wanted the great, all-compelling,
omnipotent Present, with its gifts that he could clutch in his fierce
hands or draw to his hungry heart. To hell with the future. He
reflected that misers permit their thoughts to dwell upon it and die
rich and despised, leaving to the apostles of the Present the
enjoyment of the fruits of a foolish sacrifice.

"She came back. I know she did," he mumbled, as he groped his way
through the dark of the drying-yard. "I'm sick. I must see her and
tell her to wait until I'm well. The damned dirty world can do what it
jolly well pleases to me, but I'll protect her from it. I will--by
God!"

He emerged into the open fields beyond which lay the Sawdust Pile,
snuggled down on the beach. The Brent cottage was visible in the dim
starlight, and he observed that there was no light in the window;
nevertheless, his high faith did not falter. He pressed on, although
each step was the product of an effort, mental and physical. His legs
were heavy and dragged, as if he wore upon, his logger's boots the
thick, leaden soles of a deep-sea diver.

At the gate, he leaned and rested for a few minutes, then entered the
deserted yard and rapped at the front door; but his summons bringing
no response, he staggered round to the back door and repeated it. He
waited half a minute and then banged furiously with his fist upon the
door-panel. Still receiving no response, he seized the knob and shook
the door until the little house appeared to rattle from cellar to
cupola.

"Nan! Nan! Where are you?" he called. "It is I--Donald. Answer me,
Nan. I know you haven't gone away. You wouldn't! Please answer me,
Nan!"

But the only sound he heard was the labored pumping of his own heart
and the swish of the wavelets against the timbered buttress of the
Sawdust Pile. The conviction slowly came to his torpid brain that he
was seeking admittance to a deserted house, and he leaned against the
door and fought for control of himself. Presently, like a stricken
animal, he went slowly and uncertainly away in the direction whence he
had come.

* * * * *

Andrew Daney had put out the cat and wound the clock and was about to
ascend to his chamber (now, alas, reoccupied by Mrs. Daney, upon whom
the news of Nan's departure had descended like a gentle rainfall over
a hitherto arid district) when he heard slow footsteps on his front
veranda. Upon going to the door and peering out, he was amazed to see