she asked when he joined her again. She knew Caleb's name as she did those of all the men in Sanford's employ. There was no detail of the work he had not explained to her.

"And was the sea-bottom as you expected to find it?" she added.

"Even better," he answered, eager to discuss his plans with her.

"Caleb reports that as soon as he gets the first row of enrockment stones set, the others will lie up like bricks. And it's all coming out exactly as we have planned it, too, Kate."

He went over with her again, as he had done so many times before, all of his plans for carrying on the work and the difficulties that had threatened him. He talked of his hopes and fears, of his confidence in his men, his admiration for them, and his love for the work itself. To Sanford, as to many men, there were times when the sympathy and understanding of a woman, the generous faith and ready belief of one who listens only to encourage, became a necessity. To have talked to a man as he did to Kate would not only have bored his listener, but might have aroused a suspicion of his own professional ability.

"I wonder what General Barton will think when he finds your plan succeeds? He says everywhere that you cannot do it," Kate continued, with a certain pride in her voice, after listening to some further details of Sanford's plans for placing the enrockment blocks.

"I don't know and I don't care. It's hard to get these old-time engineers to believe in anything new, and this foundation is new. But all the same, I'd rather pin my faith to Captain Joe than to any one of them. What we are doing at the Ledge, Kate, requires mental pluck and brute grit,-nothing else. Scientific engineering won't help us a bit."

Sanford now stood erect, with face aglow and kindling eyes, his back to the balcony rail. Every inflection of his voice showed a keen interest in the subject.

"And yet, after all, Kate, I realize that my work is mere child's play. Just see what other men have had to face. At Minot's Ledge, you know,-the light off Boston,-they had to chisel down a submerged rock into steps, to get a footing for the tower. But three or four men could work at a time, and then at dead low water. They got only one hundred and thirty hours' work the first year. The whole Atlantic rolled in on top of them, and there was no shelter from the wind.

Until they got the bottom courses of their tower bolted to the steps they had cut in the rock, they had no footing at all, and had to do their work from a small boat. Our artificial island helps us immensely; we have something to stand on. And it was even worse at Tillamook Rock, on the Pacific coast. There the men were landed on a precipitous crag sticking up out of the sea, from breeches buoys slung to the masthead of a vessel. For weeks at a time the sea was so rough that no one could reach them. They were given up for dead once. All that time they were lying in canvas tents lashed down to the sides of the crag to keep them from being blown into rags. All they had to eat and drink for days was raw salt pork and the rain-water they caught from the tent covers. And yet those fellows stuck to it day and night until they had blasted off a place large enough to put a shanty on.

Every bit of the material for that lighthouse, excepting in the stillest weather, was landed from the vessel that brought it, by a line rigged from the masthead to the top of the crag; and all this time, Kate, she was thrashing around under steam, keeping as close to the edge as she dared. Oh, I tell you, there is something stunning to me in such a battle with the elements!"

Kate's cheeks burned as Sanford talked on. She was no longer the dainty woman over the coffee-cups, nor the woman of the world she had been a few moments before, eager for the pleasure of a.s.sembled guests.

Her eyes flashed with the intensity of her feelings. "When you tell me such things, Henry, I am all on fire," she cried. Then she stopped as suddenly as if some unseen hand had been laid upon her, chilling and shriveling the hot burning words. "The world is full of such great things to be done," she sighed, "and I lead such a mean little life."

Sanford looked at her in undisguised admiration. Then, as he watched her, his heart smote him. He had not intended to wound her by his enthusiasm over his own work, nor to awaken in her any sense of her own disappointments; he had only tried to allay her anxieties over his affairs. He knew by the force of her outburst that he had unconsciously stirred those deeper emotions, the strength of which really made her the help she was to him. But he never wanted them to cause her suffering.

These sudden transitions in her moods were not new to him. She was an April day in her temperament, and would often laugh the sunniest of laughs when the rain of her tears was falling. These were really moods he loved.

It was the present frame of mind, however, that he dreaded, and from which he always tried to save her. It did not often show itself. She was too much a woman of the world to wear her heart upon her sleeve, and too good and tactful a friend to burden even Sanford with sorrows he could not lighten. He knew what had inspired the outburst, for he had known her for years. He had witnessed the long years of silent suffering which she had borne so sweetly,-even cheerfully at times,-had seen with what restraint and self-control she had cauterized by silence and patient endurance every fresh wound, and had watched day by day the slow coming of the scars that drew all the tighter the outside covering of her heart.

As he looked at her out of the corner of his eye,-she leaning over the balcony at his side,-he could see that the tears had gathered under her lashes. It was best to say nothing when she felt like this.

He recognized that to have made her the more dissatisfied, even by that sympathy which he longed to give, would have hurt in her that which he loved and honored most,-her silence, and her patient loyalty to the man whose name she bore. "She's had a letter from Leroy," he said to himself, "and he's done some other disgraceful thing, I suppose;" but to Kate he said nothing.

