It was after dark before Abner Pickett came home. Dannie had waited long for him at the gate, his loneliness and anxiety increasing as the minutes went by. He knew, from long experience, what to expect when his grandfather should learn about the railroad survey through the gap and the graveyard. He sincerely hoped that he would learn about it before he reached home. Not that he, himself, stood in fear of his grandfather, very far from that; but he dreaded to be the bearer to him of evil tidings. Nevertheless it was with a long sigh of relief that he recognized the familiar sound of the rattling buckboard as it came up out of the darkness to his ears. Ten minutes later Abner Pickett drove up to the gate.

“Hello, Gran’pap!”

“Hello, Dan! Out rather late, ain’t you?”

“Waitin’ for you, Gran’pap.”

“Well, I’m here, an’ glad to get here. How’d things go to-day? Gabriel get the potatoes all out? Have a good time at school, Dan?”

It was evident that he had not heard about the railroad, or he certainly would not have been in this cheerful frame of mind. After mature deliberation Dannie decided that it would not be advisable to break the news to him until after he had eaten his supper.

Gabriel came out to help carry the parcels into the house and put away the team.

“I got the suspenders for you, Dan—red in the middle, with sky-blue edges an’ pink posies on the end. How does that strike you, eh?”

“Thank you, Gran’pap. They’re very nice, I’m sure.”

They all went out to the barn with the team. Abner Pickett liked to see, for himself, that his horses were well taken care of. He seldom came from town in a more cheerful mood than that which possessed him to-night. Everything had gone his way during the day, and that fact was clearly reflected in his manner and conversation. When he went into the feed-room after the oats, taking the lantern with him, Gabriel took the opportunity to pull Dannie’s sleeve, and ask in a ghostly whisper:—

“Ain’t heerd about it, has ’e?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Who’s a-goin’ to tell ’im?”

“Can’t you?”

“Not on your life! Wouldn’t do it fer the hull farm—live-stock throwed in. He’d light onto me like a thousan’ o’ brick. ‘Discretion is the better part o’ valor when theys a job to lose,’ ez ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to say.”

“Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to. Thought I’d wait till after he’s had his supper. Wouldn’t you?”

“Great scheme! ‘A full stummick is twin brother to a big heart,’ ez ol’ Isra’l—’sh! ’sh!”

Abner Pickett came back from the feed-room with a measure brimming full with oats, and divided the grain carefully between the two horses, talking in the meantime in the most cheerful manner of the work on the farm, and of the incidents of his trip to town.

When the task at the barn was finished, they all went back to the house, and the old man sat down alone to the supper saved for him by Aunt Martha. Afterward he joined Dannie and Gabriel on the side porch. The smoke from his pipe curled up through the warm, still air, and floated about among the rafters of the ceiling.

“Ain’t it about time you went to bed, Dannie?” he asked gently, lifting his feet to a resting-place on the porch railing.

“I thought I’d stay up a bit yet, Gran’pap; it’s so warm an’ pleasant to-night.”

“Well, I don’t mind if you do.”

After that there was silence for a time. Then there was the sound of a footstep on the walk, and a man came up out of the darkness. It was David Brown, the next neighbor to the west.

“Heard you were down to the river to-day, Mr. Pickett,” he said. “Wanted to see you a minute. Thought I wouldn’t disturb you till after you’d had your supper.”

“Just finished. Glad to see you. Come up on the stoop, David, and have a chair.”

Mr. Brown accepted the invitation very willingly.

“Thought I’d run down for a minute,” he continued, “and ask about the new railroad. Thought maybe you might ’a’ heard something about it down to the river.”

“What new railroad, David?”

“Why, the Delaware Valley and Eastern, I believe they call it. I noticed they were pointing pretty straight for my place when they quit to-night.”

“I don’t quite understand. Has there been more talk about railroads?”

Mr. Brown turned to Dannie.

“Haven’t you told your grandfather about it yet?” he asked.

“Not yet,” stammered Dannie. “I—I was just going to when you came.”

Gabriel left the chair in which he was sitting next his employer, and went down and seated himself on the porch steps. Abner Pickett took his pipe from his mouth, and, grasping it firmly in the fingers of his right hand, looked questioningly from one member of the group to another.

“Well,” he said at last, “why don’t somebody speak? Are you all struck dumb? What is it about the railroad, Dannie?”

“Why, Gran’pap, they—the surveyors you know—they—they—”

“Well?”

“Whacked their stakes in regardless—” broke in Gabriel, in his intense anxiety to help Dannie out.

Abner Pickett turned on him savagely:—

“Shut up, you fool!” he commanded. “Go on, Dannie.”

