nts of human
destinies before going out again with the ebb.

The air in the little house was hot and fetid; so she threw open the
doors and windows. Dust had accumulated everywhere and, with a certain
detachment, she noted, even in her distress, that she had gone away
without closing the great square piano. She ran her fingers over the
dusty keys and brought forth a few, sonorous chords; then she observed
that the little, ancient, half-portion grandfather's clock had died of
inanition; so she made a mental note to listen for the twelve-o'clock
whistle on the Tyee mill and set the clock by it. The spigot over the
kitchen sink was leaking a little, and it occurred to her, in the same
curious detached way, that it needed a new gasket.

She sighed. Once more, in this silent little house so fraught with
happy memories, the old burden of existence was bearing upon her--the
feeling that she was in jail. For a month she had been free--free to
walk the streets, to look in shop windows, to seek a livelihood and
talk to other human beings without that terrible feeling that, no
matter how pleasant they might appear to be, their eyes were secretly
appraising her--that they were _thinking_. And now to be forced to
abandon that freedom--

"Oh, well! It can't last forever," she soliloquized, and, blinking
away her tears, she proceeded to change into a house dress and put her
little home in order. Presently, the local expressman arrived with her
baggage and was followed by sundry youths bearing sundry provisions;
at twelve-thirty, when she and young Don sat down to the luncheon she
had prepared, her flight to New York and return appeared singularly
unreal, like the memory of a dream.

She visited the hospital next day, choosing an hour when Port Agnew
was at its evening meal and too preoccupied with that important detail
to note her coming and going. She returned to her home under cover of
darkness.

At the hospital, she had received a favorable report of the patient's
progress. His physicians were distinctly encouraged. Nan looked in on
her lover for a minute, and then hurried away on the plea that her
baby was locked in at the Sawdust Pile, in the absence of some one to
care for him; she had the usual maternal presentiment that he was
playing with matches.

As she was going out she met The Laird and Mrs. McKaye coming in. Old
Hector lifted his hat and said quite heartily:

"How do you do, my dear girl. The news this evening i