there for the first Sunday, but somehow his interest in her was steadily waning. He was unconscious of change until some necessity for decision brought it home to him, as on that first night when he had no interest in a letter to her, as on other nights which followed when he could write only of himself and his job, and on those rare occasions when he could not even bring out his writing materials. He had believed that he was as eager to see her as he ever had been, but while he planned the trip across country he had half consciously sought an excuse which would keep him in the forest, and when a man who wanted his hemlock bark telephoned that he would come to the mill at Seven Mile soon, John interpreted that "soon" to suit his own strongest desires. He would wait over Sunday for the buyer, and all the time he secretly hoped the man would not show up, that he would have the day to himself—and that he might see something of Helen Foraker when her eyes were not on the men who worked for her and her mind not on the forest or his logs—
In such a subtle manner the change crept through him. He told himself that he was as fond of Marcia as ever, told himself that, but a voice deep in his heart soberly, steadily denied—and when on this Sabbath morning of gold and blue and green he thought of the Marcia he was not to see that day, slender, small, cool Marcia Murray, she seemed to him peculiary unsatisfactory and inconsequential.
This was the first time he had not reacted to her without at least a superficial thrill and the realization was something of a shock. He had come to the Blueberry to find easy money; he had fchosen to discard the easy way and help produce his own wealth. He had gone that far from
