sombrely.
Her eyes danced, and she smiled derisively.
âWhy, Mr. Hargroves, how you
do
talk! Iâm only going into businessânot into a tragic love affair or something equally silly.â
Jim ignored that as it deserved.
âYou seem a nice youngster, and I suppose you bought the poor old
Journal
for peanuts. Just the same, youâve been
had
, my girl! Even if you got it for a dollar and two bits, youâve been
had
!â
âThatâs kind of youâI suppose.â Her tone admitted some slight doubt. âBut itâs too late to back out now, even if I wanted to, which I donât. Iâve bought the paper; Iâve ordered new equipment; Iâm here andâwell, Iâm rather a determined sort of a person, Mr. Hargroves.â
âI had gathered that impression,â he responded dryly.
âSo couldnât we just face it that I wonât be scared off, and go on from there?â she added coolly.
âScared off?â Oddly enough, that seemed to annoy him as nothing else she could have said. âDid I give you the impression I was trying to frighten you?â
âWell, you certainly were not encouraging.â
âSorry. I didnât intend to try to frighten you. Though telling a woman the bitter truth is, I suppose, attempting to frighten her.â
Shelley let him have the last word, because by now the car had left the highway and was winding through a narrow unpaved road that wound through scrub-pine and underbrush, until suddenly ahead of them there was a view that made Shelley catch her breath in sharp delight.
The road was thick with resinous dry pine-needles. Stretching away on either side were tall, stately pines, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of them, in neat, orderly rows, their giant tops murmurous with the wind that was so slight Shelley could scarcely feel it. The air was spicy with sunshine hot on the green needles of the lifted tree-tops, and from the fragrance of the dry needles beneath them and strewing the road. Several feet up from the ground, she saw that each tree wore a broad, oddly shaped gash, and beneath each gash a brown cup had been wired in place to catch the thick, whitish resinous sap as it dripped slowly, steadily.
She lifted her enchanted face and closed her eyes, the better to hear the soft, murmurous sighing in the tops of the trees.
âWind in the pines,â she whispered, forgetful of everything except the keen delight of this old, old memory made real and new again. âI love it! Itâs the loveliest sound in all the world, the most beautiful music ever composed.â
Jim looked down at her, puzzled.
âYouâve lived in the pine country before?â he asked.
âWhen I was a child,â she answered, and then set her teeth hard. More cautiously, after only the slightest moment of hesitation, she went on lightly, âI love pines. Theyâre so dependable. Theyâre always green and fresh-looking, even when theyâre half buried beneathsnow.â
It sounded lame and she flushed a little beneath his look, then turned her head away and gazed through tear-misted eyes at the beloved, remembered pines.
Jim said nothing and they drove on, until finally the narrow winding road widened and ahead there was a house or two; neat frame, carefully enclosed behind none too steady fences that were obviously meant to keep out the wandering pigs and chickens and an occasional cow, and not merely for beauty.
They came at last to a small brick building, closed and deserted for so long that it had a forlorn, unhappy look. Beyond it at the left there was a neat four-room house, built of pine and never painted. It, too, wore a deserted, sad look like the small brick building.
Jim stopped the car in front of the building and gestured toward it.
âOn your right,â he said in the dry tone of a big-city tour-conductor, âyou will observe the plant of the
Harbour Pines Journal
,
Her eyes danced, and she smiled derisively.
âWhy, Mr. Hargroves, how you
do
talk! Iâm only going into businessânot into a tragic love affair or something equally silly.â
Jim ignored that as it deserved.
âYou seem a nice youngster, and I suppose you bought the poor old
Journal
for peanuts. Just the same, youâve been
had
, my girl! Even if you got it for a dollar and two bits, youâve been
had
!â
âThatâs kind of youâI suppose.â Her tone admitted some slight doubt. âBut itâs too late to back out now, even if I wanted to, which I donât. Iâve bought the paper; Iâve ordered new equipment; Iâm here andâwell, Iâm rather a determined sort of a person, Mr. Hargroves.â
âI had gathered that impression,â he responded dryly.
âSo couldnât we just face it that I wonât be scared off, and go on from there?â she added coolly.
âScared off?â Oddly enough, that seemed to annoy him as nothing else she could have said. âDid I give you the impression I was trying to frighten you?â
âWell, you certainly were not encouraging.â
âSorry. I didnât intend to try to frighten you. Though telling a woman the bitter truth is, I suppose, attempting to frighten her.â
Shelley let him have the last word, because by now the car had left the highway and was winding through a narrow unpaved road that wound through scrub-pine and underbrush, until suddenly ahead of them there was a view that made Shelley catch her breath in sharp delight.
The road was thick with resinous dry pine-needles. Stretching away on either side were tall, stately pines, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of them, in neat, orderly rows, their giant tops murmurous with the wind that was so slight Shelley could scarcely feel it. The air was spicy with sunshine hot on the green needles of the lifted tree-tops, and from the fragrance of the dry needles beneath them and strewing the road. Several feet up from the ground, she saw that each tree wore a broad, oddly shaped gash, and beneath each gash a brown cup had been wired in place to catch the thick, whitish resinous sap as it dripped slowly, steadily.
She lifted her enchanted face and closed her eyes, the better to hear the soft, murmurous sighing in the tops of the trees.
âWind in the pines,â she whispered, forgetful of everything except the keen delight of this old, old memory made real and new again. âI love it! Itâs the loveliest sound in all the world, the most beautiful music ever composed.â
Jim looked down at her, puzzled.
âYouâve lived in the pine country before?â he asked.
âWhen I was a child,â she answered, and then set her teeth hard. More cautiously, after only the slightest moment of hesitation, she went on lightly, âI love pines. Theyâre so dependable. Theyâre always green and fresh-looking, even when theyâre half buried beneathsnow.â
It sounded lame and she flushed a little beneath his look, then turned her head away and gazed through tear-misted eyes at the beloved, remembered pines.
Jim said nothing and they drove on, until finally the narrow winding road widened and ahead there was a house or two; neat frame, carefully enclosed behind none too steady fences that were obviously meant to keep out the wandering pigs and chickens and an occasional cow, and not merely for beauty.
They came at last to a small brick building, closed and deserted for so long that it had a forlorn, unhappy look. Beyond it at the left there was a neat four-room house, built of pine and never painted. It, too, wore a deserted, sad look like the small brick building.
Jim stopped the car in front of the building and gestured toward it.
âOn your right,â he said in the dry tone of a big-city tour-conductor, âyou will observe the plant of the
Harbour Pines Journal
,