ral idea of his enterprises. He was a great hand for timber, your
father-in-law; against weighty advice at the time of his death he was
buying timber options here and there in the valley. Though what he wanted
with them ... beyond ordinary foresight.--No transportation, you see; no
railroad nor way of getting lumber out. But then, he had some visionary
scheme or other. He held some thousand acres, most of it bought at a
nominal figure. No good to anybody now; but I have got the timber fever
myself--something may turn up in the far future, perhaps in another
generation.... What would you say to a flat eight dollars an acre for the
options, the money banked right to your credit? A neat little sum for
current pleasures. Ah--" in spite of himself, Valentine Simmons became
grave at the contemplation of the amount involved. "I don't say I would
take all, but the best, certainly the greater part."

"Why, I don't know," Gordon spoke slowly from an old-time suspicion of the
other. "It's my wife's property."

"But such a dutiful little wife--the husband's word. Remember, the money
in your hand."

"It certainly sounds all right. Lettice would have the cash to show. I'll
speak to her."

"Better not delay. There are other options; owners are glad to sell. I
have given you the privilege first--old friend, old Presbyterian friend.
The time is necessarily limited."

As he mentally revolved the proposal Gordon could find no palpable
objection: the options, the timber, was obviously standing fallow, with no
means of transportation to a market, in exchange for ready money. Lettice
would easily see the sense in the deal; besides, he had brought in her
name only for form's sake--he, Gordon Makimmon, held the deciding vote in
the affairs of his home.

"I don't rightly see anything against it," he admitted finally.

"Good!" Simmons declared with satisfaction; "an able man, you can see as
far as the next through a transaction. I'll have the county clerk go over
the options, bring you the result in a couple of weeks. Don't disturb
yourself; yours is the time for pleasures, not papers."

"Hey, Gord!" a voice called thinly from without; "here's your dog."

Gordon rose and made his way to the platform before the store, where the
Stenton stage had stopped. A seat had been removed from the surrey, its
place taken by a large box with a square opening, covered with heavy wire
net at one end, and a board fitted movably in grooves at the other.