Kindred of the Dust

  VI

  The morning after the barbecue, Donald McKaye reported at eighto'clock to his father's faithful old general manager, Andrew Daney.Daney had grown gray in his father's service, and it was no part ofDonald's plans to assign him to a back seat.

  "Well, Mr. Daney," he inquired affably, "what are your plans for thenew hired man?"

  Old Daney looked up quizzically.

  "You do the planning here, Don," he replied.

  "You heard me say yesterday that there would be no changes, Mr. Daney.Of course, I haven't grown up in Port Agnew without learning somethingof my heritage, but, in view of the fact that I still haveconsiderable to learn, suppose you indicate just where I ought tostart."

  Daney was pleased at a deference he had not anticipated.

  "Start in the woods," he replied. "That's where your daddy started.Felling timber and handling it is rather a fine art, Don. I'd wrestlelogs for a month and follow them down the Skookum to the log boom.Then I'd put in six months in the mill and six more in the factory,following it with three months on the dock, tallying, and three monthsof a hand-shaking tour out among the trade. After that, you may sit inat your father's desk, and I'll gradually break you in to his job."

  "That's a grand idea, and I'll act on it," Donald declared.

  "Well, it's too late to act on it to-day, Don. The up-river launch tothe logging-camp left at seven o'clock. However, I have a job for you.We really need the Sawdust Pile for an extension of our drying-yard.Our present yard lies right under the lee of that ridge of which TyeeHead is an extension, and it's practically noon before the sun gets afair chance at it. The Sawdust Pile gets the sun all day long, and thewinds have an uninterrupted sweep across it. We can dry our cedardecking there in half the time it requires now."

  "But the Sawdust Pile is--"

  "A rat's nest, Don. There are a number of other shacks there now--someGreek fishermen, a negro, and a couple of women from the overflow ofTyee. It ought to be cleaned out."

  "I noticed those shacks last night, Mr. Daney, and I agree with youthat they should go. But I haven't the heart to run old Caleb Brentoff the Sawdust Pile. I gave it to him, you know."

  "Well, let Brent stay there. He's too old and crippled with rheumatismto attend to his truck-garden any more; so if you leave him the spacefor his house and a chicken-yard, he'll be satisfied. In fact, I havediscussed the proposition with him, and he is agreeable."

  "Why did dad permit those other people to crowd him, Mr. Daney?"

  "While your father was in Europe with you, they horned in, claimed asquatter's right, and stood pat. Old Brent was defenseless, and whilethe boys from the mill would have cleaned them out if I had given theword, the Greeks and the negro were defiant, and it meant bloodshed.So I have permitted the matter to rest until your father's return."

  Donald reached for his hat.

  "Caleb Brent's squatter-right to that Sawdust Pile is going to beupheld," he declared. "I'll clean that colony out before sunset, orthey'll clean me."

  "I'd proceed cautiously if I were you, Don. They have a host offriends up in Darrow, and we mustn't precipitate a feud."

  "I'm going over now and serve notice on them to vacate immediately."He grinned at old Daney. "A negro, a handful of Greeks, and thoseunfortunate women can't bluff the boss of Port Agnew, Mr. Daney."

  "They tell me there's a blind pig down there, also."

  "It will not be there after to-day," Donald answered lightly, anddeparted for the Sawdust Pile.

  As he came up to the gate in the neat fence Caleb Brent had builtacross the Sawdust Pile nine years before, a baby boy, of perhapsthree years of age, rose out of the weeds in which he had been playingand regarded the visitor expectantly.

  "Hello, bub!" the young laird of Tyee greeted the child.

  "Hello!" came the piping answer. "Are you my daddy?"

  "Why, no, Snickelfritz." He ran his fingers through the tot's goldenhair. "Don't you know your own daddy?"

  "I haven't any daddy," the child drawled.

  "No? Well, that's unfortunate." Donald stooped and lifted the tike tohis shoulder, marveling the while that such a cherub could be theproduct of any of the denizens of the Sawdust Pile. At once, the boy'sarms went round his neck and a velvet cheek was laid close to his."You're an affectionate little snooks, aren't you?" Donald commented."Do you live here?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Somebody's been teaching you manners. Whose little boy are you?"

  "Muvver's."

  "And who might mother be?"

  "Nan Brent."

  "Yo-ho! So you're Nan Brent's boy! What's your name?"

