^‘QTAND right where you are until I 
O have looked at you,” he command¬ 
ed, and backed off a few feet, the better 
to contemplate her.. 
He saw a girl slightly above medium 
height, simply gowned in a gingham 
dress. Her head was well formed; her 
hair, jet black and of unusual lustre 
and abundance, was parted in the mid¬ 
dle and held in an old-fashioned coil. 
Moira was a decided brunette, with 
that wonderful quality of skin to be 
seen only among brunettes who have 
roses in their cheeks; her brow was 
broad; in her eyes, large, and lustrous, 
there was a brooding tenderness not 
untouched with sorrow. Her lips were 
slightly parted in the adorqble Cupid’s 
bow which is the inevitable heritage 
of a short upper lip; her teeth were 
white as Parian marble. 
{Continued next week) 
I imencan Agriculturist, January 13, 1923 
been, she was nevertheless not indif¬ 
ferent to him. And it was this knowl¬ 
edge that when his song was done, 
brought to his firm mouth his old 
whimsical smile, to his brown eyes a 
light of confidence and pride. 
The climax had been I’eached—and 
passed; and the result had been far 
from the disaster he feared ever since 
the knowledge had come to him that 
he was doomed to battle with Colonel 
Pennington, and that one of the earliest 
fruits of hostilities would doubtless be 
the loss of Shirley Sumner’s friend¬ 
ship. Well, he had lost her friendship, 
but a still small voice whispered to him 
that the loss was not irreparable— 
whereat he swung his axe as a band¬ 
master swings his baton; he was glad 
that he had started the war and was 
now free to fight it out unhampered. 
U P hill and down dale he went. Be 
cause of the tremendous trees he 
could not see the sun; yet with the in¬ 
stinct of the woodsman, an instinct as 
infallible as that of a homing pigeon, he 
was not puzzled as to direction. Within 
two hours his long, tirelss stride 
brought him out into a clearing in the 
valley where his own logging-camp 
stood. He went directly to the log¬ 
landing, where in a listless and half¬ 
hearted manner the loading crew were 
piling logs on Pennington’s logging- 
trucks. 
Bryce looked at his watch. It was 
two o’clock; at two-fifteen Penning¬ 
ton’s locomotive would appear, . to 
back in and couple to the long line of 
trucks. And the train was only half 
loaded. 
“Where’s McTavish?” Bryce demand¬ 
ed of the donkey-driver. 
The man mouthed his quid, spat cop¬ 
iously, and pointed. “Up at his 
shanty,” he made answer, and grinned 
at Bryce knowingly. 
Up through the camp’s single short 
street, flanked with the woodsmen’s 
shanties, Bryce went. Dogs barked at 
him, for he was a stranger in his own 
camp; children, playing in the dust, 
gazed upon him owlishly. At the most 
pretentious shanty on the street Bryce 
turned in. He knew it to be the woods- 
boss’s home, for the house was painted 
with coarse red paint, while a fence 
of pointed pickets painted white in¬ 
closed a tiny garden in front. As Bryce 
came through the gate, a young girl 
rose from where she knelt in a bed of 
freshly transplanted pansies. 
B ryce lifted his hat. “Is Mr. Mc¬ 
Tavish at home?” he asked. 
She nodded. “He cannot see any¬ 
body,” she hastened to add. “He’s 
sick.” 
“I think he’ll see me. And I wonder 
if you’re Moira McTavish.” 
“Yes, I’m Moira.” 
“I’m Bryce Cardigan.” 
A look of fright crept into the girl’s 
eyes. “Are you—Bryce Cardigan?” 
she faltered, and looked at him 
more closely. “Yes, you’re Mr. Bryce. 
You’ve changed—but then its been 
six years since we saw you last Mr. 
Bryce.” 
He came toward her with out¬ 
stretched hand. “And you were a little 
girl when I saw you last. Now—you’re 
a woman.” She grasped his hand with 
the frank heartiness of a man. “I’m 
mighty glad to meet you again, Moira. 
I just guessed who you were, for of 
course I should never have recognized 
you. When I saw you last, you wore 
your hair in a braid down your 
back.” 
“I’m twenty years old,” she informed 
him. 
35 
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