He paused and his hand remained pointing at the spot where the mail bag had lain.  It was as if the spot held him fascinated.  Then his arm lowered slowly, and his hand came to rest on the edge of the table, gripping it with unnecessary force.

“Seems queer,” he went on, after a while.  Then he shook his head.  “Think of it.  Nancy—­my Nancy.  Dead!  She died giving birth to my boy.  And he—­he was stillborn.  Why?  I—­I can’t seem to realize it.  I—­don’t—­” He paused, and a strained, hunted look grew in his eyes.  “No.  It’s easy.  It’s just Fate.  That’s it.  There’s no escape.”

He drew a deep breath and one lean hand smoothed back his shining black hair.  Then his eyes came back to the face of the man opposite, and the agony in them was beyond words.  After a moment their terrible expression became lost as he bent over his work.  “I’m glad you’re back, Bat,” he said, without looking up.

“There’s a hell of a lot of orders to get out.  We’re running close up to winter.”

The lumberman understood.  At a single blow this man’s every hope had been smashed and ground under the heel of an iron fate.  The wife, the woman he had worshipped, had given her life to serve him, and with her had gone the man-child, about whom had been woven the entire network of a father’s hopes and desires.

A week had passed since Bat had witnessed the voiceless agony of his friend.  A week of endless labour and unspoken fears.  He knew Standing as it is given to few to know the heart of another.  His sympathy was real.  It was of that quality which made him desire above all things to render the heartbroken man real physical and moral help.  But no opening had been given him, and he feared to probe the wound that had been inflicted.  During those first seven days Standing seemed to be obsessed with a desire to work, to work all day and every night, as though he dared not pause lest his disaster should overwhelm him.

Now it was Sunday.  Night and day the work had gone on.  No less than ten freighters had been loaded and dispatched since Bat’s return, and only that morning two vessels had cast off, laden to the water-line, and passed down on the tide for the mouth of the cove.  At the finish of the midday meal Standing had announced his intentions for the afternoon.

“We need to get a look into the lumber on the north side, Bat,” he said.  “You’d best come along with me.  How do you think?”

And Bat had agreed on the instant.

“Sure,” he said.  “There’s a heap to be done that way if we’re to start layin’ the penstocks down on that side next year.”

So they had spent the hours before dusk in a prolonged tramp through the forests of the Northern shore.  And never for one moment was their talk and apparent interest allowed to drift from the wealth of long-fibred timber they were inspecting.