"I can't claim that," Harding answered with a smile. "As a matter of fact, we're following a plain trail; the fur-traders blazed it for us before the railroad came; and I dare say your father had broken ground at Allenwood when I was learning to harness a team."
"It doesn't seem to make you diffident. Now, I agree with my friends that there's a good deal to admire in the old order."
"That's so. All that's best in it will stay; you can't destroy it. In a way, it's a comforting thought because we can't stand still, and progress means a fight."
"And yet some people believe in throwing away the weapons our fathers have used and proved."
Harding laughed.
"When they're fine steel, that's foolish; but we might be allowed to rub off the rust and regrind them."
Beatrice liked his half-humorous manner, which she suspected covered a strong sincerity. Besides, she had asked for his opinions; he had not obtruded them. She gave him a quick glance of scrutiny as he led her horse down the steep, brush-encumbered trail into the ravine; and she admitted to herself that he improved on acquaintance. One got used to his rough clothes and his line of thought which differed so widely from the views held at Allenwood.
Yellow birch leaves shone about them, the pale-tinted stems were streaked with silver by the sinking sun, and the ravine was filled with heavy blue shadow. There was something strangely exhilarating in the light, glowing color and the sharp wind; and Beatrice felt her senses stirred. Then she noticed Harding's set lips and the concentrated look in his eyes. He seemed to be thinking earnestly and perhaps exercising some self-restraint. She suddenly recalled his presumption the last time they were together. She had not carried out her plan of avoiding him, but she thought it might be better to run no risk.
"I mustn't take you any farther," she said. "The trail is good up the other side."
"All right," he acquiesced. "Turn out at the big poplar."