Moira laid her head on Shirley’s shoulder and sobbed for several minutes.  Then, “It’s Mr. Bryce,” she wailed.  “He’s so unhappy.  Something’s happened; they’re going to sell Cardigan’s Redwoods; and they—­don’t want to.  Old Mr. Cardigan is home—­ill; and just before I left the office, Mr. Bryce came in—­and stood a moment looking—­at me—­so tragically I—­I asked him what had happened.  Then he patted my cheek—­oh, I know I’m just one of his responsibilities—­and said ‘Poor Moira!  Never any luck!’ and went into his—­private office.  I waited a little, and then I went in too; and—­oh, Miss Sumner, he had his head down on his desk, and when I touched his head, he reached up and took my hand and held it—­and laid his cheek against it a little while—­and oh, his cheek was wet.  It’s cruel of God—­to make him—­ unhappy, He’s good—­too good.  And—­oh, I love him so, Miss Shirley, I love him so—­and he’ll never, never know.  I’m just one of his—­ responsibilities, you know; and I shouldn’t presume.  But nobody—­has ever been kind to me but Mr. Bryce—­and you.  And I can’t help loving people who are kind—­and gentle to nobodies.”

The hysterical outburst over, Shirley led the girl to her cozy sitting-room upstairs and prevailed upon the girl to put on one of her own beautiful negligees.  Moira’s story—­her confession of love, so tragic because so hopeless—­had stirred Shirley deeply.  She seated herself in front of Moira and cupped her chin in her palm.

“Of course, dear,” she said, “you couldn’t possibly see anybody you loved suffer so and not feel dreadfully about it.  And when a man like Bryce Cardigan is struck down, he’s apt to present rather a tragic and helpless figure.  He wanted sympathy, Moira—­woman’s sympathy, and it was dear of you to give it to him.”

“I’d gladly die for him,” Moira answered simply.  “Oh, Miss Shirley, you don’t know him the way we who work for him do.  If you did, you’d love him, too.  You couldn’t help it, Miss Shirley.”

“Perhaps he loves you, too, Moira.”  The words came with difficulty.

Moira shook her head hopelessly.  “No, Miss Shirley.  I’m only one of his many human problems, and he just won’t go back on me, for old sake’s sake.  We played together ten years ago, when he used to spend his vacations at our house in Cardigan’s woods, when my father was woods-boss.  He’s Bryce Cardigan—­and I—­I used to work in the kitchen of his logging-camp.”

“Never mind, Moira.  He may love you, even though you do not suspect it.  You mustn’t be so despairing.  Providence has a way of working out these things.  Tell me about his trouble, Moira.”

“I think it’s money.  He’s been terribly worried for a long time, and I’m afraid things aren’t going right with the business.  I’ve felt ever since I’ve been there that there’s something that puts a cloud over Mr. Bryce’s smile.  It hurts them terribly to have to sell the Valley of the Giants, but they have to; Colonel Pennington is the only one who would consider buying it; they don’t want him to have it—­and still they have to sell to him.”