"We're playfellows to-day, and I can't fall
in love till to-morrow!" The last words she lilted mockingly, flashing a
look backward at Dennis Kavanagh.
The old man did not shift his attitude, fingers curved to clutch, arms
extended, until he heard the tattoo of their horses' hoofs on the long
bridge.
"Maybe Brian Boru might have been proud of her for a daughter," he
muttered, as he trudged back up the steps, "but I'll be dammed if I know
whether I am or not!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE MANTLE OF THELISMER THORNTON
The fire on the Jo Quacca hills was checked at nightfall. Two hundred
beaters and trenchers managed to fight it back and hold it in leash to
feed on the slash of the timber operation. But, like a tiger confined in
its cage, it had reached out through its bars and claimed victims. Three
stands of farm buildings were in ruins.
Harlan Thornton, sooty and weary, left the fire-line as soon as he knew
that the monster had been subdued. He rode about to reassure the owners
that their losses would be made up by himself and his grandfather.
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