  "Donald Brent."

  "No; that isn't it, son. Brent is your mother's name. Tell me yourfather's name."

  "Ain't got no farver."

  "Well then, run along to your mother."

  He kissed the child and set him down just as a young woman came downthe sadly neglected shell walk from Caleb Brent's little white house.Donald opened the gate and advanced to meet her.

  "I'm sure you must be Nan," he said, "although I can't be certain. Ihaven't seen Nan in six years."

  She extended her hand

  "Yes; I'm Nan," she replied, "and you're Donald McKaye. You're a mannow, but somehow you haven't changed greatly."

  "It's fine to meet you again, Nan." He shook her handenthusiastically.

  She smiled a little sadly.

  "I saw you at colors last night, Donald. When your flag came down andthe gun was fired, I knew you'd remembered."

  "Were you glad?" he demanded, and immediately wondered why he hadasked such a childish question.

  "Yes, I was, Donald. It has been a long time since--since--the gun hasbeen fired--for me. So long since we were children, Donald."

  "You weren't at the barbecue yesterday. I missed you and Caleb. Youtwo are very old friends of mine, Nan. Was it quite loyal of you tostay home?"

  "You're the only person that missed us, Donald," she answered, withjust the suspicion of a tremor in her sweet voice. "But, then, we areaccustomed to being left out of things."

  He made no effort to formulate an answer to this. Truth does notrequire an answer. Yet he was sensible of a distinct feeling ofsympathy for her, and, manlike, he decided to change the topic ofconversation.

  "You have neighbors on the Sawdust Pile, Nan."

  "Yes. They came when The Laird was in Europe."

  "They would never have dared it had he been in Port Agnew. I'msurprised that Andrew Daney permitted it. I had thought of him as aman of courage, but, strange to say, these people outgamed him."

  "They didn't outgame him, Donald. He just didn't care. I--I--fancy heconcluded they would make agreeable neighbors--for me."

  "I'm sorry, Nan. However, I'm the new laird of Tyee, and I've comedown to stage an eviction. I didn't know of this state of affairsuntil this morning."

  She smiled a little wistfully and bitterly.

  "I had flattered myself, Donald, you had called to visit your oldfriends instead. When you waved at me last night, I--oh, you can'trealize how happy it made me to know that _you_ had noticed me--thatyou really were big enough to be the big man of Port Agnew. And Ithought perhaps you would come because of that."

  He smiled tolerantly upon her.

  "Something has occurred to make you bitter, Nan. You're not like thegirl I used to know before I went away to school. If it will help torestore me to your previous good opinion, however, please believe thatwhen I waved at you last night, simultaneously I made up my mind tomake an early visit to the Sawdust Pile. The discovery that thesecattle have intruded upon you and your old father, because you wereunable to defend yourselves and no one in Port Agnew would defend you,merely hastened my visit. I couldn't in decency come any earlier;could I, Nan? It's just half after eight. And if you're going to keepme standing at the gate, as if I were a sewing-machine agent insteadof a very old friend, I _may_ conclude to take offense and regret thatI called."

  "Oh, I'm sorry! Please forgive me, Donald. I'm s
o much alone--so verylonely--I suppose I grow suspicious of people and their motives."

  "Say no more about it, Nan. May I come in, then, to greet Caleb andyour husband?"

  "Father is in the house. I'll call him out, Donald. As for myhusband--" She hesitated, glanced out across the bight, and thenresolutely faced him. "You cannot have heard all of the town gossip,then?"

  "I hadn't even heard of your marriage. The first I knew of it was whenhis little nibs here hailed me, and asked me if I was his father.Then he informed me he was your boy. He's a lovely child, Nan, and Ihave been the recipient of some of his extremely moist kisses."

  She realized that he was too courteous to ask whether her husband wasdead or if there had been a divorce.

  "I'm rather glad you haven't heard, Donald," she replied evenly. "Imuch prefer to tell you myself; then you will understand why I cannotinvite you into our house, and why you must not be seen talking to mehere at the gate. I am not married. I have never been married. Mybaby's name is--Brent, and I call him Donald, after the only malehuman being that has ever been truly kind to my father and me."

  "Ah," said Donald quietly, "so that's why he misses his father andappears to want one so very much."

  She gazed forlornly out to sea and answered with a brief nod.Seemingly she had long since ceased to be tragic over her pitifultragedy.

