He was more or less unconscious of all this.  He had never thought of his body as being strong or well-shaped, because he had never used it, never pitted his strength against the strength of other men, never worked, never striven.  It had never been necessary for him to do so.  He had been taught that pride of that sort was sinful, and he had accepted the teaching rather too literally.

Already a curious sort of change was manifesting in him.  His blue eyes had a different expression than one would have observed in them during—­well, during the period of his theological studies, shall we say, when the state of his soul and the state of other people’s souls was the only consideration.  One would have been troubled to make out any pronounced personality then.  He was simply a studious young man with a sanctimonious air.  But now that the wind and the sun had somewhat turned his fair skin and brought out a goodly crop of freckles, now that the vigor of his movements and the healthy perspiration had rumpled up his reddish-brown hair and put a wave in it, he could—­standing up on his log—­easily have passed for a husky woodsman; until some experienced eye observed him make such sorry work of a woodsman’s task.  He had acquired no skill with the axe.  That takes time.  But he made vigorous endeavor, and he was beginning to feel strength flow through him, to realize it as a potential blessing.  Now that the soreness was working out of his sinews it gave him a peculiar elation to lay hold of a log-end, to heave until his arms and back grew rigid, and to feel the heavy weight move.  That exultant sense of physical power was quite new and rather puzzling to him.  He could not understand why he enjoyed chopping logs and moving them about, and yet was prone to grow moody, to be full of disquieting perplexities when he sat down to think.

He had been at work for perhaps two hours.  He was resting.  To be explicit, he was standing on a fallen tree.  Between his feet there was a notch cut half-way through the wood.  In this white gash the blade of his axe was driven solidly, and he rested his hands on the rigid haft while he stood drawing gulps of forest-scented air into his lungs.

Mr. Thompson was not gifted with eyes in the back of his head.  His hearing was keen enough, but the soft, turfy earth absorbed footfalls, especially when that foot was shod with a buckskin moccasin.  So he did not see Sophie Carr, nor hear her until a thought that was running in his mind slipped off the end of his tongue.

“This is going to make a terrible amount of labor.”

He said this aloud, in a matter-of-fact tone.

“And a terrible waste of labor,” Sophie answered him.

He looked quickly over one shoulder, saw her standing there, got down off his log—­blushing a little at his comparative nakedness.  It seemed to him that he must appear shockingly nude, since the upper part of his body was but thinly covered by a garment that opened wide over his breast.  He felt a good deal like a shy girl first appearing on the beach in an abbreviated bathing suit.  But Sophie seemed unconscious of his embarrassment, or the cause of it.  However, Mr. Thompson picked up his coat, and felt more at ease when he had slipped it on.  He sat down, still breathing heavily from his recent exertions.