e woman was wise, as women are, and
conscienceless, yet suffering a little, too.

She had found more than a summer's toy, and she had grown to fear the
great boy in his moods, and to want to keep him, and to doubt the
measure of her art. This must be a hard thing, too, for such splendid
pirates to bear. They may not even scuttle all the craft they capture.

And the root of all evil is sometimes the root of all good. The dollar
pulls all ways. Harlson must earn his way. One day his father dropped
a chance word regarding some one, miles in the country, who wanted a
fence built inclosing a tract out of the wood. It was isolated work, a
task of a month or two for a strong man, a mere laborer. Young Harlson
became interested.

"Why shouldn't I try it?" he asked.

His father laughed.

"It's work for a toughened man, my boy. You have softened with six
years of only study."

The boy laughed as well.

"You needn't fear," he said. "All strength is not attained upon a
farm, and I want to swing an ax and maul again."

And that day he set out afoot for the home of the man who needed a
fence. He told Mrs. Rolfston briefly. She paled a trifle, but made no
objection. He said he would make visits to the town.

CHAPTER X.

THE BUILDING OF THE FENCE.

An ax, a maul, a yoke of oxen; these are the great requisites for him
who would build a rail fence through a forest. Grant Harlson made the
bargain for the work, hired a yoke of oxen, as you may do in the
country, and secured the right to eat plain food three times a day at
the cabin of a laborer. A bed he could not have, but the right to
sleep in a barn back in the field, and there also to house his oxen for
the night, was given him. He slept upon the hay-mow. He went into the
forest and began his work. The wood was dense, and what is known all
through the region as a black ash swale, lowland which once reclaimed
from nature makes, with its rich deposits, a wondrous meadow-land. He
"lined" the fence's course and cleared the way rudely through the
forest, a work of days, and then he made the maul.

The mace of the mediaeval knight is the maul of to-day. No longer it
cracks heads or helmets, but there is work for it. And it has
developed into a mighty weapon. There are two sorts of maul in the
lake country. As the stricken eagle is poetically described as
supplying the feather for the arrow by which itself was hurt to death,
the trees furnish forth