O Lorrd, now that yon sailor has towed out
on his last long cruise, we pray thee to gie him a guid pilot--aye, an
archangel, for he was ever an honest man and brave--to guide him to
thy mansion. Forgie him his trespasses and in thy great mercy grant
comfort to this poor bairn he leaves behind. And thine shall be the
honor and the glory, forever and ever. Amen!"

None present, except Donald, realized the earnestness of that prayer,
for, as always under the stress of deep emotion, The Laird had grown
Scotchy. Mrs. Tingley, a kindly little soul who had felt it her
Christian duty to be present, moved over to the little organ, and Nan,
conspicuous in a four-year-old tailored suit and a black sailor-hat,
rose calmly from her seat and stood beside the minister's wife. For a
moment, her glance strayed over the little audience. Then she
sang--not a hymn, but just a little song her father had always
liked--the haunting, dignified melody that has been set to Stevenson's
"Requiem."

Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
_Here he lies where he longed to be.
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter, home from the hill_.

The Laird, watching her narrowly, realized the effort it was costing
her; yet her glorious voice did not break or quiver once. "You
wonderful, wonderful woman!" he thought, moved to a high pitch of
admiration for her independence and her flagrant flaunting of
tradition, "What a wife for my boy--what a mother for my grandson--if
you hadn't spoiled it all!"

She rode to the cemetery in The Laird's car with The Laird, Donald,
and Mrs. Tingley. Leaning on Donald's arm, she watched them hide old
Caleb beneath the flowers from the gardens of The Dreamerie; then The
Laird read the service at the grave and they returned to the Sawdust
Pile, where Nan's child (he had been left at home in charge of a nurse
from the Tyee Lumber Company's hospital) experienced more or less
difficulty deciding whether Donald or The Laird was his father.

The Laird now considered his duty to Caleb Brent accomplished. He
remained at the Sawdust Pile a period barely sufficient for Nan to
express her sense of obligation.

"In a month, my dear girl," he whispered, as he took her hand, "you'll
have had time to adjust yourself and decide on the future. Then we'll
have a l