orthy of her womanhood, she had acted because,
to her, the end appeared to justify the means; never given to
self-analysis, she had merely followed the imperative call of her
mother love to the point where nothing mattered save results.

She looked up tearfully at The Laird. For thirty-odd years she had
lived with this strange soul; yet she had not known until now how
fierce was his desire for independence, how dear to him was his
passion for self-respect. Even now, she found it difficult to
understand why, even if he had been able to subdue his pride to the
point of asking Nan Brent to preserve life in that which was dearer to
him than his own life, his passion for always giving value received
should preclude bargaining with the girl. It was plain to her,
therefore, that her husband could never love their son as his mother
loved him, else, in a matter of life or death, he would not have
paused to consider the effect on himself of any action that might
safeguard his son's existence. She knew what he had thought when Daney
first proposed the matter to him. That sort of thing wasn't "playing
the game." Poor, troubled soul! She did not know that he was capable
of playing any game to the finish, even though every point scored
against him should burn like a branding-iron.

The Laird, noting her great distress, held her fondly in his arms and
soothed her; manlike, he assumed that she wept because her heart was
overflowing with joy. For half an hour he chatted with her; then, with
a light step and a cheerful "Good-by, Nellie, wife," he entered his
automobile and drove back to town.

His departure was the signal for Jane and Elizabeth to rally to their
mother's side and inaugurate a plan of defense.

"Well, mother dear," Elizabeth opined calmly, "it appears that you've
spilled the beans."

"What a funny old popsy-wops it is, to be sure!" Jane chirped. "It's
fine to be such a grand old sport, but so dreadfully inconvenient!
Beth, can you imagine what father McKaye would say if he only knew?"

"I wouldn't mind the things he'd say. The things he'd do would be apt
to linger longest in our memories."

"Oh, my dears, what shall I do?" poor Mrs. McKaye quavered.

"Stand pat, should necessity ever arise, and put the buck up to Mr.
Daney," the slangy Elizabeth suggested promptly. "He has warned you
not to confess to father, hasn't he? Now, why did he do this? Answer.
Because he realized that if dad should learn that you telepho