At the most pretentious shanty on the street Bryce
turned in. He had never seen it before, but he knew it to be the
woods-boss's home, for unlike its neighbours the house was painted
with the coarse red paint that is used on box-cars, while a fence,
made of fancy pointed pickets painted white, inclosed a tiny garden
in front of the house. As Bryce came through the gate, a young girl
rose from where she knelt in a bed of freshly transplanted pansies.
Bryce lifted his hat. "Is Mr. McTavish at home?" he asked.
She nodded. "He cannot see anybody," she hastened to add. "He's
sick."
"I think he'll see me. And I wonder if you're Moira McTavish."
"Yes, I'm Moira."
"I'm Bryce Cardigan."
A look of fright crept into the girl's eyes. "Are you--Bryce
Cardigan?" she faltered, and looked at him more closely. "Yes, you're
Mr. Bryce. You've changed--but then it's been six years since we saw
you last, Mr. Bryce."
He came toward her with outstretched hand. "And you were a little
girl when I saw you last. Now--you're a woman." She grasped his hand
with the frank heartiness of a man. "I'm mighty glad to meet you
again, Moira. I just guessed who you were, for of course I should
never have recognized you. When I saw you last, you wore your hair in
a braid down your back.
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