Saturday night.  FRIEND NAN: 

     Here are some duds for the young fellow.  You gave me the right to
     look after him, you know; at least, you didn’t decline it.  At any
     rate, I think you will not mind accepting them from me.

     I sent to Seattle for some books I thought you might like.  They
     have probably arrived by parcel-post.  Sent you a box of candy,
     also, although I have forgotten the kind you used to prefer.

     Been up in the logging-camp all week, chopping, and I ache all
     over.  Expect to be hard and not quite so weary by next week-end,
     and will call over for Sunday dinner.

     Sincerely, DONALD McKAYE

He spent Sunday at The Dreamerie, and at four o’clock Sunday afternoon boarded the up train and returned to the logging-camp.  Mrs. Andrew Daney, seated in Sunday-afternoon peace upon her front veranda, looked up from the columns of the Churchman as the long string of logging-trucks wound round the base of the little knoll upon which the general manager’s home stood; but even at a distance of two blocks, she recognized the young laird of Tyee in the cab with the engineer.

“Dear, dear!” this good soul murmured.  “And such a nice young man, too!  I should think he’d have more consideration for his family, if not for himself.”

“Who’s that?” Mr. Daney demanded, emerging from behind the Seattle Post-Intelligencer.

“Donald McKaye.”

“What about him?” Mr. Daney demanded, with slight emphasis on the pronoun.

“Oh, nothing; only—­”

“Only what?”

“People say he’s unduly interested in Nan Brent.”

“If he is, that’s his business.  Don’t let what people say trouble you, Mrs. Daney.”

“Well, can I help it if people will talk?”

“Yes—­when they talk to you.”

“How do you know they’ve been talking to me, Andrew?” she demanded foolishly.

“Because you know what they say.”  Andrew Daney rose from the wicker deck-chair in which he had been lounging and leveled his index-finger at the partner of his joys and sorrows.  “You forget Donald McKaye and that Brent girl,” he ordered.  “It’s none of your business.  All Don has to say to me is, ’Mr. Daney, your job is vacant’—­and, by Judas Priest, it’ll be vacant.  Remember that, my dear.”

“Nonsense, dear.  The Laird wouldn’t permit it—­after all these years.”

“If it comes to a test of strength, I’ll lose, and don’t you forget it.  Old sake’s sake is all that saved me from a run-in with Donald before he had been in command fifteen minutes.  I refer to that Sawdust Pile episode.  You dissuaded me from doing my duty in that matter, Mary, and my laxity was not pleasing to Donald.  I don’t blame him a whit.”

“Did he say anything?” she demanded, a trifle alarmed.

“No; but he looked it.”

“How did he look, Andrew?”