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272 "Helen has been like my daughter since her father died. I have no children of my own. I have no kin. I'm a lonely old man and in her I've found an outlet for all the sentiment that old men have. What harms her, harms me. In rational processes I might differ with her, in purely natural reactions—I don't care to discuss them."

"You believe, then, that—"

"I don't want to be unjust or hard, Taylor, but in this matter you'll have to excuse me. You wouldn't try to argue with a father whose impulses and sentiment were strong, would you?"

A warning flash of unreasonable but natural temper was in his face and John went out, standing a long time on the edge of the sidewalk, staring across the street.

He had gone about in a half daze since leaving the forest yesterday. He felt numb and heartless and guilty and hurt. His mind would not stay on his affairs. He tried to put it there by a trip to the mill at Seven Mile the next day, but he was in a panic for fear Helen would come and he would be forced to confront her. He was glad to be back in Pancake that night, but his room in Mrs. Holmquist's house, where he had sought refuge from Rowe and Harris, was stifling so he walked down First Street slowly and sought an isolated chair on the hotel verandah.

The night was sultry. Preceding nights had been warm after scorching days. Each evening clouds gathered and rain was promised, but no rains came. Day after day the brisk, dry wind had fanned the country, browning the brakes, bleaching ripening June grass, wilting the foliage of aspens.