“Who are you?” demanded the man with the lantern, “and what are you doing here at this time o’ night?”

Dannie was too much frightened to answer at once, and he began to back away.

“Stand still!” commanded the man. “No one’s going to hurt you. I simply want to know who you are and where you are going.”

“I—I’m going home,” faltered Dannie.

A voice came from out the shadows up the road.

“What’s the matter down there, John?”

“I don’t know,” replied John. “Here’s a boy with a hatchet, alone. Looks suspicious, very.”

“Tell him to stay where he is till I get there. Go ahead now and give me a point to turn on.”

“You hear him?” said John to Dannie. “You stand right there by that rock, and don’t you move an inch till he comes up.”

The man with the lantern had an engineer’s signal pole. He was followed by an axeman with stakes. They went ahead some fifty feet, and, with pole and lantern, under the direction of the transitman back in the darkness, located a point and drove a stake.

It did not take Dannie long to comprehend that this was another surveying party, making a night survey through the gap. It was a strange thing to do—very strange. He could not understand the purpose of it at all. Did these people know of the afternoon survey? Did they know of his night work of destruction? And if they did, would they make him suffer for it? The situation was as uncomfortable for Dannie as it was mysterious. But he had scant time to revolve these questions in his mind before the transitman and his attendant came hurrying down to where the boy was standing.

A tall, fine-looking fellow this transitman was; but the moonlight, or possibly excitement or fatigue, threw a pallor across his face, and in his penetrating eyes there was a look of anxiety or trouble.

“How is this, my boy?” he said. “What are you doing here? Tell me quickly. I haven’t time to parley.”

But Dannie had no mind to give him the desired information.

He had grown suddenly fearful of the consequences of his deed of destruction. He was not untruthful about it, though.

“I had rather not tell you, sir,” he replied frankly.

“Very well, I shall not oblige you to,” said the man. “But, under these circumstances, I will have to detain you. Morris,” addressing the head chainman, “keep this boy with you. Don’t let him give any signals, and don’t let him escape. We’ll dispose of him later. Too much depends on this night’s work to take any risks with strangers. Come along, James!”

He shouldered his transit, and, followed by his attendant, started rapidly ahead. Dannie, under the eye of the head chainman, walked on down the road. The axemen had already gone forward to clear the way, and the rodman and leveller were following close behind.

It was a unique task, this location of a railroad route in the night-time. But, aided by the bright moonlight and the glare of lamps for signals, it became not only possible of performance, but perfectly practicable.

Slowly the line of stakes stretched out, following, with almost minute exactness, the route surveyed in the afternoon.

Indeed, there was room in the gap but for one railroad, and the second survey had, of necessity, to take practically the same course as the first.

As Dannie walked along in the company of the head chainman, it became apparent to him that these men did not know of the survey made by the corps of engineers in the afternoon; much less did they know of his work of obliteration. The serious results of that work began also to weigh more deeply on him. A hundred questions arose in his mind. If the line of stakes set in the afternoon were still standing, would these men be here setting theirs to-night? And when they learned that a prior survey had been made, what would they do? And if any one should ever know that he, Dannie Pickett, had destroyed that line of stakes, what would happen then to him? And of what avail was it, anyway, to wipe out the marks of one location only to have the stakes of another spring up in their places scarcely an hour later? But with all his questioning he could decide upon but one thing, and that was that under any circumstances he must keep his own counsel and reveal nothing.

At last the end of the gap was reached, but the railroad route was located for yet another thousand feet down the north slope of the hill.

“There is plenty of room here,” said the transitman, finally; “there is no object in going farther to-night. We’re safely through the gap. We’re first through the gap, and the gap route is ours by right of prior location.”

Dannie recalled the exultant declaration, made under similar circumstances, by the engineer who conducted the afternoon survey. Surely the plot was thickening.

“You might step down the road a bit, John,” added the transitman, “while we are getting the things together here, and see if you can find any trace of the D. V. and E. people. Nicholson should have ended his survey somewhere near here last evening if he had good luck.”

Ten minutes later John returned and reported that he had found the D. V. and E. stakes about three hundred feet farther down the road, where the party had evidently stopped for the night.

The transitman laughed softly.

“I should like to be behind a tree or a rock,” he said, “and see Nicholson when he comes here after daylight to continue his survey and finds his proposed gap route already taken.”

Ever more deeply as he listened, Dannie appreciated the difficulties in which he had involved the railroad companies, and the dangers into which he himself had plunged. One thing only he was sure of, and that was that his mouth must remain closed.

When everything was ready they all started back, at a good pace, up the hill and into the glen.

“Here, my boy,” said the transitman, “come with me. I want to talk with you.”

