this place is: A graveyard for hopes!" Her voice was suddenly stronger. "That's what Jim Harris and all his kind are: murderers of hope! Worse than that, he killed my baby! Jim Harris," struggling to sit up. "If there ever was a man without heart or scruple, it's Jim Harris!" She sank back weakly and her fingers plucked at the quilt while she panted from the effort.
The color had gone from Helen Foraker's face then, and her brows were gathered in suffering. Her lips were set; she made no effort to speak. But once more she took the girl's hand and the cold fingers clutched hers desperately.
"We went to him when we saw the trick that had been played. He wouldn't give us back a cent—He was hard—He can be hard—He would listen, but he had so many answers, so many reasons—Legal reasons—He is so good-natured, seems to be so friendly! That is why he has this—awful success!
"Back to the land," she muttered after a pause. "Ah, such land! and if we had known, we could have gone north, just a few miles, into the hardwood cutover and made a go of it. We'd have had our cottage, our vine, our apple tree. We'd have had our baby, Thad and me—and we'd have had our hopes—our youth—And there's so much land for the land hungry; so much good land that weary city people might have if they only knew more—So much—I can't—I—"
She drew a hand across her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was little more than a whisper.
"And even this land is good for those who have vision, for men like your father must have been, for women like you, Helen. Timber! Timber as a crop! They all said you were a fool, and I believed them, until I saw—You