“Well, they ran a railroad line up through the gap an’ stopped at the upper end of the potato lot.”

It was out at last, much to Dannie’s relief. When Abner Pickett spoke again, his voice was as quiet and steady as though he were discussing nothing of greater moment than crops or cattle.

“Do it to-day, did they?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Dannie, “to-day.”

“Set their stakes?”

“Yes, set their stakes.”

“Anything done to prevent ’em?”

“Why, no. I couldn’t do anything. I told ’em that they would never build their railroad, though.”

“Laughed at you, didn’t they?”

Dannie’s cheeks flushed with mortification and anger as he recalled his interview with the engineer.

“Why, yes, they did; but I told ’em—”

“No matter what you told ’em; was anything done?”

The rising inflection in the old man’s voice warned his hearers that he was no longer able to smother the fires of anger kindled in his breast.

“Nothing, Gran’pap. There were seven of them.”

Again, in his anxiety to come to Dannie’s assistance, Gabriel broke in:—

“I told ’em that ef Abner Pickett was there, he—”

“Shut up, you fool!”

Gabriel obeyed his employer’s command without a word of comment. The silence which followed was broken by David Brown.

“Just thought I’d come over, Mr. Pickett, and inquire. Didn’t know but maybe you might know what they were paying for right of way.”

The old man straightened himself in his chair.

“Right o’ way!” he exclaimed scornfully; “right o’ way! They don’t pay for it; they steal it. They pick out the best land you’ve got, set their stakes on it, an’ call it theirs. They’re thieves an’ robbers, an’ cowards as well. Yes, cowards! Else why did they wait all summer to pick out a day when I was away from home an’ nobody on the premises but a thirteen year old boy an’ a blamed fool of a hired man. Oh! if I’d ’a’ been here, I’d ’a’ told ’em where to set their stakes!”

He rose to his full six feet two inches, straight as a pine tree, his neck and face crimson with anger, his blue eyes flashing fire. Neighbor Brown arose and moved awkwardly down the steps.

“Guess I’ll have to be going, Mr. Pickett,” he said. “Thought I’d just run over an’ see—an’ see if there was any news from the river.”

But Abner Pickett had a parting shot to fire.

“Mind what I tell you, David Brown. If they’re a-pointing toward your place, the only way to protect your rights is to set on your line fence with a shot-gun in your hands. The law won’t help you, an’ compensation for the right o’ way is nothin’ more nor less than an insult. There’s my advice to you. Take it, or let it alone, as you like.”

After David Brown had gone, the old man grew somewhat calmer. He took two or three turns up and down the porch, and then resumed his seat.

“Strike into the potato field, did they?” he asked of Dannie.

“Yes,” was the reply; “went up through the west end of it, far as the big rock.”

“Where else did they go?”

“Why, they cut across the corner of the meadow lot, an’ below that they run through—”

“Well?”

“Through—oh, Gran’pap!”

The old man rose slowly to his feet again, as if impelled thereto by a dreadful thought.

“Dannie—the graveyard?”

“Yes, Gran’pap.”

The clay pipe which Abner Pickett had been smoking broke into a dozen pieces beneath the pressure of his clenched hand, and fell rattling to the floor. It was a full minute before he asked the next question.

“Dannie, how near—how near the grave?”

“Halfway between it and the road, Gran’pap.”

They were all three standing now; and Aunt Martha, attracted by the unusual sound of their voices, had come to see if anything was wrong, and stood listening in the doorway. The old man spoke slowly, but with terrible emphasis.

“It is sacrilege. It is not only ignoring the rights o’ the living, it is violating the rights o’ the dead. No better deed could be done by any one than to pull their accursed stakes from the ground and fling ’em, one and all, into the water of the brook!”

He walked slowly across the porch and into the house; but before he had gone half-way through the kitchen he turned and came back to the door.

“Dannie,” he asked, “what kind of a lookin’ man was the engineer?”

“A short man, Gran’pap, with black eyes an’ hair.”

The old man gave a sigh of relief, but he was not yet quite satisfied.

“Was there only one of ’em?” he asked.

“Why, there was another engineer at the other instrument.”

“An’ how did he look?”

“Oh! he was tall an’ had red cheeks an’ blue eyes an’ light hair, hadn’t he, Gabriel?”

“Gabriel, who was it? Speak!”

Abner Pickett had turned upon Gabriel and made his demand so abruptly, so savagely, that the man was almost too frightened to reply.

“Why—why—” he stammered.

“Well, speak! speak! speak!”

“Why, I don’t rightly know, Mr. Pickett. I wa’n’t payin’ no attention to that one. I was lookin’ at the other one; the little one with black whiskers, the smart one, the—”

“Didn’t you see the other one at all? Don’t you know who it was? Hadn’t you ever seen ’im before? Speak!”

