the last time! We haven't seen the last drive; we haven't heard the last pine log going against a saw here in Michigan; we haven't seen the last pond full of them, floating fine and high—cork pine, Mr. Taylor—with the sun bringing on the resin blisters on them so you can smell it—as you can smell the new lumber in the yard—and the big pile of fine sawdust—"
She paused and the uneasy wind soughed in the tops outside. The girl smiled, lips tremulous, as though tears smarted at her eyes. "It isn't a big operation, Mr. Taylor, but it will go on and on forever! There'll never be a Michigan man who is lonesome for white pine who can't walk through a stand of it, who can't watch 'em creeping up the slide, who can't feel the corks in his boots biting into the bark—if he wants to—It could be wiped out in a very few winters, Mr. Taylor. I want it to go on forever—"
She clasped her hands lightly before her and looked down on him with that sweet, confident smile. She saw the amazement in his face, the mist in his eyes. She saw him swallow, and then he snapped: "Damn moonshine, I tell you! Damn—"
Outside, Pauguk whined sharply. A shout. A horse galloping. Black Joe ran past the house calling a question to the patrolman who rode out of the smoke.
"For God's sake get out there! It's south of the old cranberry marsh in the timber and comin' like hell. Somebody smashed the telephone so I couldn't call!"
For a moment the girl poised before Luke Taylor. Then fright came into her eyes and she ran out the door. Phil Rowe started and turned and smiled—as though he had suddenly remembered some pleasurable thing.
