"I will give you a pole," Harding said. "There is some lumber here that will do."
He picked up a small birch log as he spoke, and, throwing it upon two trestles, set to work with an ax. When he had it about the right size, Lance interrupted him.
"That's good enough. I'll get it smoothed off when the carpenter comes out from the settlement."
"That is not my plan," Harding smiled. "I like to finish a job."
He adjusted a plane, and Beatrice watched him as he ran it along the pole. It had not struck her hitherto that one could admire the simple mechanical crafts, but she thought there was something fine in the prairie farmer's command of the tool. She noticed his easy poise as he swung to and fro, the rhythmic precision of his movements, and the accurate judgment he showed. As the thin shavings streamed across his wrist the rough log began to change its form, growing through gently tapered lines into symmetry. Though he had only his eye to guide him, Beatrice saw that he was skilfully striking the balance between strength and lightness, and it was a surprise to find elements of beauty in such a common object as a wagon-pole. She felt that Harding had taught her something when he turned to Lance, saying:
"There! I guess we can put that in."
The irons were soon refitted, and while Lance harnessed the team, Beatrice came to Harding with a smile.
"Thank you!" she said. "It's curious that you should help me out of a difficulty twice within a week."
Harding flushed.
"If you should happen to meet with another, I hope I'll be near," he returned.