“Why, Mr. Pickett, as I was tellin’ ye, I didn’t pay no partic’ler attention to that one. I was—”

“You fool!”

The old man loosed his grip on the handle of the door, strode across the kitchen, and disappeared into the shadows of his own bedroom. After that, for many minutes, there was silence between Dannie and Gabriel. The hired man was the first to speak.

“Well, as ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to say, ‘Betwixt the fool an’ the philosopher, the fool’s the happiest.’ I shan’t lose no sleep to-night; he will. Come, Dannie, it’s high time fer both of us to foller his example an’ turn in.”

As he finished speaking, he passed through the open door, across the kitchen, and up the steep staircase to his own room.

Then Aunt Martha came out to where Dannie still stood on the porch, and laid her hand lovingly on his head.

“Gabriel’s right,” she said, “it’s time you were in bed.”

“Yes, I know; but isn’t it terrible, Aunt Martha?”

“It’s unfortunate, Dannie. But he had to know it; and the sooner, the better. You know how he is; and he’ll be partly over it by morning. But he’s very good to you, Dannie, very good.”

“Yes, Aunt Martha, he is. My father couldn’t have been better to me. Where is my father, Aunt Martha?”

She was not his aunt. He had no aunt, nor uncle either, for that matter. But she had taken him in her arms when his mother died, and she had nursed him in sickness, and fed him in health, and cared for him constantly; and she was just as proud of this rugged and manly boy as ever his own mother could have been. She could have answered the boy’s question. She and she only could have given him the information he desired. For, through all the years, she had kept in touch with Charlie Pickett. She had written letters to him at midnight, and mailed them secretly, telling him of his child’s health and growth and prosperity. But she did not dare to tell this boy what she knew; she dared only to tell him what she hoped.

“He’s somewhere in the wide world, dearie. Sometime, I hope, he’ll come back to us.”

And yet she felt, in her heart, that her “sometime” would not be until Abner Pickett’s tongue was forever still.

“Why did he go away? Was Gran’pap unkind to him? Tell me that, Aunt Martha.”

“Oh, no! I can’t tell you that. I can’t set myself up as a judge between those two. But it’ll all come out right in the end, Dannie; I’m sure of that; it always does. It’s for you and me to do just the very best we can, and not worry ourselves about things we can’t help. Try to do that, Dannie. You’re a brave boy, and I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, Aunt Martha!”

Again the boy’s attempt to learn something about his father had been foiled, as it had been so often before. He sank down into the porch chair despairingly, and leaned his head on his hand. The full moon, riding gloriously in the eastern sky, shone upon his face and revealed the tears upon his cheeks. In spite of the good woman’s counsel he could not yet repress the longing of his heart.

“I want him so, Aunt Martha!” he exclaimed. “I want him so! If he was dead, as my mother is, I’d never think of it. But somewhere he’s living, and I can’t get to him, and he won’t come to me, and no one will tell me why, and there’s such a mystery about it all. Oh, I can’t understand it!”

Aunt Martha dropped to her knees beside his chair and drew his head down to her shoulder.

“There, there!” she said soothingly, “never mind! It’ll all end happily, I know. You’re tired to-night, and it’s very late. Come, go to bed now, that’s a good boy. Things’ll look brighter in the morning.”

So, with gentle words, she led him to his room, gave him a tender good-night, and then went about her duties, one of those sweet souls that love to smooth out the hard places on life’s pathway for the tender feet of others. Thank Heaven that they live!

Dannie went to bed, but not to sleep. He could not forget his grandfather’s mighty anger; and the old man’s declaration, made with such terrible emphasis, kept ringing in his ears, “No better deed could be done by any one than to pull their accursed stakes from the ground and fling ’em, one and all, into the water of the brook.”

After a while he rose and looked out of the window. The country was flooded with moonlight. The woods and fields were bathed in it. The willows that marked the sinuous course of the brook were transformed into shivering masses of silver. The public road, leading to the west, wound, luminously gray, through the meadow and under the trees. Black, in the shadowed face of the ridge, lay the mouth of the gap, and white and clear-cut against it shone out the marble column that marked the sacred grave. Dannie imagined that he could almost see the line of stakes set by the engineers, starting at the big rock in the potato field, cutting down by the corner of the meadow, across the road, through the graveyard, and into the gap. He wondered how long it would be before the railroad would be built, before the trains would be rolling by, before the greensward of the burial place would be cut and slashed and torn by the picks and spades of workmen, before the graves themselves would tremble and shrink beneath the strain and stress of ponderous engines and thundering trains. The thing was too dreadful to contemplate. And again, more clear, more distinct, more impressive than ever, the words of Abner Pickett rang through his mind, “No better deed could be done by any one than to pull their accursed stakes from the ground and fling ’em, one and all, into the water of the brook.”

