The Laird nodded.

"I had an idea, when I filled this spot in and built that bulkhead,
Mr. Brent, that some day this would make a safe anchorage for some of
my lumber. I planned a drying-yard here. What's that you're building,
Brent? A hen-house?"

Caleb Brent flushed.

"Why, no, sir. I'm making shift to build a home here for Nan and me."

"Is this little one Nan?"

The ragamuffin girl, her head slightly to one side, had been regarding
Hector McKaye with alert curiosity mingled with furtive apprehension.
As he glanced at her now, she remembered her manners and dropped him a
courtesy--an electric, half-defiant jerk that reminded The Laird of a
similar greeting customarily extended by squinch-owls.

Nan was not particularly clean, and her one-piece dress, of heavy blue
navy-uniform cloth was old and worn and spotted. Over this dress she
wore a boy's coarse red-worsted sweater with white-pearl buttons. The
skin of her thin neck was fine and creamy; the calves, of her bare
brown legs were shapely, her feet small, her ankles dainty.

With the quick eye of the student of character, this man, proud of his
own ancient lineage for all his humble beginning, noted that her
hands, though brown and uncared-for, were small and dimpled, with
long, delicate fingers. She had sea-blue eyes like Caleb Brent's,