of the valleys are fit for crops.  Most of our county is essentially forest-land.  And his idea of the proper use to make of it, is to have a smallish industrial population engaged in wood-working, who would use the bits of arable land in the valleys as gardens to raise their own food.  He has almost entirely reorganized the life of our valley, along these lines, and I daresay he cannot at all realize himself the prodigious change from hopelessness and slow death to energy and forward-looking activity which his intelligent grasp of the situation has brought to this corner of the earth.”

The young stenographer had heard this too, and had caught the frown of annoyance which the personal reference brought to Neale’s forehead.  He leaned forward and said earnestly, “It’s so, Captain . . .  Mr. Crittenden.  It’s so!”

Mr. Bayweather went on, “There is enough wood in the forests within reach of the mill to keep a moderate-sized wood-working factory going indefinitely, cutting by rotation and taking care to leave enough trees for natural reforestration.  But of course that has not been the American way of going at things.  Instead of that steady, continuous use of the woods, which Mr. Crittenden has shown to be possible, furnishing good, well-paid work at home for the men who would be otherwise forced off into cities, our poor mountains have been lumbered every generation or so, on an immense, murderous, slashing scale, to make a big sum of money for somebody in one operation.  When old Mr. Burton Crittenden’s nephew came to town it was a different story.  Mr. Neale Crittenden’s ideal of the lumber business is, as I conceive it, as much a service to mankind as a doctor’s is.”

Neale winced, and shook his head impatiently.  How ministers did put the Sunday-school rubber-stamp on everything they talked about—­even legitimate business.

“And as Mrs. Crittenden’s free-handed generosity with her musical talent has transformed the life of the region as much as Mr. Crittenden’s high and disinterested . . .”

“Oh Gosh, Arthur, never mind about the rest!” murmured Neale, moving back quickly into the inner office to create a diversion.  “All ready?” he asked in a loud, hearty voice, as he came up to them.  “Up to 1920 by this time, Mr. Bayweather?” He turned to Marsh, “I’m afraid there is very little to interest you, with your experience of production on a giant scale, in a business so small that the owner and manager knows every man by name and everything about him.”

“You couldn’t show me anything more out of my own experience,” answered Marsh, “than just that.  And as for what I know about production on a giant scale, I can tell you it’s not much.  I did try to hook on, once or twice, years ago—­to find out something about the business that my father spent his life in helping to build up, but it always ended in my being shooed out of the office by a rather irritable manager who knew I knew nothing about any