"Suppose, however, that this particular tree is rotten—rotten to the heart? That the very roots that hold it in place are rotten? And that the moose-calf butts 'til he butts it down—what then?"
There was a gleam of admiration in MacNair's eyes as he answered:
"If the tree is rotten it will fall. But it will fall to the mighty push o' the winds o' God—and not to the puny butt of a moose-calf!" Chloe Elliston was silent. The man was speaking again. "Good day to you, madam, or miss, or whatever one respectfully calls a woman. As I told you, I have known no women. I have lived always in the North. Death robbed me of my mother before I was old enough to remember her. The North, you see, is hard and relentless, even with those who know her—and love her."
The girl felt a sudden surge of sympathy for this strange, outspoken man of the Northland. She knew that the man had spoken, with no thought of arousing sympathy, of the dead mother he had never known. And in his voice was a note, not merely of deep regret, but of sadness.
"I am sorry," she managed to murmur.
"What?"
"About your mother, I mean."
The man nodded. "Yes. She was a good woman. My father told me of her often. He loved her."
The simplicity of the man puzzled Chloe. She was at a loss to reply.
"I think—I believe—a moment ago, you asked my name."