"To permit me to lay the flattering unction to my soul that I had gotten away with something, eh?" he laughed, much more at his ease, now that he realized how frank and yet how tactful she could be. "It wasn't quite worthy of you--not because I might resent it, for I am nobody, but because you should have more faith in yourself and be above the possibility of disturbance at the hands--or rather, the tongues--of people who speak in whispers." She came close to him suddenly and laid her hand lightly on his forearm, for she was speaking with profound earnestness. "I am your debtor, Mr. McKaye, for that speech you found it so hard to make just now, and for past kindnesses from you and your son. I cannot accept your offer. I would like to, did my pride permit, and were it not for the fact that such happiness as is left to my father can only be found by the Bight of Tyee. So, while he lives I shall not desert him. As for your apprehensions"--she smiled tolerantly and whimsically--"though flattering to me, they are quite unnecessary, and I beg you rid your mind of them. I am--that which I am; yet I am more than I appear to be to some and I shall not wantonly or wilfully hurt you--or yours." The Laird of Tyee took in both of his the slim hand that rested so lightly on his sleeve--that dainty left hand with the long, delicate fingers and no wedding ring. "My dear child," he murmured, "I feel more than I dare express. Good-by and may God bless you and be good to you, for I fear the world will not." He bowed with old-fashioned courtesy over her hand and departed; yet such was his knowledge of life that now his soul was more deeply troubled than it had been since his unintentional eavesdropping on his manager's garrulous wife. "What a woman!" he reflected. "Brains, imagination, dignity, womanly pride, courage, beauty and--yes; I agree with Donald. Neither maid, wife nor widow is she--yet she is not, never has been, and never will be a woman without virtue. Ah, Donald, my son, she's a bonny lass! For all her fall, she's not a common woman and my son is not a common man--I wonder--Oh, 'tis lies, lies, lies, and she's heard them and knows they're lies. Ah, my son, my son, with the hot blood of youth in you--you've a man's head and heart and a will of your own--Aye, she's sweet--that she is--I wonder!" X At the front of Caleb Brent's little house there was a bench upon which the old man was wont to sit on sunny days--usually in the morning, before the brisk, cool nor'west trade-wind commenced to blow. Following Hector McKaye's departure, Nan sought this bench until she had sufficiently mastered her emotions to conceal from her father evidence of a distress more pronounced than usual; as she sat there, she revolved the situation in her mind, scanning every aspect of it, weighing carefully every possibility.