  "Well," he replied philosophically, "life is quite filled with anumber of things, and some of them make for great unhappiness." Hestooped and lifted the baby in his great arms. "You're named after me,sonny; so I think I'll try to fill the gap and make you happy. Do youmind, Nan, if I try my hand at foster-fathering? I like children. Thislittle man starts life under a handicap, but I'll see to it that hegets his chance in life--far from Port Agnew, if you desire." Sheclosed her eyes in sudden pain and did not answer. "And whatever youropinion on the matter may be, Nan," he went on, "even had I knownyesterday of your sorrow, I should have called to-day just the same."

  "You call it my 'sorrow!'" she burst forth passionately. "Others callit my trouble--my sin--my disgrace."

  "And what does Caleb call it, Nan?"

  "He doesn't call it, Donald. It hasn't appeared to make any differencewith him. I'm still--his little girl."

  "Well, I cannot regard you as anything but a little girl--the samelittle girl that used to help Caleb and me sail the sloop. I don'twish to know anything about your sorrow, or your trouble, or yourdisgrace, or your sin, or whatever folks may choose to call it. I justwant you to know that I know that you're a good woman, and when thespirit moves me--which will be frequently, now that I have this youngman to look after--I shall converse with you at your front gate andvisit you and your decent old father in this little house, and bedamned to those that decry it. I am the young laird of Tyee. My fatherraised me to be a gentleman, and, by the gods, I'll be one! Now, Nan,take the boy and go in the house, because I see a rascally negro inthe doorway of that shack yonder, and I have a matter to discuss withhim. Is that white woman his consort?"

  Nan nodded again. She could not trust herself to speak, for her heartwas full to overflowing.

  "Come here--you!" Donald called to the negro. The fellow slouchedforth defiantly. He was a giant mulatto, and his freckled face wore anevil and contemptuous grin.

  "I'm Donald McKaye," Donald informed him. "I'm the new laird of Tyee.I want you and that woman to pack up and leave."

  "How soon, boss?"

  "Immediately." Anticipating a refusal, Donald stepped closer to themulatto and looked him sternly in the eye.

  "We-ll, is dat so?" the yellow rascal drawled. "So youh-all's de newla'rd, eh? Well, ah'm de king o' de Sawdust Pile, an' mah house is mahcastle. Git dat, Mistah La'rd?"

  Donald turned toward Nan.

  "I'm going to have trouble here, Nan. Please go in the house."

  "Proceed," she replied simply. "I have a most unwomanly and unladylikedesire to see that beast manhandled."

  Donald turned, in time to go under a sizzling right-hand blow from themulatto and come up with a right uppercut to the ugly, freckled faceand a left rip to the mulatto's midriff. The fellow grunted, and aspasm of pain crossed his countenance. "You yellow dog!" Donaldmuttered, and flattened his nose far flatter than his mammy had everwiped it. The enemy promptly backed away and covered; a hearty thumpin the solar plexus made him uncover, and under a rain of blows on thechin and jaw, he sprawled unconscious on the ground.

  Donald left him lying there and stepped to the door of the shack. Thefrightened drab within spat curses at him.

  "Pack and go!" he ordered. "Within the hour, I'm going to purge theSawdust Pile with fire; if you stay in the house, you'll burn withit."

  She was ready in ten minutes. Three more of her kind occupying anadjacent shack begged to be allowed time in which to load theirpersonal possessions in an express-wagon. The four Greeks were justabout to set out for a day's fishing, but, having witnessed the defeatof the mulatto bully, the fever of the hegira seized them also. Theyloaded their effects in the fishing-launch, and chugged away up riverto Darrow, crying curses upon the young laird of Tyee and promisingreprisal.

  Donald waited until the last of the refugees had departed beforesetting fire to the shacks. Then he stood by old Caleb Brent's house,a circle of filled buckets around him, and watched in case the windshould suddenly shift and shower sparks upon the roof. In half an hourthe Sawdust Pile had reverted to its old status and a throng ofcurious townspeople who, attracted by the flames and smoke, hadclustered outside Caleb Brent's gate to watch Donald at work, finallydespaired of particulars and scattered when they saw Donald and NanBrent enter the house.

