On the day that Betty Jo typed the last page, and the book was ready for
the printers, the young woman went earlier than usual to the clearing
where Brian was at work. The sound of his ax reached her while she was
yet some distance away, and guided her to the spot where he was chopping
a big white oak.

Brian, with his eyes fixed on the widening cut at the base of the tree,
did not notice the girl, who stood watching him. She was smiling to
herself at his ignorance of her presence and in anticipation of the
moment when he should discover her, and there was in her eyes a look of
wholesome womanly admiration for the man who swung his ax with such easy
strength. In truth, Brian Kent at his woodman's labor made a picture not
at all unattractive.

Swiftly, the cut in the tree-trunk widened as the ax bit deeply at every
skilful stroke, and the chips flew about the chopper's feet. The acrid
odor of the freshly cut oak mingled with the woodland perfume. The
sun warmly flooded the clearing with its golden light, and, splashing
through the openings in the forest foliage, formed pools of yellow
beauty amid the dark, rich green of the shadowy undergrowth. The air was
filled with the sense of life, vital and real, and strong and beautiful.

And the young woman, as she stood smiling there, was keenly conscious
of it all. Most of all, perhaps, Betty Jo was conscious of the man, who
worked with such vigor at his manly task.

Slowly, accurately, the bright ax sank deeper and deeper into the heart
of the tree. The chips increased in scattered profusion. And then, as
Betty Jo watched, the swinging ax cut through the last fibre of the