For a month Bryce was as busy as the proverbial one-armed paper-
hanger with the itch, and during all that time he did not see Shirley
Sumner or hear of her, directly or indirectly. Only at infrequent
intervals did he permit himself to think of her, for he was striving
to forget, and the memory of his brief glimpse of paradise was always
provocative of pain.
Moira McTavish, in the meantime, had come down from the woods and
entered upon her duties in the mill office. The change from her dull,
drab life, giving her, as it did, an opportunity for companionship
with people of greater mentality and refinement than she had been
used to, quickly brought about a swift transition in the girl's
nature. With the passing of the coarse shoes and calico dresses and
the substitution of the kind of clothing all women of Moira's
instinctive refinement and natural beauty long for, the girl became
cheerful, animated, and imbued with the optimism of her years. At
first old Sinclair resented the advent of a woman in the office; then
he discovered that Moira's efforts lightened his own labours in exact
proportion to the knowledge of the business which she assimilated
from day to day.
Moira worked in the general office, and except upon occasions when
Bryce desired to look at the books or Moira brought some document
into the private office for his perusal, there were days during which
his pleasant "Good morning, Moira," constituted the extent of their
conversation.
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