"I read about it in a book."
"I prefer spring in the woods, I think. It seems--It's so foolish of
me, I know; I ought to be contented, but it's hard to be contented
when it is always winter in one's heart. That frieze of timber on the
skyline limits my world, Mr Bryce. Hills and timber, timber and
hills, and the thunder of falling redwoods. And when the trees have
been logged off so we can see the world, we move back into green
timber again." She sighed.
"Are you lonely, Moira?"
She nodded.
"Poor Moira!" he murmured absently.
The thought that he so readily understood touched her; a glint of
tears was in her sad eyes. He saw them and placed his arm fraternally
around her shoulders. "Tut-tut, Moira! Don't cry," he soothed her. "I
understand perfectly, and of course we'll have to do something about
it. You're too fine for this. "With a sweep of his hand he indicated
the camp. He had led her to the low stoop in front of the shanty.
"Sit down on the steps, Moira, and we'll talk it over. I really
called to see your father, but I guess I don't want to see him after
all--if he's sick."
She looked at him bravely. "I didn't know you at first, Mr. Bryce. I
fibbed. Father isn't sick. He's drunk."
"I thought so when I saw the loading-crew taking it easy at the log-
landing.
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