Terror smote the Samaritan. She clasped her hands; her lips were pale and trembling.
"Oh, my dear, my dear," she pleaded, "you wouldn't breathe a word to him, would you? Promise me you'll say nothing. How could I face my husband if—if—" She began to weep.
"I shall promise nothing," Nan replied sternly.
"But I only came for his father's sake, you cruel girl!"
"Perhaps his father's case is safer in my hands than in yours, Mrs. Daney, and safest of all in those of his son."
The outcast of Port Agnew rose, filled her apron with the driftwood she had gathered, and called to her child. As the little fellow approached, Mrs. Daney so far forgot her perturbation as to look at him keenly and decide, eventually, that he bore not the faintest resemblance to Donald McKaye.
"I'm sure, Nan, you will not be heartless enough to tell Donald McKaye of my visit to you," she pleaded, as the girl started down the beach.
"You have all the assurance of respectability, dear Mrs. Daney," Nan answered carelessly.
"You shall not leave me until you promise to be silent!" Mary Daney cried hysterically, and rose to follow her.
"I think you had better go, Mrs. Daney. I am quite familiar with the figure of The Laird since his retirement; he walks round the bight with his dogs every afternoon for exercise, and, if I am not greatly mistaken, that is he coming down the beach."