re's a region over there, about a hundred acres,"
he waved his hand to the north of them, "that's thick with seedling
ash. I'm leaving that alone. But for the most part, white pine's our
best lay. Pine thrives on soil that stunts oak and twists beech. Our
oak isn't good quality, and maple is such an interminably slow
grower. In about twenty years from planting, you can make your first,
box-board cutting of pine, and every ten years thereafter--"

Arnold had received this avalanche of figures and species with an
astonished blink, and now protested energetically that he had had not
the slightest intention of precipitating any such flood. "Great Scott,
Page, catch your breath! If you're talking to me, you'll have to use
English, anyhow. I've no more idea what you're talking about! Who do
you take me for? _I_ don't know an ash-tree from an ash-cart. You
started in to tell me what the profit of the thing is."

Page looked pained but patient, like a reasonable man who knows his
hobby is running away with him, but who cannot bring himself to use
the curb. "Oh yes," he said apologetically. "Why, we cleared last year
(exclusive of the farm, which yields a fair profit)--we cleared about
two thousand dollars." Arnold seemed to regard this statement as quite
the most ridiculous mouse which ever issued from a mountain. He burst
into an open laugh. "Almost enough to buy you a new car a year, isn't
it?" he commented.

Page looked extremely nettled. An annoyed flush showed through the
tan of his clear skin. He was evidently very touchy about his pet
lumbering operations. "A great many American families consider that a
sufficient income," he said stiffly.

Sylvia had another inspiration, such as had been the genesis of her
present walking-costume. "You're too silly, Arnold. The important
thing isn't what the proportion with Mr. Page's own income is! What he
was trying to do, and what he _has_ done, only you don't know
enough to see it, is to prove that sane forestry is possible for
forest-owners of small means. I know, if you don't, that two thousand
is plenty to live on. My father's salary is only twenty-four hundred
now, and we were all brought up when it was two thousand."

She had had an intuitive certainty that this frank revelation would
please Page, and she was rewarded by an openly ardent flash from his
clear eyes. There was in his look at her an element of enchanted,
relieved recognition, as though he had nodded and said: