Donald MacRae's real communication to his son began at that point in the
long ago when the _Gull_ outsailed his sloop and young Horace Gower,
smarting with jealousy, struck that savage blow with a pike pole at a
man whose fighting hands were tied by a promise. Bit by bit, incident
by incident, old Donald traced out of a full heart and bitter memories
all the passing years for his son to see and understand. He made
Elizabeth Morton, the Morton family, Horace Gower and the Gower kin
stand out in bold relief. He told how he, Donald MacRae, a nobody from
nowhere, for all they knew, adventuring upon the Pacific Coast, questing
carelessly after fortune, had fallen in love with this girl whose
family, with less consideration for her feelings and desires than for
mutual advantages of land and money and power, favored young Gower and
saw nothing but impudent presumption in MacRae.

Young Jack sat staring into the coals, seeing much, understanding more.
It was all there in those written pages, a powerful spur to a vivid
imagination.

No MacRae had ever lain down unwhipped. Nor had Donald MacRae, his
father. Before his bruised face had healed--and young Jack remembered
well the thin white scar that crossed his father's cheek bone--Donald
MacRae was again pursuing his heart's desire. But he was forestalled
there. He had truly said to Elizabeth Morton that she would never have
another chance. By force or persuasion or whatsoever means were
necessary they had married her out of hand to Horace Gower.

"That must have been she sitting on the couch," Jack MacRae whispered to
himself, "that middle-aged woman with the faded rose-leaf face. Lord,
Lord, how things get twisted!"