“I used to steal from him,” the girl admitted.  “Then I grew ashamed of that, and for the past six months I’ve been earning my own living.  Mr. Sinclair was very kind.  He gave me a job waiting on table in the camp dining room.  You see, I had to have something here.  I couldn’t leave my father.  He had to have somebody to take care of him.  Don’t you see, Mr. Bryce?”

“Sinclair is a fuzzy old fool,” Bryce declared with emphasis.  “The idea of our woods-boss’s daughter slinging hash to lumberjacks.  Poor Moira!”

He took one of her hands in his, noting the callous spots on the plump palm, the thick finger-joints that hinted so of toil, the nails that had never been manicured save by Moira herself.  “Do you remember when I was a boy, Moira, how I used to come up to the logging-camps to hunt and fish?  I always lived with the McTavishes then.  And in September, when the huckleberries were ripe, we used to go out and pick them together.  Poor Moira!  Why, we’re old pals, and I’ll be shot if I’m going to see you suffer.”

She glanced at him shyly, with beaming eyes.  “You haven’t changed a bit, Mr. Bryce.  Not one little bit!”

“Let’s talk about you, Moira.  You went to school in Sequoia, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I was graduated from the high school there.  I used to ride the log-trains into town and back again.”

“Good news!  Listen, Moira.  I’m going to fire your father, as I’ve said, because he’s working for old J.B. now, not the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company.  I really ought to pension him after his long years in the Cardigan service, but I’ll be hanged if we can afford pensions any more—­particularly to keep a man in booze; so the best our old woods-boss gets from me is this shanty, or another like it when we move to new cuttings, and a perpetual meal-ticket for our camp dining room while the Cardigans remain in business.  I’d finance him for a trip to some State institution where they sometimes reclaim such wreckage, if I didn’t think he’s too old a dog to be taught new tricks.”

“Perhaps,” she suggested sadly, “you had better talk the matter over with him.”

“No, I’d rather not.  I’m fond of your father, Moira.  He was a man when I saw him last—­such a man as these woods will never see again—­ and I don’t want to see him again until he’s cold sober.  I’ll write him a letter.  As for you, Moira, you’re fired, too.  I’ll not have you waiting on table in my logging-camp—­not by a jugful!  You’re to come down to Sequoia and go to work in our office.  We can use you on the books, helping Sinclair, and relieve him of the task of billing, checking tallies, and looking after the pay-roll.  I’ll pay you a hundred dollars a month, Moira.  Can you get along on that?”

Her hard hand closed over his tightly, but she did not speak.

“All right, Moira.  It’s a go, then.  Hills and timber—­timber and hills—­and I’m going to set you free.  Perhaps in Sequoia you’ll find your Prince Charming.  There, there, girl, don’t cry.  We Cardigans had twenty-five years of faithful service from Donald McTavish before he commenced slipping; after all, we owe him something, I think.”