Foot by foot the N. M. & Q. crowded through the summer forest, heralded by the roar of derrick engines, the clink and thud of spike-driving, the rattling crash of rock ballast dumped from the flat-cars, the rasp of shovels as the ballast was distributed, and the shouts of foremen as the sweating crews lugged the long ninety-pound rails from rain-rusted piles to the unballasted ties ahead. The abutments of the bridge across the Branch stood naked-gray in the sun. Finally the heavy steel girders and trusses were hoisted and swung into place, and the din of riveting echoed above the sombre cadence of the river. Day after day Avery, Bascomb, and David, with their small crew of axemen, felled and cleared away the trees and underbrush between the Timberland survey line for the road and the creek-bed above it. Finally, Cameron came with his team and handled the heavier timbers, which were corded and piled for winter fuel.

In the meantime the three cabins became a sort of headquarters for the N. M. & Q. division engineer and foremen, who invented daily excuses for stopping at the camp to talk with Swickey. She held a rustic court, in which each overalled gallant vied with his neighbor in keeping the wood-box and water-pails filled. Smoke paid indifferent attention to their coming and going, but Avery’s halloo as he returned at night, always brought the dog bounding down the slope to the river, where he stood excitedly waiting for his triumvirate to cross the dam. Smoke’s boundary was the riverside, and in vain had Avery, Wallie, and David endeavored to coax him farther from Swickey.

The summer sun held a tyrannous hand on the dead, still heat of the woods, only lifted at night or when the clouds, loafing round the encircling hills, drew together grumbling, and, bursting, shot ragged flashes through the heavy air aslant the downright volley of the welcome rain. August saw the dull parallels of steel gaining length after length on the open right-of-way, which swung round the base of Timberland Mountain and ran north, vanishing in the distant haze of skyline.

One evening when the sounds of the railroad camps had died away in the sultriness preceding a thunderstorm which flickered its silent warnings across the western horizon, Bascomb, who had been silently listening to a somewhat heated discussion between David and Avery, proposed to Swickey that they stroll down to the edge of the woods.

“Just to cool off,” he said, “and get out of the zone of danger,” indicating David and Avery with a shrug.

Swickey, with a quiet glance at David, who was expounding a theory as to the rights of corporations in general and the N. M. & Q. especially, listlessly arose and walked down the hill with the young surveyor.

“Well,” he said, “they’ve fired me.”

“Fired you?” Swickey’s tone was incredulousness itself.

“Back to Boston. Been enjoying myself too much here. Besides, we need more money.”

“Oh, then Dave’s going to stay?” She was only partially successful in hiding her eagerness.

“Yes, Davy draws the long straw. Anyway, he’s worth two of me, here.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Swickey.

Bascomb’s astonishment quickened his naturally eager pulses.

“That was nice of you, Swickey,—in a way. Do you really mean it?”

“Don’t I usually mean what I say?” she asked, laughing.

“Yes, I think you do—to my sorrow.”

“Always?” she said, with a touch of unexpected coquetry.

“There’s one exception—just now. Let’s sit down on this log and watch the heat-lightning. The sky over there is just like a big purple Easter egg turned inside out, with little red cracks coming and going.”

“It’s not going to rain here,” she replied, with naÏve assurance. “That storm will go south of us. They always do when they commence over there.”

“You’re a regular little Delphian Oracle when it comes to forecasting weather. Can you tell fortunes?”

“I wish I could,” she sighed. “Can you?”

“When I can see ’em—certified and payable to bearer.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you’ll sit down—no, within easy speaking distance,”—he said, as she sat on the log a few feet from him,—“I’ll explain. This is ‘strictly confidential,’ as they say, so I’ll really have to sit a little nearer.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she replied, “only it’s so warm.”

“I’ll fan you, and we’ll make this tÊte-À-tÊte quite swagger.”

“It’s nice—but don’t hit my nose with your hat. And I’m not going to fall off this log, Wallie.”

“I only put my arm there—to—lean on,” he replied. “Now about the fortune. If I were to ask you—of course, this is—ah, imaginary, you know. If I were to propose to you—”

“Propose what?”

“Well, that is, ask you to marry me—”

“Oh, but you won’t!”

“And you should say ‘Yes’—just quick, like that, before you could change your mind,—why, then we’d be engaged. Whew! but it is hot!” he exclaimed, fanning himself with his hat. “Well, then, I’d have a fortune in prospect.”

“But—”

“Now wait, Swickey.—Then if we should get married and I saw my ring on your finger, and—and they were Mendelssohning us out of church, with two little pink toodles carrying your train and the bunch at the door plugging celestial cereal at us, as we honk-honked for the two-thirty train to—to heaven, then I’d have a fortune—you. Certified and payable to bearer, so to speak.”

Swickey stared at him unsmilingly. Presently she said, “Wouldn’t it mean any more to you than that?”

“Well, wouldn’t that be enough?” he replied earnestly.

“But you always seem to be making fun of everything and everybody, even when you try to be serious.”

“I know it. Can’t help it, Swickey dear. But I wasn’t entirely fooling then.”

“But you’d never ask me to marry you,” she said calmly.

