d seem to be superannuated.

The short December days were all too short for Henry. He counted the
hours, marked the movements of the minute-hand on the face of his cab
clock, and measured the miles he would have, not to "do" but to enjoy,
before Christmas. As the weeks went by the old engineer became a changed
man. He had always been cheerful, happy, and good-natured. Now he
became thoughtful, silent, melancholy. There was not a man on the first
division but grieved because he was going, but no man would dare say so
to Henry. Sympathy is about the hardest thing a stout heart ever has to
endure.

While Henry was out on his last trip his wife waited upon the
master-mechanic and asked him to bring his wife over and spend Christmas
Eve with Henry and help her to cheer him up; and the "old man" promised
to call that evening.

Although there were half-a-dozen palms itching for the throttle of the
La Salle, no man had yet been assigned to the run. And the same kindly
feeling of sympathy that prompted this delay prevented the aspirants
from pressing their claims. Once, in the lodge room, a young member
eager for a regular run opened the question, but saw his mistake when
the older members began to hiss like geese, while the Worthy Master
smote the table with his maul. Henry saw the La Salle cross the
turn-table and back into the round-house, and while he "looked her
over," examining every link and pin, each lever and link-lifter, the
others hurried away; for it was Christmas Eve, and nobody cared to say
good-bye to the old engineer.

When he had walked around her half-a-dozen times, touching her burnished
mainpins with the back of his hand, he climbed into the cab and began to
gather up his trinkets, his comb and tooth-brush, a small steel
monkey-wrench, and a slender brass torch that had been given to him by a
friend. Then he sat upon the soft cushioned coach-seat that his wife had
coveted, and looked along the hand-railing. He leaned from the cab
window and glanced along the twin stubs of steel that passed through the
open door and stopped short at the pit, symbolizing the end of his run
on the rail. The old boss wiper came with his crew to clean the La
Salle, but when he saw the driver there in the cab he passed him by.

Long he sat in silence, having a last visit with La Salle, her brass
bands gleaming in the twilight. For years she had carried him safely
through snow and sleet and rain, often from dawn till dusk, and