The answer is: Not quite genuine," he retorted mildly, and said no
more about it.

After that visit, Nan went no more to the hospital. She had met
Donald's mother for the first time in four years and had been greeted
as "Miss Brent," although in an elder day when, as a child, Donald had
brought her to The Dreamerie to visit his mother and sisters, and
later when she had sung in the local Presbyterian choir, Mrs. McKaye
and her daughters had been wont to greet her as "Nan." The girl did
not relish the prospect of facing again that camera-shutter smile and
she shrank with the utmost distress from a chance meeting at the
hospital with Elizabeth or Jane McKaye. As for The Laird, while she
never felt ill at ease in his presence, still she preferred to meet
him as infrequently as possible. As a result of this decision, she
wrote Andrew Daney, and after explaining to him what she intended
doing and why, asked him if he would not send some trustworthy person
to her every evening with a report of Donald's progress.

Accordingly, Dirty Dan O'Leary, hat in hand and greatly embarrassed,
presented himself at the Sawdust Pile the following evening under
cover of darkness, and handed her a note from Daney. Donald's
condition was continuing to improve. For his services, Mr. O'Leary was
duly thanked and given a bouquet from Nan's old-fashioned garden for
presentation to the invalid. Tucked away in the heart of it was a tiny
envelop that enclosed a message of love and cheer.

Dirty Dan was thrilled to think that he had been selected as the
intermediary in this secret romance. Clasping the bouquet in his grimy
left hand, he bowed low and placed his equally grimy right in the
region of his umbilicus.

"Me hearrt's wit' ye, agra," he declared. "Sure 'tis to the divil an'
back agin I'd be the proud man to go, if 'twould be a favor to ye,
Miss Brint."

"I know you would, Dan," she agreed, tactfully setting the wild rascal
at his ease when addressing him by his Christian name. "I know what
you did for Mr. Donald that night. I think you're very, very
wonderful. I haven't had an opportunity heretofore to tell you how
grateful I am to you for saving him."

Here was a mystery! Mr. O'Leary in his Sunday clothes bound for
Ireland resembled Dirty Dan O'Leary in the raiment of a lumberjack,
his wild hair no longer controlled by judicious applications of pomade
and his mustache now--alas--returned to its original state of neglect,
as a butterfl