and, like his, they were sad and wistful; a frowsy wilderness of
golden hair, very fine and held in confinement at the nape of her neck
by the simple expedient of a piece of twine, showed all too plainly
the lack of a mother's care.

The Laird returned Nan's courtesy with a patronizing inclination of
his head.

"Your granddaughter, I presume?" he addressed Caleb Brent.

"No; my daughter, sir. I was forty when I married, and Nan came ten
years later. She's thirteen now, and her mother's been dead ten
years."

Hector McKaye had an idea that the departed mother was probably just
as well, if not better, off, free of the battle for existence which
appeared to confront this futile old man and his elf of a daughter. He
glanced at the embryo shack under construction and, comparing it with
his own beautiful home on Tyee Head, he turned toward the bight. A
short distance off the bulkhead, he observed a staunch forty-foot
motor-cruiser at anchor. She would have been the better for a coat of
paint; undeniably she was of a piece with Caleb Brent and Nan, for,
like them, The Laird had never seen her before.

"Yours?" he queried.

"Yes, sir."

"You arrived in her, then?"