his infallible portent of an event
out of the ordinary. His hand trembled as he held his marine glasses
to his blurred eyes and focussed on The Sawdust Pile, in time to see
his son enter the limousine with Nan Brent and her child--and even at
that distance he could see that the car in which they were departing
from the Sawdust Pile was not the one in which Donald had left The
Dreamerie. From that fact alone The Laird deduced that his son had
made his choice; and because Donald was his father's son, imbued with
the same fierce high pride and love of independence, he declined to be
under obligation to his people even for the service of an automobile
upon his wedding day.

The Laird stood watching the car until it was out of sight; then he
sighed very deeply, entered the house and rang for the butler.

"Tell Mrs. McKaye and the young ladies that I would thank them to come
here at once," he ordered calmly.

They came precipitately, vaguely apprehensive. "My dears," he said in
an unnaturally subdued voice, "Donald has just left the Sawdust Pile
with the Brent lass to be married. He has made his bed and it is my
wish that he shall lie in it."

"Oh, Hector!" Mrs. McKaye had spoken quaveringly. "Oh, Hector, dear,
do not be hard on him!"

He raised his great arm as if to silence further argument. "He has
brought disgrace upon my house. He is no longer son of mine and we are
discussing him for the last time. Hear me, now. There will be no
further mention of Donald in my presence and I forbid you, Nellie,
you, Elizabeth and you, Jane, to have aught to do wie him, directly or
indirectly."

Mrs. McKaye sat down abruptly and commenced to weep and wail her woe
aloud, while Jane sought vainly to comfort her. Elizabeth bore the
news with extreme fortitude; with unexpected tact she took her father
by the arm and steered him outside and along the terrace walk where
the agonized sobs and moans of her mother could not be heard--for what
Elizabeth feared in that first great moment of remorse was a torrent
of self-accusation from her mother. If, as her father had stated,
Donald was en route to be married, then the mischief was done and no
good could come out of a confession to The Laird of the manner in
which the family honor had been compromised, not by Donald, but by his
mother, aided and abetted by his sisters! The Laird, now quite dumb
with distress, walked in silence with his eldest daughter, vaguely
conscious of the comfort of h