  Caleb Brent, looking twenty years older than when Donald had seen himlast, sat in an easy chair by the window, gazing with lack-luster eyesout across the bight. He was hopelessly crippled with rheumatism, andhis sea-blue eyes still held the same lost-dog wistfulness.

  "Hello, Caleb!" Donald greeted him cordially. "I've just cleaned upthe Sawdust Pile for you. You're back in undisputed possession again."

  He shook hands with old Caleb and sat down in a chair which Nan drewup for him.

  "It's good of you to call, Mr. Donald," the old man piped. "But isn'tthat just like him, Nan?" he demanded. "Many's the day--aye, and thenight, too, for of late the nights have been bad here--we've thoughtof you, sir, and wished you were back in Port Agnew. We knew whatwould happen to those scoundrels when Mr. Donald got around to it."And he laughed the asthmatic, contented chuckle of the aged as Nanrelated briefly the story of Donald's recent activities.

  Their conversation which followed was mostly of a reminiscentcharacter--recollections of boat-races in the bight, fishingexcursions off the coast, clambakes, hew boats, a dog which Donald hadgiven Nan when he left for prep school and which had since died of oldage. And all the while Nan Brent's child stood by Donald's knee,gazing up at him adoringly.

  During a lull in the conversation, he created some slightembarrassment by reiterating his belief that this strange man must behis father, and appealed to his mother for verification of hissuspicions.

  Poor child! His baby mind had but lately grasped the fact that for himthere was something missing in the scheme of life, and, to silence hispersistent questioning, Nan had told him that some day his fatherwould come to see them; whereupon, with the calm faith of innocence,he had posted himself at the front gate, to be in position to receivethis beloved missing one when the latter should appear. Donaldskilfully diverted the child's mind from this all-consuming topic bysliding the boy down to his foot and permitting him to swing gentlythere.

  Presently Nan excused herself, for the purpose of looking after theembers of Donald's recent raid. The instant the door closed behindher, old Caleb Brent looked across at his visitor.

  "You've heard--of course, Mr. Donald?" he queried, with a slightinclination of his head toward the door through which his daughter haddisappeared.

  "Yes, Caleb. Misfortune comes in various guises."

  "I would I could die," the pitiful old
fellow whispered. "I will,soon, but, oh, what will my poor darling do then, Mr. Donald? After wefirst came here, I was that prosperous, sir, you wouldn't believe it.I gave Nan a good schooling, piano lessons, and fine dresses. We livedwell, and yet we put by a thousand dollars in six years. But that'sgone now, what with the expenses when the baby came, and my sicknessthat's prevented me from working. Thank God, sir, I have mythree-quarter pay. It isn't much, but we're rent-free, and fuel costsus nothing, what with driftwood and the waste from Darrow that comesdown the river. Nan has a bit of a kitchen-garden and a fewchickens--so we make out. But when I die, my navy-pay stops."

  He paused, too profoundly moved by consideration of the destitutionthat would face Nan and her nameless boy to voice the situation inwords. But he looked up at Donald McKaye, and the latter saw againthat wistful look in his sea-blue eyes--the dumb pleading of a kindold lost dog. He thought of the thirty-eight-foot sloop old Caleb hadbuilt him--a thing of beauty and wondrously seaworthy; or the sense ofobligation which had caused old Brent to make of the task a labor oflove; of the long, lazy, happy days when, with Caleb and Nan for hiscrew, he had raced out of the bight twenty miles to sea and backagain, for the sheer delight of driving his lee rail under until Nancried out in apprehension.

  Poor, sweet, sad Nan Brent! Donald had known her through so many yearsof gentleness and innocence--and she had come to this! He was consumedwith pity for her. She had fallen, but--there were depths to whichdestitution and desperation might still drive her, just as there wereheights to which she might climb again if some half-man would but giveher a helping hand.

  "Do you know the man, Caleb?" he demanded suddenly.

  "No, I do not. I have never seen him. Nan wrote me when they weremarried, and told me his name, of course."

  "Then there _was_ a marriage, Caleb?"

  "So Nan wrote me."

  "Ah! Has Nan a marriage certificate?"

  "I have never seen it. Seems their marriage wasn't legal. The name hegave wasn't his own; he was a bigamist."

  "Then Nan knows his real name."

  "Yes; when she learned that, she came home."

  "But why didn't she prosecute him, Caleb? She owed that to herself andthe child--- to her good name and"

  "She had her reasons, lad."