“Ask you?” he said, with sudden vehemence. “Ask you? Why, can’t you see? I’ve wanted to ask you a hundred times this summer. If I hadn’t thought Davy was—”

“Dave? I hate Dave!”

Bascomb, misinterpreting the passion that lay behind her words, took them literally, blindly following the current of his desire.

“Don’t say that, Swickey. Davy’s true blue, but I’m glad there’s nothing—like that—between you.”

She bent her head and he heard her sobbing.

“There, little girl, I’m sorry I made you feel badly. Come, don’t cry. I love you, Swickey.” He leaned toward her and she allowed him to take her in his arms. “Listen, dear, you don’t belong up here in this ungodly country. It’s good to come to, but not to stay. I want you to come home with me.”

The soft roar of the distant river pulsed faintly in her ears. She was worn with an unsatisfied yearning that seemed almost fulfilled as she found a momentary content in his arms. With a passiveness that in her was pitiful, she let him kiss her unresponsive lips. The hunger of his desire burned her unanswering passiveness to life as she shuddered and drew back, her hands against him, thrusting him from her.

“No! No! Not that!”

As he gazed stupidly at her, a dim outline took shape behind her bowed shoulders. Then the sound of footsteps as she turned, and the figure of David passed across the strip of light paving the grass in front of Avery’s doorway.

“But, Swickey!” His voice trembled, and he held out his arms imploringly.

“No, Wallie. I must go now. It was wrong. You shouldn’t have made me,” she continued, with a feminine inconsistency that almost made him smile. “I like you, Wallie, but not that way. Oh, if you knew, you’d understand. But you can’t. I dreamed—I made myself dream it was—” she hesitated.

“David,” said Bascomb. “Now I understand.”

With a gracious inclination of his head and a touch of his former lightness he bade her good-night. “I’m short-sighted, you know,” he said, in humorous mockery of himself.

The next morning, while Bascomb was sorting over his things with a great deal of unnecessary packing and repacking, David came to him.

“See here, Wallie,” he said brusquely, “you don’t have to dig out at the drop of the hat, you know. I only spoke of your going in a general way. There’s no great hurry—and you’ll miss the fall hunting.”

“It’s time I left,” replied Bascomb, glancing up from his task. “If I stayed here much longer I’d qualify for the booby-hatch sure. I asked Swickey to marry me last night.”

“Swickey? To marry you?”

“Yes, Solomon,—why not? Don’t get fussed up—she isn’t going to.”

“I didn’t imagine you were hit that hard, although—”

“Go ahead, Davy. I’m bomb-proof now.”

“Although I saw you two by the river last night. I didn’t intend to intrude. I came upon you in the dark before—”

“No, Davy, it was just after. I don’t understand her exactly. Perhaps she is a ‘siren child,’ after all.”

“You mean that she’d lead a chap on and then drop him?” David’s brows tightened to a frown.

“I don’t know,” replied Bascomb listlessly. “Perhaps I took too much for granted. She’s not like other girls.”

“Well, Walt, I think I understand. It’s one of the men that went under in the rapids that time. Swickey hasn’t been the same since. She will hardly speak to me now. I don’t know why. She used to be the greatest youngster for fun—”

“Well,” interrupted Bascomb, “she isn’t a youngster any more, Davy. I can tell you that much. I’m the kid—or goat—it’s all the same.”

“When you get back home you’ll feel differently about it,” said David. “When you get among your own kind again.”

“Oh, damn that song about ‘my own kind.’” His face flamed and paled again. “This caste business makes me sick. Why, Swickey’s worth any six Back Bay dollies in Boston. There’s more real woman about her than a whole paddock of them.”

“Well, that’s going some for you, Walt, but you’re pretty nearly right.”

“You, too?” said Bascomb, with a quick smile.

David bit his lip and a slow tide of color crept under his tan, but Bascomb, bending again over his packing, did not see. Finally he arose, and, swinging the pack to his shoulders, stepped out and across to Avery’s camp.

Swickey saw him coming, and, shaking the dish-water from her fingers, she wiped her hands on her apron and came to the door.

“Good-morning, Swickey.”

“Good-morning,” she murmured, stooping to pat Smoke.

“I’m going out—‘where duty calls,’ you know. Came to say good-bye.” He extended his hand and she took it nervously. “Good-bye, Swickey. I’ll be up again some day. By the way, I want to make you a present. Keep Smoke. He’s yours anyway, by preference, but I want to give him to you.”

“Thanks, Wallie. I understand. Pop’s gone over to Timberland, but I’ll say good-bye for you. He didn’t expect that you’d be going so soon.”

“Neither did I,” he replied. “Davy’s going to jog down the road a piece with me—as far as the work-train. Special car for mine—little red one with green flags—to Tramworth. Good-bye.”

She watched him as he joined David and turned with him down the tracks toward the south. Smoke stood in the doorway watching the retreating figures. Then he came into the room, sniffed sonorously at Beelzebub as he passed him, and threw himself down beneath the table with a grunt.

“Smoke,” said Swickey, as she returned to the dishes, “you’re getting fat and lazy. I wonder if you know whom you really belong to now. But you always belonged to me, didn’t you?”

As though he understood, the dog got up and came to her, looking up with an expression that said plainly, “Do you doubt it?”