e the same cheering answer: "Don't worry, everything is
going fine; in less than a month we'll be generating 'juice'." And Bruce
tried to find comfort in the assurance.

When Bruce pulled the lever which opened the valve, and heard the hiss
of the water when it shot from the nozzle and hit the wheel, and watched
the belt, and shaft, and big fly-wheel speed up until the spokes were a
blur and the breeze it created lifted his hair, it was the happiest
moment of his life. When he saw the thread of carbon filament in the
glass bulb turn red and grow to a bright, white light, he had something
of the feeling of ecstasy that he imagined a mother must have when she
looks at her first-born--a mixture of wonder and joy.

He had an odd, intimate feeling--a strong feeling of affection--for
every piece of machinery in the power-house. He liked to hear the squeak
of the belting and the steady chug-chug of the water-wheels; the purr of
the dynamos was music, and he kept the commutators free from dust with
loving care.

But these moments alone in the power-house were high-lights in a world
of shadows. His periods of elation were brief, for so many things went
wrong, and so often, that sometimes he wondered if it was the way some
guardian angel had of warning him, of trying to prevent him from keeping
on and making a big mistake bigger; or was it only the tests that the
Fates have a way of putting humans through and, failing to break their
hearts, sometimes let them win?

Important as the power-house was it was only a small portion of the
whole. There was still the 10-inch pump in the pump-house with its 75
horse-power motor and the donkey engine with the 50 horse-power motor to
get to working right, not to mention the flume and sluice-boxes, with
their variety of riffles and every practicable device for trapping the
elusive fine gold. And not the least of Bruce's increasing anxieties was
"Alf" Banule with his constant "good enough."

It was well toward the end of October and Bruce, hurrying over the trail
with sheets of mica for Banule, who was working on the submerged motor
which had to be rewound, noticed that the willows were turning black.
What a lot had happened since he had noticed the willows turning black
last year! A lifetime of hopes and fears, and new experiences had been
crowded into twelve flying months.

His mind straying for a moment from the work and its many problems, he
fell to thinking of Helen Dunbar and her l