Dannie fell back and walked with him. They were the last two in the party.

“There is no need of our being severe with you any longer,” continued the man. “Our task is accomplished, our route is located, no one can interfere with us now. But you understand it was necessary, in order to carry out our scheme successfully, that we shouldn’t be disturbed until after we were through the gap. We couldn’t run the risk of having you go back up or down the road and rouse the country, or the other corps of engineers, or even the owner of this property. So we had to take you along with us. I am sorry to have caused you any inconvenience or anxiety, and I am sure I beg your pardon if I have done so; but really, you see, we couldn’t help it.”

He had a very musical voice and winning manner, this big engineer, now that the stress of his work was off his mind; and Dannie felt at once the strange attraction of his presence.

“Oh! it don’t matter very much,” he replied, “so long as I get home before daylight. They—they don’t know I’m out.”

As he spoke he glanced back over his shoulder toward the eastern sky, already paling perceptibly at the horizon.

“Do you live far from here?” inquired the man.

“Not very far; just up the road a ways.”

“At what house? I used to be somewhat acquainted about here years ago. Maybe I know your people.”

“Why—why—well, if you please, I’d rather not tell.”

“You needn’t. It’s none of my business anyway. But let me ask you just one question. Do you know Abner Pickett?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Does he still own this gap?”

“Yes, sir, he does.”

“Do you know—is he well?”

“Yes, sir, I believe so. I saw him yesterday; he went up to Port Lenox.”

“Thank you, my boy, thank you. Do you happen to know whether he objects to having a railroad in the gap?”

“I think he does. I heard him say last night that—that—”

“Well?”

“Well, I don’t think he wants a railroad across his property. I think he’d like to see all the railroad stakes pulled out.”

“I’m sorry.”

After that, for some minutes, there was silence. The man seemed to be in deep thought, and Dannie pondered long over a question he desired to ask. At last he found courage to ask it.

“Is it wrong—is it against the law to pull out railroad stakes?”

“Well, I think the court would deal pretty severely with a person convicted of pulling out or destroying stakes set by an engineer.”

“Would such a person have to go to jail?”

“I should think it very likely. Why do you ask?”

“Oh! I knew a fellow once who—who—started to pull some out.”

“It’s a good thing he didn’t get any farther with it. A county jail is not a pleasant place in which to spend one’s time.”

Dannie knew that. He had visited the jail once, with his grandfather, and had seen the prisoners in their little iron-barred cells, and had thought how dreadful it must be to be locked up there, especially in the night-time.

But there was one hope still left to him.

“Suppose,” he suggested, “suppose the man who pulled out the stakes was the one who owned the land?”

“That wouldn’t help it much. A railroad has a right to locate its route through any man’s land.”

“But suppose they drove their stakes in his graveyard?”

The man stopped short and looked his questioner in the eyes. But a cloud had come up and covered the face of the moon, and the shadow of it made the boy’s features indistinct. Yet these were strange questions for a lad of his size to be asking.

“I don’t think,” replied the man, as he started on, “I don’t think that a railroad company would have a right to locate its route through a graveyard, and if it did—well, if it was my graveyard, I believe I would pull up the stakes set in it and throw them into the brook.”

“Thank you! Oh, thank you! That’s just what—what a fellow did once that I knew.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, he—he—” But in the midst of his stammering a new thought came to him. “You ran your line through a graveyard, didn’t you?”

“Do you mean Abner Pickett’s graveyard?”

“Yes.”

“No; I went around it. I followed my tangent to the south side of the brook opposite the graveyard,—there’s a bit of shelving beach there which gave room for the location,—and then I put in a reverse curve and came down on this side again, just at the entrance to the gap. Here, I’ll show you how I did it. Come on!”

The rest of the party, walking more rapidly, were far ahead. The engineer quickened his pace, and Dannie hurried along by his side. The subject had become one of absorbing interest to both of them.

“My knowledge of the locality,” continued the man, “served me handsomely for a night survey. I used to know every foot of the ground here when I was a boy. I knew where the trout hid in this stream. I knew where the squirrels ran over that hill. I knew where the blackberries were most luscious, and where the nuts fell thickest in the first frost. Why, I could have walked, barefooted, from end to end of this gap, on the darkest night you ever saw, and never stubbed my foot against a stone, I was so familiar with the road. Oh, those were happy days!”

By this time they had reached the western opening into the glen.

“Here,” said the man, pointing to a stake at the roadside, “here is where we come in, and there,” indicating the curve with a sweep of his arm, “is where we cross the brook, crowd the foot of the ledge opposite the graveyard, and strike a tangent that carries us in a straight line for more than fifteen hundred feet.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t touch the graveyard!” said Dannie.

