So delightful a picture did Moira McTavish make that Bryce forgot all his troubles in her sweet presence.  “By the gods, Moira,” he declared earnestly, “you’re a peach!  When I saw you last, you were awkward and leggy, like a colt.  I’m sure you weren’t a bit good-looking.  And now you’re the most ravishing young lady in seventeen counties.  By jingo, Moira, you’re a stunner and no mistake.  Are you married?”

She shook her head, blushing pleasurably at his unpolished but sincere compliments.

“What?  Not married.  Why, what the deuce can be the matter with the eligible young fellows hereabouts?”

“There aren’t any eligible young fellows hereabouts, Mr. Bryce.  And I’ve lived in these woods all my life.”

“That’s why you haven’t been discovered.”

“And I don’t intend to marry a lumberjack and continue to live in these woods,” she went on earnestly, as if she found pleasure in this opportunity to announce her rebellion.  Despite her defiance, however, there was a note of sad resignation in her voice.

“You don’t know a thing about it, Moira.  Some bright day your Prince Charming will come by, riding the log-train, and after that it will always be autumn in the woods for you.  Everything will just naturally turn to crimson and gold.”

“How do you know, Mr Bryce?”

He laughed.  “I read about it in a book.”

“I prefer spring in the woods, I think.  It seems—­It’s so foolish of me, I know; I ought to be contented, but it’s hard to be contented when it is always winter in one’s heart.  That frieze of timber on the skyline limits my world, Mr Bryce.  Hills and timber, timber and hills, and the thunder of falling redwoods.  And when the trees have been logged off so we can see the world, we move back into green timber again.”  She sighed.

“Are you lonely, Moira?”

She nodded.

“Poor Moira!” he murmured absently.

The thought that he so readily understood touched her; a glint of tears was in her sad eyes.  He saw them and placed his arm fraternally around her shoulders.  “Tut-tut, Moira!  Don’t cry,” he soothed her.  “I understand perfectly, and of course we’ll have to do something about it.  You’re too fine for this.  “With a sweep of his hand he indicated the camp.  He had led her to the low stoop in front of the shanty.  “Sit down on the steps, Moira, and we’ll talk it over.  I really called to see your father, but I guess I don’t want to see him after all—­if he’s sick.”

She looked at him bravely.  “I didn’t know you at first, Mr. Bryce.  I fibbed.  Father isn’t sick.  He’s drunk.”

“I thought so when I saw the loading-crew taking it easy at the log-landing.  I’m terribly sorry.”

“I loathe it—­and I cannot leave it,” she burst out vehemently.  “I’m chained to my degradation.  I dream dreams, and they’ll never come true.  I—­I—­oh Mr. Bryce, Mr. Bryce, I’m so unhappy.”