ad I met
the young couple at the door and said to them: 'Get out of this
church. It is not for such as you. However, if you insist upon
staying, you'll have to stand up or else sit down on the floor. Nobody
here wants to sit with you. They're afraid, too, they'll offend the
Chief Pooh-bah of this town'."

"You could have pretended you did not see them."

"My dear Mrs. McKaye," Daney retorted in even tones, "do you wish me
to inform your husband of a certain long distance telephone
conversation? If so--"

She hung up without waiting to say good-by, and the following day she
left for Seattle, accompanied by her daughters.

Throughout the week The Laird forbore mentioning his son's name to Mr.
Daney; indeed, he refrained from addressing the latter at all unless
absolutely necessary to speak to him directly--wherefore Daney knew
himself to be blacklisted. On the following Sunday The Laird sat alone
in the family pew and Mr. Daney did not cough during the recital of
the Lord's prayer, so old Hector managed to conquer a tremendous
yearning to glance around for the reason. Also, as on the previous
Sunday, he was in no hurry to leave his pew at the conclusion of the
service, yet, to his profound irritation, when he did leave it and
start down the central aisle of the church, he looked squarely into
the faces of Donald and Nan as they emerged from the Daney pew. Mrs.
Daney was conspicuous by her absence. Nan's baby boy had fallen asleep
during the service and Donald was carrying the cherub.

Old Hector's face went white; he gulped when his son spoke to him.

"Hello, Dad. You looked lonely all by yourself in that big pew.
Suppose we come up and sit with you next Sunday?"

Old Hector paused and bent upon his son and Nan a terrible look.
"Never speak to me again so long as you live," he replied in a low
voice, and passed out of the church.

Donald gazed after his broad erect figure and shook his head
dolefully, as Mr. Daney fell into step beside him. "I told you so," he
whispered.

"Isn't it awful to be Scotch?" Nan inquired.

"It is awful--on the Scotch," her husband assured her. "The dear old
fraud gulped like a broken-hearted boy when I spoke to him. He'd
rather be wrong than president."

As they were walking home to the Sawdust Pile, Nan captured one of her
husband's great fingers and swung it childishly. "I wish you didn't
insist upon our going to church, sweetheart," she complained. "We're
spoiling your father'