She shook her head, blushing pleasurably at his unpolished but sincere compliments.
“What? Not married. Why, what the deuce can be the matter with the eligible young fellows hereabouts?”
“There aren't any eligible young fellows hereabouts, Mr. Bryce. And I've lived in these woods all my life.”
“That's why you haven't been discovered.”
“And I don't intend to marry a lumberjack and continue to live in these woods,” she went on earnestly, as if she found pleasure in this opportunity to announce her rebellion. Despite her defiance, however, there was a note of sad resignation in her voice.
“You don't know a thing about it, Moira. Some bright day your Prince Charming will come by, riding the log-train, and after that it will always be autumn in the woods for you. Everything will just naturally turn to crimson and gold.”
“How do you know, Mr Bryce?”
He laughed. “I read about it in a book.”
“I prefer spring in the woods, I think. It seems—It's so foolish of me, I know; I ought to be contented, but it's hard to be contented when it is always winter in one's heart. That frieze of timber on the skyline limits my world, Mr Bryce. Hills and timber, timber and hills, and the thunder of falling redwoods. And when the trees have been logged off so we can see the world, we move back into green timber again.” She sighed.
“Are you lonely, Moira?”