taking his mortal and certain medicine than a dead one going to a hell fire that's largely theoretical!"
They went out together.
"Thad?" asked Pelly as they parted. "He'll clear up all right, so far's his mind goes. His heart though—you can't mend broken hearts like we can a busted skull—That's one reason I want Harris to get well—I'm a vengeful cuss, I guess."
Helen was at her desk, busy with figures—ostensibly. A letter written in Luke Taylor's scrawl was before her, paper limp from much handling. She read his promises of aid again and looked out the window and down the road as she had been looking for an hour, ever since John Taylor telephoned from the mill.
"I am coming for a final settlement," he had said. "The last car of lumber will go out tonight."
His final settlement! With all the relief that should have been in the girl's heart there was no rest. She had won; with Luke Taylor's backing there was no chance for her to lose now; she had put herself into a pinch on a theory; fire had laid waste to a full section of her timber. But there would never be incendiarism again, there would be no lack of working capital to tide her over until Foraker's Folly could function—
And yet there was only pain reflected in her face. She saw him coming down the road, walking slowly. He rapped and she opened the door for him. Confusion was on each and after the greeting they avoided looking at one another.
"Here is the statement from the mill," she said. "Is that right?"
