atching
for him," he thought.

XLV

Hector McKaye suffered that winter. He dwelt in Gethsemane, for he had
incurred to his outcast son the greatest debt that one man can incur
to another, and he could not publicly acknowledge the debt or hope to
repay it in kind. By the time spring came his heart hunger was almost
beyond control; there were times when, even against his will, he
contemplated a reconciliation with Donald based on an acceptance of
the latter's wife but with certain reservations. The Laird never quite
got around to defining the reservation but in a vague way he felt that
they should exist and that eventually Donald would come to a
realization of the fact and help him define them.

Each Sunday during that period of wretchedness he saw his boy and Nan
at church, although they no longer sat with Mr. Daney. From Reverend
Tingley The Laird learned that Donald now had a pew of his own, and he
wondered why. He knew his son had never been remotely religious and
eventually he decided that, in his son's place, though he were the
devil himself, he would do exactly as Donald had done. Damn a dog that
carried a low head and a dead tail! It was the sign of the mongrel
strain--curs always crept under the barn when beaten!

One Sunday in the latter part of May he observed that Nan came to
church alone. He wondered if Donald was at home ill and a vague
apprehension stabbed him; he longed to drop into step beside Nan as
she left the church and ask her, but, of course, that was unthinkable.
Nevertheless he wished he knew and that afternoon he spent the entire
time on the terrace at The Dreamerie, searching the Sawdust Pile with
his marine glasses, in the hope of seeing Donald moving about the
little garden. But he did not see him, and that night his sleep was
more troubled than usual.

On the following Sunday Nan was not accompanied by her husband either.
The Laird decided, therefore, that Donald could not be very ill,
otherwise Nan would not have left him home alone. This thought
comforted him somewhat. During the week he thought frequently of
telephoning up to Darrow and asking if they still had the same
raftsman on the pay-roll, but his pride forbade this. So he drove up
the river road one day and stopped his car among the trees on the bank
of the river from the Darrow log boom. A tall, lively young fellow was
leaping nimbly about on the logs, but so active was he that even at
two hundred yards The Laird cou