Then there came into his mind a thought that, all in a moment, set his heart throbbing tumultuously, and his breast heaving with excitement. Well, why not? Abner Pickett had declared that no better deed could be done by any one. If that were true, was not Abner Pickett’s grandson the one to do it? And if it were to be done, could there be a more favorable time in which to do it than this glorious moonlight night? If, when the morning dawned, those hated stakes had disappeared, would not Abner Pickett be again in possession of every right in his own land, with the power to keep it; and would not the insult to the dead be properly avenged?

The more Dannie thought of the scheme, the more firmly it took possession of his mind, the more thoroughly he became convinced that it was right and just for him to carry out the desire so forcibly expressed by his grandfather. From the very nature of the enterprise it was apparent to him that he could take no one into his confidence. Whatever was done must be done by him alone. And there was no time to lose. He began, mechanically, to put on his clothes, and finished the task in nervous haste. He crept down the stairs in his stocking feet, with his shoes in his hand, found his cap, slid back the bolt on the hall door, and passed out on the front porch. Max, the dog, came from the woodhouse, barking softly, and, leaping up on him, tried to lick his face.

“Down, old fellow, down! No, you can’t go. Back to your box; back!”

He led the way back to the woodhouse, ordered the dog to his bed again, found his own hatchet, and then passed hurriedly down the path to the gate. Once in the road, he began to run, and did not stop till he had reached the fence marking the western limit of the potato field. He climbed hastily over and began to hunt for the last stake set by the surveyors. When he found it he loosened it with two blows of his hatchet, pulled it from the ground, and started back to find the next one. This also he removed, and kept on down the line, treating all stakes in his course in the same way. When he crossed the road and came to the border of the brook he threw his armful of stakes into the water and, standing there triumphantly, he saw them float away. Then he climbed over the stone wall and entered the graveyard. He found the stake set in the centre of the plot, pulled it from its fastening in the greensward, and flung it gleefully after the others. He felt that he had now given this cherished half-acre again wholly into the possession of his grandfather, and that he had, so far as in him lay, avenged the insult to the dead.

But he did not stop here. He had no thought of doing so. He was flushed with his triumph, and the spirit of destruction was aflame in his breast. Following down the line of survey, he drew stake after stake from the yielding soil, and consigned them all to the mercy of the stream. Already he had entered the gap. The full moon that shone down between the precipitous walls of the gorge made the road that wound along the base of the northerly cliff almost as light as day. For half a mile there was scarcely room for the road and the brook to pass through, so narrow was the space between the towering heights on either side. Some of the stakes indeed were set in the bed of the stream, while others encroached on the travelled track of the highway. Some of them, in the shadow of rock or tree or bush, Dannie had to search to find. But not one escaped his vigilance—not one. And when, at last, he emerged from the gap and came out on the eastern face of the ridge that flanked the Delaware, he had not left a mark or a monument behind him to indicate that a corps of engineers had ever passed that way.

Here the road forks; one branch going to the north and reaching Port Lenox, the up-river town, the other descending rapidly to the village of Fisher’s Eddy on the south. But the brook, unchecked, goes straight on, down the rugged hillside, churned into foam, dashed into spray, leaping from rock to rock, losing itself at last in the slow-moving flood of the Delaware. Dannie stood for a moment looking out over the broad valley and the shining river, and down at the few twinkling lights of the village to the south. Then he turned again to his yet uncompleted task. The line of survey followed the public road to the north, keeping somewhat above it in its descent, and for nearly half a mile farther the boy had no trouble in finding the stakes, tearing them from their beds and flinging them down the steep declivity into the tangle of rocks and brushwood below. When he had gone to the limit of his grandfather’s land, he stopped and turned back. He was tired. He did not know how late it might be. He felt that he must hurry home. So he hastened up the road, along the easterly face of the hillside now falling into shadow, and entered the mouth of the gorge. Between the great rock faces, now bright in the moonlight, now dark in the shade, he trudged wearily. When he was halfway through the glen, he heard the sound of voices ahead of him. He stood still and listened. Men were talking in subdued tones. There was a splash in the water, the crackling of dry brush, the tapping of wood as though some one were driving stakes, the clinking of steel as though a chain were being dragged along the ground. Then, from behind a projecting ledge, a man advanced into the moonlight, and, before Dannie, in his surprise and fear, could either speak or run, the light of a lantern was flashed into his face.