enough insults--well, you and your father could occupy one of those cottages at whatever you think you could afford to pay, and I would be happy to advance you any funds you might need until you--could--that is, of course, you must get on your feet again, and you must have help--" He waved his hand. "All this oppresses me." The remembrance of Mrs. Daney's interview with her prompted the girl to flash back at him. "'Oppresses,' Mr. McKaye? Since when?" He gazed upon her in frank admiration for her audacity and perspicacity. "Yes," he admitted slowly; "I dare say I deserve that. Yet, mingled with that ulterior motive you have so unerringly discerned, there is a genuine, if belated, desire to be decently human. I think you realize that also." "I should be stupid and ungrateful did I not, Mr. McKaye. I am sorry I spoke just now as I did, but I could not bear--"