XVIII
It had been Donald McKaye's intention to go up to the logging-camp on the first log-train leaving for the woods at seven o'clock on Monday morning, but the news of Dirty Dan's plight caused him to change his plans. Strangely enough, his interview with his father, instead of causing him the keenest mental distress, had been productive of a peculiar sense of peace. The frank, sympathetic, and temperate manner in which the old laird had discussed his affair had conduced to produce this feeling. He passed a restful night, as his father observed when the pair met at the breakfast-table.
"Well, how do you feel this morning, son?" the old man queried kindly.
"Considerably better than I did before our talk last night, sir," Donald answered.
"I haven't, slept," old Hector continued calmly, "although I expect to have a little nap during the day. Just about daylight a comforting thought stole over me."
"I'm glad to hear it, dad."
"I've decided to repose faith in Nan, having none at all in you. If she truly loves you, she'll die before she'll hurt you."
"Perhaps it may be a comfort to you to know that she has so expressed herself to me."