d men, we could be friends. But he was too bitter.
And I'm human. I've got a bit of pride. I couldn't crawl. So I never got
nearer to him than to see him rowing around the Rock. And he died full
of that bitterness. I don't like to think of that. Still, it cannot be
helped. Do you grasp this, MacRae? Do you believe me?"

Incredible as it seemed, MacRae had no choice but to accept that
explanation of strangely twisted motives, those misapprehensions, the
murky cloud of misunderstanding. The tone of Gower's voice, his
attitude, carried supreme conviction. And still--

"Yes," he said at last. "It is all a contradiction of things I have been
passionately sure of for nearly two years. But I can see--yes, it must
be as you say. I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what?" Gower regarded him soberly.

"Many things. Why did you tell me this?"

"Why should the anger and bitterness of two old men be passed on to
their children?" Gower asked him gently.

MacRae stared at him. Did he know? Had he guessed? Had Betty told him?
He wondered. It was not like Betty to have spoken of what had passed
between them. Yet he did not know how close a bond might exist between
this father and daughter, who were, MacRae was beginning to perceive,
most singularly alike. And this was a shrewd old man, sadly wise in
human weaknesses, and much more tolerant than MacRae had conceived
possible. He felt a little ashamed of the malice with which he had
fought this battle of the salmon around Squitty Island. Yet Gower by his
own admission was a hard man. He had lived with a commercial sword in
his hand. He knew what it was to fall by that weapon. He had been hard
on the fishermen. He had exploited them mercilessly. Therein lay his
weakness, whereby he had fallen, through which MacRae had beaten him.
But had he beaten him? MacRae was not now so sure about that. But it was
only a momentary doubt. He struggled a little against the reaction of
kindliness, this curious sympathy for Gower which moved him now. He
hated sentimentalism, facile yielding to shallow emotions. He wanted to
talk and he was dumb. Dumb for appropriate words, because his mind kept
turning with passionate eagerness upon Betty Gower.

"Does Betty know what you have just told me?" he asked at last.

Gower shook his head.

"She knows there is something. I can't tell her. I don't like to. It
isn't a nice story. I don't shine in it--nor her mother."

"Nor do I," MacRae muttered to himself.

He st