Moira worked in the general office, and except upon occasions when Bryce desired to look at the books or Moira brought some document into the private office for his perusal, there were days during which his pleasant “Good morning, Moira,” constituted the extent of their conversation.  To John Cardigan, however, Moira was a ministering angel.  Gradually she relieved Bryce of the care of the old man.  She made a cushion for his easy-chair in the office; she read the papers to him, and the correspondence, and discussed with him the receipt and delivery of orders, the movements of the lumber-fleet, the comedies and tragedies of his people, which had become to him matters of the utmost importance.  She brushed his hair, dusted his hat, and crowned him with it when he left the office at nightfall, and whenever Bryce was absent in the woods or in San Francisco, it fell to her lot to lead the old man to and from the house on the hill.  To his starved heart her sweet womanly attentions were tremendously welcome, and gradually he formed the habit of speaking of her, half tenderly, half jokingly, as “my girl.”

Bryce had been absent in San Francisco for ten days.  He had planned to stay three weeks, but finding his business consummated in less time, he returned to Sequoia unexpectedly.  Moira was standing at the tall bookkeeping desk, her beautiful dark head bent over the ledger, when he entered the office and set his suitcase in the corner.

“Is that you, Mr. Bryce?” she queried.

“The identical individual, Moira.  How did you guess it was I?”

She looked up at him then, and her wonderful dark eyes lighted with a flame Bryce had not seen in them heretofore.  “I knew you were coming,” she replied simply.

“But how could you know?  I didn’t telegraph because I wanted to surprise my father, and the instant the boat touched the dock, I went overside and came directly here.  I didn’t even wait for the crew to run out the gangplank—­so I know nobody could have told you I was due.”

“That is quite right, Mr. Bryce.  Nobody told me you were coming, but I just knew, when I heard the Noyo whistling as she made the dock, that you were aboard, and I didn’t look up when you entered the office because I wanted to verify my—­my suspicion.”

“You had a hunch, Moira.  Do you get those telepathic messages very often?” He was crossing the office to shake her hand.

“I’ve never noticed particularly—­that is, until I came to work here.  But I always know when you are returning after a considerable absence.”  She gave him her hand.  “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Why?” he demanded bluntly.

She flushed.  “I—­I really don’t know, Mr. Bryce.”

“Well, then,” he persisted, “what do you think makes you glad?”

“I had been thinking how nice it would be to have you back, Mr. Bryce.  When you enter the office, it’s like a breeze rustling the tops of the Redwoods.  And your father misses you so; he talks to me a great deal about you.  Why, of course we miss you; anybody would.”