" said Rawling as the pantry door slammed. "You must
be careful, San, and not get into any rows. She'd have a fit. What is
it?"

"What do you do when you can't--care about a person as much as they care
about you?"

"Put up with it patiently." Rawling shrugged. "What else _can_ you do?"

"I'm sixteen. She keeps on as if I were six. S-suppose she fell in love
with me? She's not old--very old."

"It's another sort of thing, Sonny. Don't worry," said Rawling, gravely,
and broke off the subject lest the boy should fret.

Late next afternoon Sanford rode down a trail from deep forest, lounging
in the saddle, and flicking brush aside with a long dog-whip. There was
a rain-storm gathering, and the hot air swayed no leaf. A rabbit,
sluggish and impertinent, hopped across his path and wandered up the
side trail toward Varian's cottage. Sanford halted the mare and
whistled. His father needed cheering, and Ling Varian, if obtainable,
would make a third at dinner. His intimate hurtled down the tunnel of
mountain ash directly and assented.

"Wait till I go back and tell Reuben, though. I'm cooking this week.
Wish Onnie 'd marry dad. Make her, can't you? Hi, Reu! I'm eating at the
house. The beef's on, and dad wants fried onions. Why won't she have
dad? _You're_ grown up."

He trotted beside the mare noiselessly, chewing a birch spray, a hand on
his friend's knee.

"She says she won't get married. I expect she'll stay here as long as
she lives."

"I suppose so, but I wish she'd marry dad," said Ling. "All this
trouble's wearing him out, and he won't have a hired girl if we could
catch one. There's a pile of trouble, San. He has rows every day. Had a
hell of a row with Percival yesterday."

"Who's this Percival? Onnie was cursing him out last night," Sanford
recollected.

"He's an awful big hog who's pulling logs at the runway. Used to be a
plumber in Australia. Swears like a sailor. He's a--what d' you call
'em? You know, a London mucker?"

"Cockney?"

"Yes, that's it. He put in your new bath-tub, and Onnie jumped him for
going round the house looking at things. Dad's getting ready to fire
him. He's the worst hand in the place. I'll point him out to you."

The sawmill whistle blew as the trail joined open road, and they passed
men, their shirts sweat-stained, nodding or waving to the boys as they
spread off to their houses and the swimming-place at the river bridge.

A group gathered daily behind the engine-yard to