“My boy, if this railroad is not built until I run a line for it through that burial-place, you will never live to see the first tie laid. Abner Pickett himself holds this sacred plot in no greater reverence than do I.”

They were moving on up the road now toward the graveyard wall.

“I’m so glad,” repeated Dannie, softly; “I’m so glad for Gran’pap’s sake.”

The next moment the man had a strong hand on each of the boy’s shoulders, and was looking down into his face with a fierce eagerness that frightened him.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Tell me your name, quick!”

That imperative request gave room for no evasion. There could be but one reply.

“I’m Abner Pickett’s grandson,” faltered the boy. “My name is Dannie Pickett.”

The man loosed his grip on the lad’s shoulders and took his hands instead. Dannie felt those clear blue eyes piercing him through and through. For a full minute they stood thus, then the grasp was relaxed, the man turned his face upward in the moonlight, and it seemed as if he were in prayer. When Dannie saw his eyes again they were full of tears; but there was a smile on his countenance, and, when he spoke, his voice was very sweet and gentle.

“Do not mind me,” he said. “I have a boy whom I have not seen since he was a little baby. You must be about his age. I think you must look very much like him. Strangest of all, his name, too, is Dannie. Come, let us go. It will soon be daylight. See the red in the east. I must find my men, and you must get to your home.”

He took the boy’s hand and they started on. But Dannie’s heart was beating to the music of this man’s voice, and, swayed by the spell of his presence, he felt that to him must be told the secret of his midnight errand in the glen.

“I want to tell you,” he said, “what I was doing in the gap to-night. I feel as though you ought to know.”

“No,” was the quick reply; “you need not confide in me. I cannot counsel you now. Others must do that yet for a time. I only trust that your errand was one of which you need not be ashamed. Do I walk too fast for you? There is so little time to lose.”

When they came opposite the marble column that marked the grave of Dannie’s mother, they stopped instinctively.

“This is Gran’pap’s graveyard,” said the boy, simply, “and that is where my mother is buried.”

The man did not answer.

He had removed his hat and stood gazing intently at the white shaft and at the vine-covered mound at its base. For a full minute he stood there, motionless as the monument itself. Then he turned to the boy.

“Let the thought of her be as dear and sweet to you always as your own life,” he said. “Come!”

With Dannie’s hand still in his, he hastened on. The other members of the party were far ahead. The morning glow was spreading in the east, and in the west the paling moon was dropping down behind the far-off hills. The autumn mist came up and compassed them about, and now and then some sound betokening daybreak came muffled to their ears. On the souls of both the solemn hush of morning rested, and neither of them broke it by a single word.

When the gate that led to the Pickett farmhouse was reached, they both stopped. Again the man bared his head as he gazed through the morning mist at the dim outline of the old homestead. Then he bent down and took Dannie’s face between his hands, and touched the tangled hair on the boy’s forehead with his lips.

“Good-by!” he said. “Good-by, my boy; and God bless you and keep you!”

The next moment he was gone, a stalwart, splendid figure, striding like an athlete through the luminous haze.

Is it strange that up from Dannie’s heart came again the old desire, and out from his lips the spoken longing:—

“Oh, if I only had a father—like him!”

But there was no time now to indulge in dreams or disappointments. He felt that he must get at once into the house and to bed.

He went up the side path, and around to the woodshed, where he left the hatchet. Max, the dog, came whining and crouching at his feet, begging for notice and caresses. Dannie paid little heed to him, but hurried on. As he turned the corner of the house by the kitchen porch, he came face to face with his grandfather.

“Why, Dannie!” exclaimed the old man, “what routed you out so early this morning?”

For a moment Dannie was at a loss for an answer.

“Oh!” he stammered at last, “I—I just thought I’d come out and look around.”

“That’s just what I thought I’d do, too,” was the response. “I kind o’ want to see where those stakes are set. I want to know how much o’ my land, an’ what part of it, I’m expected to present to the railroad company. Would you like to come along, Dan?”

“Yes, Gran’pap, I would.”

They passed out at the gate and down the road, and Dannie led the way to the potato field.

Near the big rock they found a stake. It was one set by the engineers who made the last survey, but it was within five feet of the place occupied by the one Dannie had pulled out the night before. The old man gazed at it bitterly.

“Takes the best part o’ the lot,” he said. “Spoils the meadow,” he continued, as he looked down the line, “cuts my farm in two, prevents me from gettin’ to water, destroys the public road, a damage and a curse.”

