row before his eyes to the capacity
of two men. He saw him step forth from this aching begrimed shell into
a new physique as vibrant with fresh strength as a young mountaineer.
It was as startling a metamorphosis as though the man had been touched
with a magician's wand.

"Thank you," answered Donaldson on a deep intake of breath. "I shall
be glad to come."

"Drop your shovel then and come along now."

"No," he replied, as he dug his spade deep into the soil, "I can't quit
my job. The whistle blows at noon."

At noon! At the seventh noon, the whistle was to blow! He tossed the
weight of two ordinary shovelfuls of gravel into the cart as lightly as
a child tosses a bean bag.

[Illustration: _At noon! At the seventh noon, the whistle was to
blow!_]

Perceiving the uselessness of further argument Arsdale climbed out to
the bank, and, sitting on a big boulder, watched Donaldson with dazed
fascination. The foreman passed him once.

"May be cracked," he remarked, "but I 'd' take a hundred men, the likes
of him."

"You could n't find them on two continents," answered Arsdale.

The dog made overtures of friendship and he took him on his knee.

Donaldson never glanced up. With the precision of a machine he bent
over his shovel, lifted, and threw without pause. The men near him
looked askance at such unceasing labor.

In time, the foreman blew a shrill note on a whistle and as though he
had applied a brake connected with every man, the shovels dropped and
the motley gang scrambled for their dinner pails. Donaldson for the
first time then lifted his face to Arsdale. The seventh noon had come,
and never had a midday been ushered in to such a sweet note as the
foreman had blown on his penny whistle.

Donaldson, picking up his coat, made his way to the side of Arsdale,
who had risen to meet him with Sandy barking at his heels.

"I have only an hour," apologized Donaldson, "I 'm afraid I 'm hardly
in a condition to go into the house."

"You are n't coming back here?"

"Yes."

Once again Arsdale found his protest choked at his lips. What was the
use of talking to a man in such a stubborn mood as this? He led the
way to the house.

In the hall, he shouted up the stairs,

"Elaine, Peter Donaldson is here!"

The girl stepped from the library clutching the silken curtains. She
hesitated a moment at sight of him and then faltering forward, offered
her hand.

"I 'm glad you came back," she said.

H