How's your
husband?"

"Splendid."

"Well, you're the only untroubled pair I've heard of to-day. My
husband's in a frightful temper because he didn't sell our land six
months ago. He says we'll never sell it now, but I'm just as glad. Is
the whole thing going to break up?" Mrs. Bowers swung her parasol toward
the rapids.

"I--I don't really know anything about it," said the little woman with a
touch of nervousness from which she recovered instantly, then, smiling,
"perhaps I'll come over to-morrow."

"Do, there's a heap to talk about, and smile like that just as long as
you can--the town needs it."

She walked on, her mind very busy. Without question something excellent
had happened to the Mansons--and in a time like this! Manson was said to
be in the way of making a fortune, and now, she concluded, he had made
it. There was no other explanation for an expression like his wife's
when such grim rumors were abroad. A little later she told Mrs. Worden,
and both the judge and Bowers heard of it, and next day the story reached
a dozen houses in St. Marys. The constable, it was said, for all his
pessimism, had been sharper than Clark himself.

But Manson was only a leaf picked up by the edge of the storm in which
Clark sat, its unapproachable center. The telegram compiled by Birch and
signed by Wimperley, as president, was on his desk, just as the secretary
had laid it before he went silently out, unable to meet the mystifying
glance of those gray eyes. Clark had never moved nor looked up, nor did
he till half an hour later, when he dictated a notice to be posted
throughout the works. "_All operations will temporarily cease this night
at six o'clock. Employees will be notified when to apply for their
wages, which will shortly be paid in full. The accounting staff will
remain at duty._" His voice was level and absolutely expressionless.
Then he went out, and, taking the broad trail to the rapids, seated
himself a few minutes later in a well remembered place.

The moments lengthened into hours and still he did not move. The sun
showed its red disc through the lattice girders of the great bridge, and
touched the flashing waters into gold. It was seven years since he had
sat here first, and he looked expectantly about for the crested
kingfisher. The voice of the river seemed unusually loud, and there was
no drone from the works. He began to go over it all, but, desisting from
sheer inability, pitched