effort to make him a part of any social organization, however admirable;
he never formed any personal bonds with humanity in particular. He had
grown into a solitary being within whom were immovably locked all the
confidences, the spontaneous expressions of self, that bind men into a
solidarity of common failings and hopes. He never offered, nor,
apparently, required, any marks of sympathy; as a fact, he rarely
expressed anything except an occasional irrepressible scorn lashing out
at individuals or acts that conspicuously displeased him. This had
occurred more than once at Myrtle Forge, when assemblymen or members of
the Provincial Council had been seated at dinner.

It was after such a scene that his mother had witnessed perhaps his only
attempt at self-explanation. "I am sorry you were disturbed," he had
pronounced, after standing and regarding her for a silent, frowning
space; "but for me there is something unendurable in men herding like
cattle, protecting their fat with warning boards and fences. I can't
manage the fiddling lies that keep up the whole silly pretence of the
stuffy show. If it gets much thicker," he had threatened, waving vaguely
toward the west, "I'll go out to the Ohio, or the French forts."

That this was not merely a passive but an active state of mind was amply
expressed by his resolute movement toward Thomas Gilkan's house. He had,
ordinarily, an unusual liking for the charcoal burners, and had spent
many nights in their huts, built, like the charring stacks, of mud and
branches. But, organized by Dan Hesa into an opposition, a criticism of
his choice of way, they offered an epitome of the conditions he derided
and assailed.

His feeling for Fanny Gilkan was in the greater part understood,
measured; there was a certain amount of inchoate, youthful response to