  "But you should have prosecuted the scoundrel, Caleb."

  "I had no money for lawyers. I knew I was going to need it all for Nanand her child. And I thought her reasons sufficient, Donald. She saidit would all come out right in the end. Maybe it will."

  "Do you mean she knowingly accepted the inevitable disgrace when shemight have--have--" He wanted to add, "proved herself virtuous," but,somehow, the words would not come. They didn't appear to him to bequite fair to Nan.

  The old man nodded.

  "Of course we haven't told this to anybody else," he hastened to add."'Twould have been useless. They'd have thought it a lie."

  "Yes, Caleb--a particularly clumsy and stupid lie."

  Caleb Brent looked up suddenly and searched, with an alert and wistfulglance, the face of the young laird of Tyee.

  "But you do not think so, do you?" he pleaded.

  "Certainly not, Caleb, If Nan told you that, then she told you thetruth."

  "Thank you, lad."

  "Poor old Caleb," Donald soliloquized, "you find it hard to believe ityourself, don't you? And it does sound fishy!"

  "I don't believe it's Nan's fault," Donald found himself saying next."She was always a good girl, and I can't look at her now and conceiveher as anything but virtuous and womanly. I'll always be a good friendof hers, Caleb. I'll stand back of her and see that she gets a squaredeal--she and her son. When you're gone, she can leave Port Agnew forsome city where she isn't known, and as 'Mrs. Brent' she can engage insome self-supporting business. It always struck me that Nan had avoice."

  "She has, Mr. Donald. They had grand opera in Seattle, and I sent herup there to hear it and having a singing teacher hear her sing 'Alice,Where Art Thou.' He said she'd be earning a thousand dollars a nightin five years, Mr. Donald, if somebody in New York could train her.That was the time," he concluded, "that she met _him!_ He was richand, I suppose, full of fine graces; he promised her a career if she'dmarry him, and so he dazzled the child--she was only eighteen--andshe went to San Francisco with him. She says there was some sort ofmarriage, but he gave her no such gift as I gave her mother--amarriage certificate. She wrote me she was happy, and asked me toforgive her the lack of confidence in not advising with me--and ofcourse I forgave her, Mr. Donald. But in three months he left her, andone night the door yonder opened and Nan come in and put her armsround my neck and held me tight, with never a tear--so I knew she'dcried her fill long since and was in trouble." He paused severalseconds, then added, "Her mother was an admiral's daughter--and shemarried me!" He appeared to suggest this latter as a completeexplanation of woman's frailty.

  "The world is small, but it is sufficiently large to hide a girl fromthe Sawdust Pile of Port Agnew. Of course, Nan cannot leave you now,but when you leave her, Caleb, I'll finance her for her career. Pleasedo not worry about it."

  "I'm like Nan, sir," he murmured. "I'm beyond tears, or I'd weep, Mr.Donald. God will reward you, sir. I can't begin to thank you."

  "I'm glad of that. By the way, who is towing the garbage-barge to seanowadays?"

  "I don't know, sir. Mr. Daney hired somebody else and his boat when Ihad to quit because of my sciatica."

  "Hereafter, we'll use your boat, Caleb, and engage a man to operateit. The rental will be ten dollars per trip, two trips a week, eightydollars a month. Cheap enough; so don't think it's charity. Here's thefirst month's rental in advance. I'm going to run along now, Caleb,but I'll look in from time to time, and if you should need me in theinterim, send for me."

  He kissed little Don Brent, who set up a prodigious shriek at theprospect of desertion and brought his mother fluttering into the room.He watched her soothe the youngster and then asked:

  "Nan, where do you keep the arnica now? I cut my knuckles on thatyellow rascal."

  She raised a sadly smiling face to his.

  "Where would the arnica be--if we had any, Donald?" she demanded.

  "Where it used to be, I suppose. Up on that shelf, inside the basementof that funny old half-portion grandfather's clock and just out ofreach of the pendulum."

  "You do remember, don't you? But it's all gone so many years ago,Donald. We haven't had a boy around to visit us since you left PortAgnew, you know. I'll put some tincture of iodine on your knuckles,however."

  "Do, please, Nan."

  A little later, he said:

  "Do you remember, Nan, the day I stuck my finger into the cage of oldMrs. Biddle's South American parrot to coddle the brute and he all butchewed it off?"

  She nodded.

