ad stared wide-eyed, unseeing and uncomprehending, gazing down
the sun-streaked, green, lucent depths of an aisle in the forest. Bob
painted steadily on, moving his little seat nearer and nearer the
eaves. When noon and night came, he hung up his utensils very carefully,
washed up, and tramped to the rangers' camp, where he took his part in
the daily tasks, assumed his share of the conversation, entered into the
fun, and contributed his ideas toward the endless discussions. No one
noticed that he was in any way different from his ordinary self. But it
was as though some one outside of himself, in the outer circle of his
being, carried on these necessary and customary things. He, drawn apart,
watched by the shrine of his soul. He did nothing, either by thought or
effort--merely watched, patient and rapt, while foreordained and mighty
changes took place--

He reached the edge of the roof; stood on the ladder to finish the last
row of the riven shingles. Slowly his brush moved, finishing the cracks
deep down so that the principle of decay might never enter. Inside the
office Thorne sat dictating a letter to some applicant for privilege.
The principle was new in its interpretation, and so Thorne was choosing
his words with the greatest care. Swiftly before Bob's inner vision the
prospect widened. Thorne became a prophet speaking down the years; the
least of these men in a great new Service became the austere champions
of something high and beautiful. For one moment Bob dwelt in a
wonderful, breathless, vast, unreal country where heroic figures moved
in the importance of all the unborn future, dim-seen, half-revealed. He
drew his brush across the last shingle of all. Something seemed to
click. Swiftly the gates shut, the strange country receded into infinite
distance. With a rush like the sucking of water into a vacuum the
everyday world drew close. Bob, his faculties once more in their
accustomed seat, looked about him as one awakened. His hour was over.
The change had taken place.

Thorne was standing in the doorway with Amy, their dictation finished.

"All done?" said he. "Well, you did a thorough job. It's the kind that
will last."

"I'm right on deck when it comes to painting things red," retorted Bob.
"What next?"

"Next," said Thorne, "I want you to help one of the boys split some
cedar posts. We've got a corral or so to make."

Bob descended slowly from the ladder, balancing the remainder of the red
stain. Tho