"Do I improve with age, dear Moira?" he asked with
boyish eagerness; then, before she could answer, he swept on, a
tornado of love and pleading. And presently Moira was in his arms, he
was kissing her, and she was crying softly because--well, she admired
Mr. Buck Ogilvy; more, she respected him and was genuinely fond of
him. She wondered, and as she wondered, a quiet joy thrilled her in
the knowledge that it did not seem at all impossible for her to grow,
in time, absurdly fond of this wholesome red rascal.
"Oh, Buck, dear," she whispered, "I don't know, I'm sure, but perhaps
I've loved you a little bit for a long time."
"I'm perfectly wild over you. You're the most wonderful woman I ever
heard of. Old rosy-cheeks!" And he pinched them just to see the
colour come and go.
John Cardigan was seated in his lumberjack's easy-chair as his son
approached. His hat lay on the litter of brown twigs beside him; his
chin was sunk on his breast, and his head was held a little to one
side in a listening attitude; a vagrant little breeze rustled gently
a lock of his fine, long white hair. Bryce stooped over the old man
and shook him gently by the shoulder.
"Wake up, partner," he called cheerfully. But John Cardigan did not
wake, and again his son shook him. Still receiving no response, Bryce
lifted the leonine old head and gazed into his father's face.
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