of the New Englander the sound financial basis of his undertaking, as its main claim on his interest, as its main value.  “I heard so much about forestry being nothing but a rich man’s plaything,” he said.  “I just got my back up, and wanted to see if it couldn’t be made a paying thing.  And I’ve proved it can be.  I’ve had the closest account kept of income and outgo, and so far from being a drain on a man to reforest his woodland and administer it as he should, there’s an actual profit in it, enough to make a business of it, enough to occupy a man for his lifetime and his son after him, if he gives it his personal care.”

At this plain statement of a comprehensible fact, Arnold’s inattention gave place to a momentary interest.  “Is there?” he asked with surprise.  “How much?”

“Well,” said Page, “my system, as I’ve gradually worked it out, is to clear off a certain amount each year of our mediocre woodland, such as for the most part grows up where the bad cutting was done a couple of generations ago—­maple and oak and beech it is, mostly, with little stands of white birch, where fires have been.  I work that up in my own sawmill so as to sell as little of a raw product as possible; and dispose of it to the wood-working factories in the region.” (Sylvia remembered the great “brush-back factory” whence Molly had recruited her fire-fighters.) “Then I replant that area to white pine.  That’s the best tree for this valley.  I put about a thousand trees to the acre.  Or if there seems to be a good prospect of natural reproduction, I try for that.  There’s a region over there, about a hundred acres,” he waved his hand to the north of them, “that’s thick with seedling ash.  I’m leaving that alone.  But for the most part, white pine’s our best lay.  Pine thrives on soil that stunts oak and twists beech.  Our oak isn’t good quality, and maple is such an interminably slow grower.  In about twenty years from planting, you can make your first, box-board cutting of pine, and every ten years thereafter—­”

Arnold had received this avalanche of figures and species with an astonished blink, and now protested energetically that he had had not the slightest intention of precipitating any such flood.  “Great Scott, Page, catch your breath!  If you’re talking to me, you’ll have to use English, anyhow.  I’ve no more idea what you’re talking about!  Who do you take me for? I don’t know an ash-tree from an ash-cart.  You started in to tell me what the profit of the thing is.”

Page looked pained but patient, like a reasonable man who knows his hobby is running away with him, but who cannot bring himself to use the curb.  “Oh yes,” he said apologetically.  “Why, we cleared last year (exclusive of the farm, which yields a fair profit)—­we cleared about two thousand dollars.”  Arnold seemed to regard this statement as quite the most ridiculous mouse which ever issued from a mountain.  He burst into an open laugh.  “Almost enough to buy you a new car a year, isn’t it?” he commented.