hat he would think for himself and take his happiness where he
found it. By all means, this must be prevented. Nan felt that she
could not permit him to risk making a sorry mess of a life of promise.

Consumed with such thoughts as these, it was obvious that Nan should
pursue but one course--that is, leave Port Agnew unannounced and
endeavor to hide herself where Donald McKaye would never find her. In
this high resolve, once taken, she did not falter; she even declined
to risk rousing the suspicions of the townspeople by appearing at the
general store to purchase badly needed articles of clothing for
herself and her child. She resolved to leave Port Agnew in the best
clothes she had, merely pausing a few days in her flight--at
Vancouver, perhaps--to shop, and then continuing on to New York.

On the morning of her departure, the butcher's boy, calling for an
order, agreed, for fifty cents, to transport her one small trunk on
his cart to the station. The little white house which she and her
father had built with so much pride and delight, she left furnished as
it was and in perfect order. As she stood at the front door and looked
back for the last time, the ticking of the clock in the tiny
dining-and-living room answered her mute, "Good-by, little house;
good-by," and, though her heart was full enough, she kept back the
tears until she saw the flag flying bravely at the cupola.

"Oh, my love, my love!" she sobbed. "I mustn't leave it flying there,
flaunting my desertion in your dear eyes."

Blinded by her tears, she groped her way back to the house, hauled
down the flag, furled it, and laid it away in a bureau drawer. And
this time, when she left the house, she did not look back.

* * * * *

At the station, she purchased a ticket for Seattle and checked her
trunk at the baggage-room counter. As she turned from the counter and
started for the waiting-room, she caught the interested eyes of old
Hector McKaye bent upon her. He lifted his hat and walked over to her.

"I happened to be looking down at the Sawdust Pile when you hauled
your flag down this morning," he explained, in a low voice. "So I knew
you were going away. That's why I'm here." To this extraordinary
speech, the girl merely replied with an inquiring look. "I wonder if
you will permit me to be as kind to you as I can," he continued. "I
know it sounds a bit blunt and vulgar to offer you money, but when one
needs money--"