idicule soon changed to respect. Presently he
offered his gloves to Neale. They were refused.

"But, fri'nd, ye ain't tough loike me," he protested.

"Pat, they'll put you to bed to-night--if you stay with me," replied
Neale.

"The hell ye say! Come on, thin!"

At first Neale had no sensations of heat, weariness, thirst, or pain. He
dragged the little Irishman forward to drop the ties--then strode back
ahead of him. Neale was obsessed by a profound emotion. This was a new
beginning for him. For him the world and life had seemed to cease when
yesternight the sun sank and Allie Lee passed out of sight. His motive
in working there, he imagined, was to lay a few rails, drive a few
spikes along the last miles of the road that he had surveyed. He meant
to work this way only a little while, till the rails from east met those
from west.

This profound emotion seemed accompanied by a procession of thoughts,
each thought in turn, like a sun with satellites, reflecting its
radiance upon them and rousing strange, dreamy, full-hearted
fancies... Allie lived--as good, as innocent as ever, incomparably
beautiful--sad-eyed, eloquent, haunting. From that mighty thought sprang
both Neale's exaltation and his activity. He had loved her so well that
conviction of her death had broken his heart, deadened his ambition,
ruined his life. But since, by the mercy of God and the innocence that
had made men heroic, she had survived all peril, all evil, then had
begun a colossal overthrow in Neale's soul of the darkness, the despair,
the hate, the indifference. He had been flung aloft, into the heights,
and he had seen into heaven. He asked for nothing in the world.
All-satisfied, eternally humble, grateful with every passionate drop of
blood throbbing through his heart, he dedicated all his spiritual
life to memory. And likewise there seemed a tremendous need in him of
sustained physical action, even violence. He turned to the last stages
of the construction of the great railroad.

What fine comrades these hairy-breasted toilers made! Neale had admired
them once; now he loved them. Every group seemed to contain a trio like
that one he had known so well--Casey, Shane, and McDermott. Then he
divined that these men were all alike. They all toiled, swore, fought,
drank, gambled. Hundreds of them went to nameless graves. But the work
went on--the great, driving, united heart beat on.

Neale was under its impulse, in another sense.

When he li