A breath caught in his throat and his eyes dimmed. He listened again and heard that time in the whispers of the tops an echo of his lost youth; the trees, the river, the wind, the birds—it was a symphony of all that he had ever held dearest, of all that he had been denied, but even then he did not know that sentiment had broken down the wall that long years of effort, that great material triumphs, that final disillusionment had built as its prison. He moved toward the nearest tree and put out his hand as though for support; but he did not need help to stand. His palms pressed the bark on either side the trunk; then stroked, gently, as a man will stroke some dear possession.
"Pine!" he muttered—"Michigan Pine! Oh, God—I thank you—thank you!—"
He stood a moment watching, listening, feeling, smelling, letting his senses play with this great blessing which was within his grasp. Then he turned and started back into the forest, stride feeble but with returning strength, the strength of hope, of satisfaction—He went faster, with the haste of greed.
Once again the forest was so many board feet—
Helen Foraker watched him go. Then she sat down on the bank, legs dangling over the brink and slowly broke dead needles into bits as she stared abstractedly before her. There was in her eyes, behind the trouble, something like hope—a vision of an incredible opportunity.
"Where's the girl?" Luke asked as he emerged from the forest.
"At her home, likely," Rowe responded, startled by
