ry prosperity to the waste places. The men who cope with
strange, deadly diseases; who fight fever swamps, and compel them to
carry a railroad across their reluctant bosoms, though the swamps in
turn exact a heavy toll of human life; who make the paths that the
women and children will presently pass over, though no such
soul-stirring cry urges their exhausting efforts.

But it is not usual to laud these men, who win their colours at the
dull, prosaic work of path-finding, as it is to laud those who
encounter shot and shell in the lurid atmosphere of battle, and one
feels they do not ask it. Yet now and then they must surely be glad to
know that thoughtful women and thoughtful men follow their work and
bless them in silence, sending across the world to them a homage of
praise that is, perhaps, richer than the plaudits of the crowd. And
not to them only, but also to the mothers who bid them go, accepting
their hard part of lonely, anxious waiting without complaint.

And if they fall by the wayside, unrecognised, unknown, but having
carried the path forward, maybe a mile, maybe a yard, maybe an inch,
how great a thing is that compared to the small happenings that of
necessity make up most men's lives!

In the sultry midday heat Carew sat alone in his hut, and certain
memories, that for fifteen years he had tried to crush out of his
mind, crowded back upon him with overwhelming force in the grip of his
sudden sorrow. For that sad event which had plunged a great nation
into grief had been to him a personal loss. In the silence and shadow
he mourned deeply, not only the idol of his youth and dear object of
his heart's best loyalty, but the memory of a friend.

For long ago, or so it seemed, there had been a moment when a royal
hand had clasped his, and a royal voice--the royalty all lost in the
friend--had said, "Perhaps you are right. It is best to begin again.
But do not imagine your life is over and its aims purposeless. Out
there you will find renewing. Some day come back and tell me about
it."

That was fifteen years ago, but he had never gone back. Never sought
the second hand-clasp that would have been his. Never unfolded to
those interested ears his personal experiences with the pioneer column
that led the way to do the path-finding in Rhodesia. In the hush of
the afternoon, with his head bowed on his arms, the years between
seemed to pass out of mind, and that which once had been to stand
alone, awaking within