“I do not know it to be true, Jane.”

“Voila!"

“But—­I believe it to be true, Jane.”

“Why?”

“Because Nan told her father it was true, and old Caleb told me when I was at his house this morning.  So I believe it.  And I knew Nan Brent when she was a young girl, and she was sweet and lovely and virtuous.  I talked with her this morning, and found no reason to change my previous estimate of her.  I could only feel for her a profound pity.”

“‘Pity is akin to love,’” Elizabeth quoted gaily.  “Mother, keep an eye on your little son.  He’ll be going in for settlement-work in Port Agnew first thing we know.”

“Hush, Elizabeth!” her mother cried sharply.  She was highly scandalized at such levity.  The Laird salted and peppered his food and said nothing.  “Your attitude is very manly and sweet, dear,” Mrs. McKaye continued, turning to her son, for her woman’s intuition warned her that, if the discussion waxed warmer, The Laird would take a hand in it, and her side would go down to inglorious defeat, their arguments flattened by the weight of Scriptural quotations.  She had a feeling that old Hector was preparing to remind them of Mary Magdalen and the scene in the temple.  “I would much rather hear you speak a good word for that unfortunate girl than have you condemn her.”

“A moment ago,” her son reminded her, with some asperity, for he was sorely provoked, “you were demanding the right of free speech for Jane, in order that she might condemn her.  Mother, I fear me you’re not quite consistent.”

“We will not discuss it further, dearie.  It is not a matter of such importance that we should differ to the point of becoming acrimonious.  Besides, it’s a queer topic for dinner-table conversation.”

“So say we all of us,” Elizabeth struck in laconically.  “Dad, will you please help me to some of the well-done?”

“Subjects,” old Hector struck in, “which, twenty years ago, only the family doctor was supposed to be familiar with or permitted to discuss are now being agitated in women’s clubs, books, newspapers, and the public schools.  You can’t smother sin or the facts of life unless they occur separately.  In the case of Nan Brent they have developed coincidently; so we find it hard to regard her as normal and human.”

“Do you condone her offense, Hector?” Mrs. McKaye demanded incredulously.

“I am a firm believer in the sacredness of marriage, I cannot conceive of a civilization worth while without it,” The Laird declared earnestly.  “Nevertheless, while I know naught of Nan Brent’s case, except that which is founded on hearsay evidence, I can condone her offense because I can understand it.  She might have developed into a far worse girl than it appears from Donald’s account she is.  At least, Nellie, she bore her child and cherishes it, and, under the rules of society as we play it, that required a kind of courage in which a great many girls are deficient.  Give her credit for that.”