So delightful a picture did Moira McTavish make that Bryce forgot all
his troubles in her sweet presence. "By the gods, Moira," he declared
earnestly, "you're a peach! When I saw you last, you were awkward and
leggy, like a colt. I'm sure you weren't a bit good-looking. And now
you're the most ravishing young lady in seventeen counties. By jingo,
Moira, you're a stunner and no mistake. Are you married?"
She shook her head, blushing pleasurably at his unpolished but
sincere compliments.
"What? Not married. Why, what the deuce can be the matter with the
eligible young fellows hereabouts?"
"There aren't any eligible young fellows hereabouts, Mr. Bryce. And
I've lived in these woods all my life."
"That's why you haven't been discovered."
"And I don't intend to marry a lumberjack and continue to live in
these woods," she went on earnestly, as if she found pleasure in this
opportunity to announce her rebellion. Despite her defiance, however,
there was a note of sad resignation in her voice.
"You don't know a thing about it, Moira. Some bright day your Prince
Charming will come by, riding the log-train, and after that it will
always be autumn in the woods for you. Everything will just naturally
turn to crimson and gold."
"How do you know, Mr Bryce?"
He laughed.
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