“I understand that, Howat,” she assured him; “and I think, I’m not sure but I think, that what you mean wouldn’t bother me either.  Anyhow it shouldn’t spoil the fun of our trip.  But no one else in the world would believe that simple truth.  If you could stay there, in those splendid woods or a world like them, why, it would be heaven.  But you have to come back, you have to live on, perhaps for a great while, in the world of Shadrach and Myrtle Forge.  I’m not sure that I’d refuse if you asked me to go, Howat.  I just don’t know if a woman can stand alone, for that’s what it would come to afterward, against a whole lifeful of misjudgment.  It might be better in the end, for everybody, if she continued home, made the best of things with the others.”

“You may possibly be right,” he told her with a sudden resumption of indifference.  After all, it was unimportant whether or not Fanny Gilkan went with him to the source of the stream he had discovered.  Every one, it became more and more evident, was alike, monotonous.  He wondered again, lounging back against the wall, about the French forts, outposts in a vast wilderness.  There was an increasing friction between the Province and France, the legacy of King George’s War, but Howat Penny’s allegiance to place was as conspicuous by its absence as the other communal traits.  Beside that, beyond Kaskaskia, at St. Navier and the North, there was little thought of French or English; the sheer problem of existence there drowned other considerations.  He would, he thought, go out in the spring ... leave Myrtle Forge with its droning anvil, the endless, unvaried turning of water wheel, and the facile, trivial chatter in and about the house.  David Forsythe, back from England in the capacity of master of fluxing metals, might acquire his, Howat’s, interest in the Penny iron.

Fanny Gilkan said, “You’ll burn a hole in your coat with that pipe.”  He roused himself, and she moved across the room and pinched the smoking wicks.  The embers on the hearth had expired, and the fireplace was a sooty, black cavern.  Fanny, at the candles, was the only thing clearly visible; the thin radiance slid over the turn of her cheek; her hovering hand was like a cut-paper silhouette.  It was growing late; Thomas Gilkan would soon be back from the Furnace; he must go.  Howat had no will to avoid Gilkan, but the thought of the necessary conversational exchange wearied him.

The sound of footsteps approached the house from without; it was, he thought, slightly annoyed, the founderman; but the progress deflected by the door, circled to a window at the side.  A voice called low and urgent, “Seemy!  Seemy!” It was repeated, and there was an answering mutter from the stair, a thick murmur and a deep sigh.

The cast boy slipped crumpled and silent in bare feet across the floor.  “Yes,” he called back, rapidly waking.

The voice from without continued, “They’re going to start up the Oley.”