eir fellow mortals. The conviction stole over
Donald McKaye that he was not being true to himself, that he was not a
man of honor in the fullest sense or a gentleman in the broadest
meaning of the word. And that, to the heir of a principality, was a
dangerous thought.

He then took tender leave of the girl and walked all the way home. His
father had not retired when he reached The Dreamerie, and the sight of
that stern yet kindly and wholly understandable person moved him to
sit down beside The Laird on the divan and take the old man's hand in
his childishly.

"Dad, I'm in hell's own hole!" he blurted. "I'm so unhappy!"

"Yes, son; I know you are. And it breaks me all up to think that, for
the first time in my life, I can't help you. All the money in the
world will not buy the medicine that'll cure you."

"I have to go through that, too, I suppose," his son complained, and
jerked his head toward the stairs, where, as a matter of fact, his
sister Jane crouched at the time, striving to eavesdrop. "I had a
notion, as I walked home, that I'd refuse to permit them to discuss my
business with me."

"This particular business of yours is, unfortunately, something which
they believe to be their business, also. God help me, I agree with
them!"

"Well, they had better be mighty careful how they speak of Nan Brent,"
Donald returned darkly. "This is something I have to fight out alone.
By the way, are you going to old Caleb's funeral, dad?"

"Certainly. I have always attended the funerals of my neighbors, and I
liked and respected Caleb Brent. Always reminded me of a lost dog. But
he had a man's pride. I'll say that for him."

"Thank you, father. Ten o'clock, the day after to-morrow, from the
little chapel. There isn't going to be a preacher present, so I'd be
obliged if you'd offer a prayer and read the burial service. That old
man and I were pals, and I want a real human being to preside at his
obsequies."

The Laird whistled softly. He was on the point of asking to be
excused, but reflected that Donald was bound to attend the funeral and
that his father's presence would tend to detract from the personal
side of the unprecedented spectacle and render it more of a matter of
family condescension in so far as Port Agnew was concerned.

"Very well, lad," he replied; "I'm forced to deny you so much 'twould
be small of me not to grant you a wee favor now and then. I'll do my
best. And you might send a nurse from the company