"She's the best little woman a man ever had, and there ain't nothin' too good for her, chummy!" Thorpe, soul-sick after his recent experiences with the charity of the world, discovered a real pleasure in this fresh, clear passion.

As he contemplated the abounding health, the upright carriage, the sparkling, bubbling spirits of the young woodsman, he could easily imagine the young girl and the young happiness, too big for a little backwoods farm.
Three days after the newcomer had started in at the swamping, Paul, during their early morning walk from camp to the scene of their operations, confided in him further.
"Got another letter, chummy," said he, "come in yesterday.

She tells me," he hesitated with a blush, and then a happy laugh, "that they ain't going to be only two of us at the farm next year." "You mean!" queried Thorpe.
"Yes," laughed Paul, "and if it's a girl she gets named after her mother, you bet." The men separated.

In a moment Thorpe found himself waist-deep in the pitchy aromatic top of an old bull-sap, clipping away at the projecting branches.

After a time he heard Paul's gay halloo.
"TimBER!" came the cry, and then the swish-sh-sh,--CRASH of the tree's fall.
Thorpe knew that now either Hank or Tom must be climbing with the long measuring pole along the prostrate trunk, marking by means of shallow ax-clips where the saw was to divide the logs.