He was sure he could make furniture that would appear quite as well as the mission pieces he admired on display in the store windows of the city.

To him, chairs and tables made from trees that grew on land that had belonged for three generations to his ancestors, trees among which he had grown, played, and worked, trees that were so much his friends that he carefully explained the situation to them before using an ax or saw, trees that he had cut, cured, and fashioned into designs of his own, would make vastly more valuable furnishings in his home than anything that could be purchased in the city.
As he drove back and forth he watched constantly for her.

He was working so desperately, planning far ahead, doubling and trebling tasks, trying to do everything his profession demanded in season, and to prepare timber and make plans for the new cabin, as well as to start a pair of candlesticks of marvellous design for her, that night was one long, unbroken sleep of the thoroughly tired man, but day had become a delightful dream.
He fed the chickens to produce eggs for her.

He gathered barks and sluiced roots on the raft in the lake, for her.

He grubbed the spice thicket before the door and moved it into the woods to make space for a lawn, for her.