"You do not have to, dad. I've sold it--at a profit of an even two
hundred thousand dollars!"

"Lad, why did you do it? Why didn't you take me into your confidence?
That cedar is worth three and a half. In a few years, 'twill be worth
five."

"I realized that, father, but--a bird in the hand is worth two in the
bush--and I'm a proud sort of devil. I didn't want to run to you for
help on my first deal, even though I knew you'd come to my rescue and
ask no questions. You've always told me to beware of asking favors,
you know. Moreover, I had a very friendly feeling toward the man I
sold my red cedar to; I hated to stick him too deeply."

"You were entitled to your profit, Donald. 'Twas business. You should
have taken it. Ah, lad, if you only knew the terrible four years I've
paid for yon red-cedar!"

"You mean the suspense of not knowing how I was spending my
allowance?"

The Laird nodded.

"Curiosity killed a cat, my son, and I'm not as young as I used to
be."

"I had thought you'd have read the accounting in my eye. Take another
look, Hector McKaye." And Donald thrust his smiling countenance close
to his father's.