She was numb; her knees were giving; she said flatly: "Now—soon—within ten days."
He sniffed. "I'll take a chance with you; I'll invest in a little moonshine—because you've got a nerve, and because you—because you're makin' a go of it!" He said that last as though the words hurt him, as though it was gall to admit her success. "I'll let you have the thirty, and I'll fix it so's you can get more—when you need it; whenever you need it. But I've got to get a new bookkeeper first!"
She closed her eyes. She heard him grumbling more as he buttoned his coat close.
"Oh, I thank you—I thank you—"
"Don't thank me!" he snapped. He was at the door, opening it, to let the roar of rain and forest in on them. "You get it—" he moved back a step, "on one condition."
She nodded.
"An' that is that you'll let me come up here when I damn please—an' listen to 'em talk—an' listen—You're full of moonshine, but maybe you're right—about that four million a year—"
Something like a catch of breath checked him. He turned abruptly and went out into the rain. She saw him crawl through the curtains of the car, saw the white face of Phil Rowe as he started the motor. She turned to the mantel and lifted her face to the shadowed photograph of her father.
"All over," she whispered, and laughed shortly. "Saved—Foraker's Folly is respected—We've won father! We've—"
Thunder crashed, the rain abated, as though for
