In this wilderness, this vast region of forest and streams and wild
mountain ranges, men were infinitesimal specks hurrying here and there
about their self-appointed tasks. Those like himself and Doris, who
did not mind the privations inseparable from that remoteness, fared
well enough. The land held out to them manifold promises. Hollister
looked at the red-brown shingle bolts accumulating behind the
boom-sticks and felt that inner satisfaction which comes of success
achieved by plan and labor. If his mutilated face had been capable of
expression, it would have reflected pride, satisfaction. Out of the
apparent wreckage of his life he was laying the foundations of
something permanent, something abiding, an enduring source of good. He
would tangle his fingers in Doris' brown hair and feel glad.
Then perhaps his eyes would shift downstream to where Bland's stark,
weather-beaten cabin lifted its outline against the green thickets,
and he would think uneasily upon what insecure tenure, upon what
deliberate violation of law and of current morality he held his
dearest treasure.
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