I think your father must have been a remarkable man."
"He was—in many ways. When I knew him, though, his life revolved around one thing: this forest. Reforestation was a religion with him, land economics his theology. He infected everybody who came near him with that religion—that is, all who were intelligent enough to understand. I was down with the disease before I could wholly comprehend. I played with baby trees instead of dolls; I planted tiny forests of my own instead of keeping playhouse; I learned to fight fire before I learned to sew. I put in the years learning log scales that most girls spend learning scales on a piano. When I could read I read books on silviculture instead of stories; I knew more about chemistry that I did about clothes; more about soil than I did about boys.
"You see, we were a sort of joke in this community and had to be quite self-sufficient. After I was more than a little girl we stayed here always because we were too poor to get out. The first years took all my father's money; then came debt, and he was very conscientious. We never went anywhere to meet people; they came here: teachers of forestry, foresters from Europe.
"And then when my father died I didn't have time to feel the shock or to be lonely because responsibility all came on me, so the other things I might want to do have had to wait."
"A big burden!"
She shook her head. "Not a burden, unless the urge to paint a great picture or write a great book is a burden. It's something bigger than you are; one is helpless before an ideal."
"But now that you've put it over—"
