d turned in for the night that it occurred to him
that he had not asked whom Dorothy was engaged to. What did he care, any
way? he said to himself. He had gambled away his chances long ago. Yet,
Good Heavens, how dear she was! As he lay on the ground, outside the
little lean-to, staring up at the stars that glittered in the thin air
with what is called, at lower altitudes, a frosty brilliance, he seemed
to see her before him more plainly than he had ever done in the old days
when they had stood face to face. He had been too self-absorbed, too
blinded and bewildered with the urgency of his own case, to see her as
she really was. He remembered now,--something that he had never thought
about before,--the little toss of her hair, up from her forehead, which
was different from the way other girls wore their hair. It made a little
billow there, that was like her free spirit. Yes, she had always had a
free spirit. Perhaps it was the claim of ownership he had made, which
had repelled her so strongly. As well set up a claim of ownership over
those stars up there!

He tried to hope that the other fellow was man enough to deserve her;
but that was beyond his magnanimity. The only way to bear it, for the
present at least, was to leave the "other fellow" out of the question.
He was glad he did not know his name. And all night long, as he watched
the stars, their slow, imperceptible progress marked only by the
intervening tree-twigs, Dorothy's face was fairly visible to him, her
voice came to him distinct as an echo; her sweet, free nature unfolded
itself to his awakened consciousness.

Since then he had worked as if his life had depended upon it, and now,
after those ten days of fierce labor, his "job" was almost done. He had
worked his way well up into the canon, quite to the end of the distance
contracted for. A few days more would complete the job. He thought, with
a pang of regret, that his lines would never again fall in such glorious
places. He knew the canon by heart; he had seen it in every phase of its
summer beauty, by day and by night, in sunshine and in storm, and now
the autumn had come and the sensitive green of the aspens had turned to
yellow. They gleamed along the brook-side; they showed like an outcrop
of gold on the wall of rock over there, and in among the blue-green
pines; their yellow leaves strewed the ground on which he stood. It was
eight o'clock in the morning, and he was about to do his last blasting.
The