kness swallowed them before the group on the veranda had caught
its breath. In a moment the voices about the cannon raised in greeting.
A swift play of question and answer shot back and forth. "Out all the
year?" "Where? Kabinikagam? Oh, yes, east of Brunswick Lake." "Good
trip?" "That's right." "Glad of it." Then the clamour rose, many
beseeching, one refusing. The year was done. These men had done a mighty
deed, and yet a few careless answers were all they had to tell of it.
The group, satisfied, were begging another song. And so, in a moment,
just as a year before, Dick's rich, husky baritone raised in the words
of the old melody. The circle was closed.

"_There was an old darky, and his name was Uncle Ned,
And he lived long ago, long ago--_"

The night hushed to silence. Even the wolves were still, and the
_giddes_ down at the Indian camp ceased their endless quarrelling.
Dick's voice had all the world to itself. The men on the Factory veranda
smoked, the disks of their cigars dulling and glowing. Galen Albret,
inscrutable, grim, brooded his unguessable thoughts. Virginia, in the
doorway, rested her head pensively against one arm outstretched against
the lintel.

"_For there's no more work for poor old Ned,
He's gone where the good darkies go_."

The song finished. There succeeded the great compliment of quiet.

To Virginia it was given to speak the concluding word of this episode.
She sighed, stretching out her arms.

"'The greatness of my people,'" she quoted softly.

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Silent Places, by Steward Edward White

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