"I don't think you're dull, Mr. Wade, but you can't understand what it meant to me when my child turned on me, spat in my face, and left me. It wasn't merely the bitterness of that one moment--the blistering memory of it goes to sleep with me and wakes up with me. It's with me in every look my daughter Elva gives me, though the poor child tries to hide from me that her old faith and trust have left her. I'm not going to whine, young man, but I'm in hell--in hell!" His voice broke weakly. Then there was silence in the room. Wade heard only the yell of the distant saws and the shuffle of the woodsmen's feet as they paced the big reception-hall of King Spruce. Between the two men there was too much understanding for empty words of sympathy. "Lane is dead," blurted the millionaire, at last. "What will become of the girl?" "MacLeod is to marry her. She nursed him through his sickness at Castonia; they love each other very sincerely, Mr. Barrett, and you need have no trouble about her future. Neither of them will ever trouble you; in fact, MacLeod asked me to say as much for him." Barrett was silent a long time, his gaze on the floor. He looked up at last, and his eyes shone as though a comforting thought had come to him. "There's one thing I can do. I've got money enough to make them independent for life. Be my agent in that, Mr. Wade, and--" "I have another message from MacLeod. I have grown to know the man pretty well, and you'd best take my advice. He says it will be dangerous business for any man to put out a hand to him with anything in it." "You mean they won't take a fortune when I am ready to hand it to them?" "I mean it, Mr. Barrett. There are strange notions among some of the folks of the big woods. Your money is of no use. I advise you frankly not to offer it. At any rate, I'll not insult MacLeod by being your messenger." The timber magnate whirled his chair and gazed away from Wade, looking into the depths of his big steel vault. At the end of a few minutes Wade spoke to him, but he did not reply. When the young man accosted him again, after a decent pause, Barrett spoke over his shoulder without turning his face. "The directors and myself will meet your party in the board-room across the hall in half an hour, Mr. Wade." It was not the voice of John Barrett. It was the thin, quavering tone of a man who was mourning, and wished to be left alone. Wade went quietly away. He was John Barrett once more when Wade saw him half an hour later at the head of the big table in the directors' room. All the board was there except Britt. The lumbermen whom Wade headed stood in solid phalanx at the foot of the room. There were no chairs for them. But they accepted this fact patiently.