fted a tie and felt the hard, splintering wood, he wondered
where it had come from, what kind of a tree it was, who had played in
its shade, how surely birds had nested in it and animals had grazed
beneath it. Between him and that square log of wood there was an
affinity. Somehow his hold upon it linked him strangely to a long past,
intangible spirit of himself. He must cling to it, lest he might lose
that illusive feeling. Then when he laid it down he felt regret fade
into a realization that the yellow-gravel road-bed also inspirited him.
He wanted to feel it, work in it, level it, make it somehow his own.

When he strode back for another load his magnifying eyes gloated over
the toilers in action--the rows of men carrying and laying rails, and
the splendid brawny figures of the spikers, naked to the waist, swinging
the heavy sledges. The blows rang out spang--spang--spang! Strong music,
full of meaning! When his turn came to be a spiker, he would love that
hardest work of all.

The engine puffed smoke and bumped the cars ahead, little by little as
the track advanced; men on the train carried ties and rails forward,
filling the front cars as fast as they were emptied; long lines of
laborers on the ground passed to and fro, burdened going forward,
returning empty-handed; the rails and the shovels and the hammers and
the picks all caught the hot gleam from the sun; the dust swept up in
sheets; the ring, the crash, the thump, the scrape of iron and wood and
earth in collision filled the air with a sound rising harshly above the
song and laugh and curse of men.

A shifting, colorful, strenuous scene of toil!

Gradually Neale felt that he was fitting into this scene, becoming a
part of it, an atom once more in the great whole. He doubted while
he thrilled. Clearly as he saw, keenly as he felt, he yet seemed
bewildered. Was he not gazing out at this construction work through
windows of his soul, once more painted, colored, beautiful, because the
most precious gift he might have prayed for had been given him--life and
hope for Allie Lee?

He did not know. He could not think.

His comrade, Pat, wiped floods of sweat from his scarlet face. "I'll be
domned if ye ain't a son-of-a-gun fer worrk!" he complained.

"Pat, we've been given the honor of pace-makers. They've got to keep up
with us. Come on," replied Neale.

"Be gad! there ain't a mon in the gang phwat'll trade fer me honor,
thin," declared Pat. "Fri'nd, I'd loik