It was strange to Denzil that the lumber-king, short, thin, careless in
his clothes but singularly clean in his person, should have a son so
little like himself, and also so little like his mother. He, Denzil, was
a Catholic, and he could not understand a man like John Grier who, being
a member of the Episcopal Church, so seldom went to service and so defied
rules of conduct suitable to his place in the world.
As for the girl, to him she was the seventh wonder of the earth. Wantonly
alive, dexterously alert to all that came her way, sportive, indifferent,
joyous, she had all the boy's sprightliness, but none of his weaknesses.
She was a born tease; she loved bright and beautiful things; she was a
keen judge of human nature, and she had buoyant spirits, which, however,
were counterbalanced by moments of extreme timidity, or, rather, reserve
and shyness. On a day like this, when everything in life was singing, she
must sing too. Not a mile away was a hut by the river where her father
had brought his family for the summer's fishing; not a half-mile away was
a tent which Carnac Grier's father had set up as he passed northward on
his tour of inspection. This particular river, and this particular part
of the river, were trying to the river-man and his clans.
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