They followed down the line of stakes as he talked. The survey took almost exactly the same route as had the one made by the D. V. & E. engineers the afternoon before. The crossing at the public road was not five feet from the first location, for Dannie saw the place in the bank where he had pulled out the stake.

“Ruins the road,” muttered the old man, “ruins the brook, ruins the gap, ruins the farm, despoils the tomb!”

He was working himself into a passion again. Dannie foresaw that in ten minutes more he would be at a white heat.

“Why don’t you pull the stakes out, Gran’pap, an’ throw ’em into the brook?”

Dannie never knew what strange impulse forced him to ask that question. The old man turned on him instantly.

“Don’t speak of it; it’s against the law.”

“But you said last night that no better deed could be done.”

“I was in a temper last night an’ said things I shouldn’t. No Pickett was ever yet arrested for violatin’ the law. You and I don’t want to be the first ones.”

“It might be done in the night-time, Gran’pap, an’ no one be the wiser.”

Some fate was surely leading Dannie to his own undoing.

“No, that’d be cowardly, an’ no Pickett was ever yet a coward.”

Dannie winced as though his grandfather had dealt him a physical blow.

They were walking on down the road now toward the graveyard wall. The bitterness in the old man’s heart forced itself again to his lips.

“They might ’a’ taken my land, an’ my road, an’ my stream, an’ my gap, an’ all, if they’d only ’a’ let my graveyard alone. I can’t stand that. I won’t stand that. I’ll fight that. I’ll show ’em that imposin’ on the livin’ is one thing an’ insultin’ the dead is another. I’ll make ’em—”

He stopped suddenly, his gaze fixed on the line of stakes as it skirted the shore of the brook and then crossed to the other side of the stream opposite the graveyard.

“Dannie!” he exclaimed, “look! There they go across the brook. They don’t touch the graveyard. Do you see? They don’t touch it!”

He was pointing with intense excitement to the staked-out curve showing distinctly under the rising bank of fog.

“That line don’t go within ten rods o’ the graveyard anywhere, Dannie,—not within ten rods. Come, let’s see!”

He started on at a rapid pace, and, without waiting to go in by the entrance, began hastily to climb over the stone wall that surrounded the burial-place. Reaching the centre of the plot, halfway between the monument and the road, he looked searchingly about him.

“Not a stake, Dannie!” he cried. “Not a stick nor a stone anywhere inside. Not one!”

He was as intensely delighted as though he had come suddenly upon a mine of hidden treasure. The reaction from his state of mental misery was too great to be concealed, even had he desired to hide it. All night his distressed fancy had conjured up visions of his burial-plot ripped and torn with plough and pick and spade, of his monument and headstone begrimed with the smoke and shrinking from the touch of the shrieking, thundering, plunging monster of the rail. All night, in sleepless torture, his embittered heart had burned with what he thought to be an insult to the living and an outrage on the dead. And now, to find his fancies and his fears suddenly dispelled was like waking from a dreadful dream. “But”—he turned sharply on the boy at his side:—

“You told me they ran through the graveyard! Why did you tell me that?”

“Well—they—they—I saw them in here, anyway. They must ’a’ changed it afterward. I can show you the place where the stake was set.”

Sure enough he could, and did. The hole left by it was still distinctly visible. And he pointed out also where the grass was bruised by the treading of feet and the dragging of the chain across it.

The old man was satisfied, but Dannie’s mind was in a tumult. He hardly knew which way to turn or what to say. He dreaded every question that might be asked him, lest the answer to it should involve him in some hopeless contradiction.

But Abner Pickett’s delight at finding his graveyard free left him in no mood to question or to criticise. The predominant thought in his mind was that the engineer, at the cost of increased distance, heavier grading, and additional curvature, had avoided cutting through his graveyard. It relieved his mind and gratified his pride.

“Look, Dannie!” he exclaimed, with a sweep of his arm toward the mouth of the gap, “ain’t that a beautiful curve? I tell you the engineer that laid that out knew his business. What kind of a lookin’ man did you say he was, Dannie?”

“Tall, Gran’pap. Han’some. Light hair, and blue eyes that looked you through. Voice like a—”

“What, Dannie! What! Light hair an’ blue eyes?”

“Why—no. The man I talked with yesterday afternoon had dark eyes an’ hair an’ whiskers. I don’t know as he was so very tall, either. I don’t know,—oh, I don’t know anything, I’m so tired an’ hungry an’ done out!”

And he was tired and hungry and done out. He dropped to the greensward at his grandfather’s feet, this boy of thirteen, and burst into tears.

And Abner Pickett, believing that the boy had undergone only what he himself had suffered, bent down to him with soothing words, lifted him to his feet, and, hand in hand, through the ever deepening mist, these two walked the road toward home.