  "And you came straight here to have it attended to, instead of goingto a doctor."

  "You wept when you saw my mangled digit. Remember, Nan? Strange howthat scene persists in my memory! You were so sweetly sympathetic Iwas quite ashamed of myself."

  "That's because you always were the sweetest boy in the world and Iwas only the garbage-man's daughter," she whispered. "There's aridiculous song about the garbage-man's daughter. I heard it once, invaudeville--in San Francisco."

  "If I come over some evening soon, will you sing for me, Nan?"

  "I never sing any more, Don."

  "Nobody but you can ever sing 'Carry Me Back to Old Virginy' for me."

  "Then I shall sing it, Don."

  "Thank you, Nan."

  She completed the anointing of his battle-scarred knuckles withiodine, and, for a moment, she held his hand, examining critically anold ragged white scar on the index-finger of his right hand. And quitesuddenly, to his profound amazement, she bent her head and swiftlyimplanted upon that old scar a kiss so light, so humble, so benignant,so pregnant of adoration and gratitude that he stood before herconfused and inquiring.

  "Such a strong, useful big hand!" she whispered. "I
t has been raisedin defense of the sanctity of my home--and until you came there was'none so poor to do me reverence.'"

  He looked at her with sudden, new interest. Her action had almoststartled him. As their eyes held each other, he was aware, with aforce that was almost a shock, that Nan Brent was a most unusualwoman. She was beautiful; yet her physical beauty formed the leastpart of her attractiveness, perfect as that beauty was. Instinctively,Donald visualized her as a woman with brains, character, nobility ofsoul; there was that in her eyes, in the honesty and understandingwith which they looked into his, that compelled him, in that instant,to accept without reservation and for all time the lame and haltingexplanation of her predicament he had recently heard from her father'slips. He longed to tell her so. Instead, he flushed boyishly and said,quite impersonally:

  "Yes; you're beautiful as women go, but that's not the right word toexpress you. Physically, you might be very homely, but if you werestill Nan Brent you would be sweet and compelling. You remind me of aCatholic chapel; there's always one little light within that nevergoes out, you know. So that makes you more than beautiful. Shall Isay--glorious?"

  She smiled at him with her wistful, sea-blue eyes--a smile tender,maternal, all-comprehending. She knew he was not seeking to flatterher, that the wiles, the Artifices, the pretty speeches of thepolished man of the world were quite beyond him.

  "Still the same old primitive pal," she murmured softly; "stillthinking straight, talking straight, acting straight, and--dare I sayit, Donald?--seeing straight. I repeat, you always were the sweetestboy in the world--and there is still so much of the little boy aboutyou." Her hand fluttered up and rested lightly on his arm. "I'll notforget this day, my dear friend."

  It was characteristic of him that, having said that which wasuppermost in his mind, he should remember his manners and thank herfor dressing his knuckles. Then he extended his hand in farewell.

  "When you come again, Donald," she pleaded, as he took her hand, "willyou please bring me some books? They're all that can keep me sane--andI do not go to the public library any more. I have to run the gantletof so many curious eyes."

  "How long is it since you have been away from the Sawdust Pile?"

  "Since before my baby came."

  He was silent a minute, pondering this. Since old Caleb had becomehouse-ridden, then, she had been, without books. He nodded assent toher request.

  "If I do not say very much, you will understand, nevertheless, howgrateful I am," she continued. "To-day, the sun has shone. Whateveryour thoughts may have been, Donald, you controlled your face and youwere decent enough not to say, 'Poor Nan.'"

  He had no answer to that. He was conscious only of standing helplessin the midst of a terrible tragedy. His heart ached with pity for her,and just for old sake's sake, for a tender sentiment for lost youthand lost happiness of the old comradely days when she had beenCinderella and he the prince, he wished that he might take her in afraternal embrace and let her cry out on his breast the agony thatgnawed at her heart like a worm in an apple. But it was against hiscode to indicate to her by word or action that she was less worthythan other women and hence to be pitied, for it seemed to him that herburden was already sufficient.

  "Let me know if those people return to annoy you, Nan," was all hesaid. Then they shook hands very formally, and the young laird of Tyeereturned to the mill-office to report to Andrew Daney that the SawdustPile had been cleaned out, but that, for the present at least, theywould get along with the old drying-yard.

  Somehow, the day came to an end, and he went home with tumult in hissoul.