“Thank you, Mr. McKaye.  Please do not bother about it.”

“Oh, but I shall bother,” he answered.  “Remove your apron, girl, and I’ll tie the wood up in it and carry it home for you.”

Despite her distress, she smiled.

“You’re such an old-fashioned gentleman,” she replied.  “So very much like your son—­I mean, your son is so very much like you.”

“That’s better.  I think I enjoy the compliment more when you put it that way,” he answered.  “Do not stand there holding the wood, my girl.  Drop it.”

She obeyed and employed her right hand, thus freed, in wiping the telltale tears from her sweet face.

“I have been lax in neighborly solicitude,” The Laird continued.  “I must send you over a supply of wood from the box factory.  We have more waste than we can use in the furnaces.  Is this your little man, Nan?  Sturdy little chap, isn’t he?  Come here, bub, and let me heft you.”

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.