Gradually he led the talk back to Keyport, this time telling her of his men and their peculiarities and humors; of Caleb and his young and pretty wife; and of Aunty Bell's watchful care over his comfort whenever he spent the night at Captain Joe's.

Nothing had disturbed the other guests. The clink of the major's gla.s.s and the intermittent gurgle of the rapidly ebbing decanter as Sam supplied his wants could still be heard from the softly lighted room.

On the foreordained divan, half hidden by a curtain, sat Jack and Helen, their shoulders touching, studying the contents of a portfolio,-some of the drawings upside down, their low talk broken now and then by a happy, irrelevant laugh.

By this time the moon had risen over the treetops, the tall buildings far across the quadrangle breaking the sky-line. Below could be seen the night life of the Park: miniature figures strolling about under the trees, flashing in brilliant light or swallowed up in dense shadow, as they pa.s.sed through the glare of the many lamps scattered among the budding foliage; a child romping with a dog, or a belated woman wheeling a baby carriage home. The night was still, the air soft and balmy; only the hum of the busy street a block away could be heard where they stood.

Suddenly the figure of a boy darted across the white patch of pavement below them. Sanford leaned far over the railing, a strange, unreasoning dread in his heart.

"What is it, Henry?" asked Mrs. Leroy.

"Looks like a messenger," Sanford answered.

Mrs. Leroy bent over the railing, and watched the boy spring up the low steps of the street door, ring the bell violently, and beat an impatient tattoo with his foot.

"Whom do you want?" Sanford called gently.

The boy looked up, and, seeing the two figures on the balcony, answered, "Mr. Henry Sanford. Got a death message."

"A death message, did he say?" gasped Mrs. Leroy. Her voice was almost a whisper.

"Yes; don't move." He laid a hand on her arm and pointed toward the group inside. A quick, sharp contraction rose in his throat. "Sam," he called in a lowered tone.

"Yaas 'r,-comin' direc'ly."

"Sam, there's a boy at the outside door with a telegram. He says it's a death message. Get it, and tell the boy to wait. Go quietly, now, and let no one know. You will find me here."

Mrs. Leroy sank into a chair, her face in her hands. Sanford bent over her, his voice still calm.

"Don't give way, Kate; we shall know in a moment."

She grasped his hand and held on. "Oh, who do you suppose it is, Henry? Will Sam _never_ come?"

While he was comforting her, urging her to be patient and not to let Helen hear, Sam reentered the room,-his breath gone with the dash down and up three flights of stairs,-walked slowly toward the balcony, and handed Sanford a yellow envelope. Its contents were as follows:-

Screamer's boiler exploded 7.40 to-night.

Mate killed; Lacey and three men injured.

Joseph Bell.

Sanford looked hurriedly at his watch, forgetting, in the shock, to hand Mrs. Leroy the telegram.

Mrs. Leroy caught his arm. "Tell me quick! Who is it?"

"Forgive me, dear Kate, but I was so knocked out. It is no one who belongs to you. It is the boiler of the Screamer that has burst. Three men are hurt," reading the dispatch again mechanically. "I wonder who they are?" as if he expected to see their names added to its brief lines.

For a moment he leaned back against the balcony, absorbed in deep thought.

"Twenty-three minutes left," he said to himself, consulting his watch again. "I must go at once; they will need me."

She took the telegram from his hand. "Oh, Henry, I am so sorry,-and the boat, too, you counted upon. Oh, how much trouble you have had over this work! I wish you had never touched it!" she exclaimed, with the momentary weakness of the woman. "But look! read it again." Her voice rose with a new hope in it. "Do you see? Captain Joe signs it,-he's not hurt!"

Sanford patted her hand abstractedly, and said, "Dear Kate," but without looking at her or replying further. He was calculating whether it would be possible for him to catch the midnight train and go to the relief of the men.

"Yes, I can just make it," he said, half aloud, to himself. Then he turned to Sam, who stood trembling before him, looking first at Mrs.

Leroy and then at his master, and said in an undertone, "Sam, send that boy for a cab, and get my bag ready. I will change these clothes on the train. Ask Mr. Hardy to step here; not a word, remember, about this telegram."

Jack came out laughing, and was about to break into some raillery, when he saw Mrs. Leroy's face.

Sanford touched his shoulder, and drew him one side out of sight of the inmates of the room. "Jack, there has been an explosion at the work, and some of the men are badly hurt. Say nothing to Helen until she gets home. I leave immediately for Keyport. Will you and the major please look after Mrs. Leroy?"

Sanford's guests followed him to the door of the corridor: Helen radiant, her eyes still dancing; the major bland and courteous, his face without a ruffle; Jack and Mrs. Leroy apparently unmoved.

"Oh, I'm so sorry you must go!" exclaimed Helen, holding out her hands. "Mr. Hardy says you do nothing but live on the train. Thank you ever so much, dear Mr. Sanford; I've had _such_ a lovely time."

"My dear suh," said the major, "this is positively cruel! This Hennessy"-he was holding his gla.s.s-"is like a nosegay; I hoped you would enjoy it with me. Let me go back and pour you out a drop before you go."