"Tis a great proposal, Frank, but I must have time to think it over."

This response was a subterfuge to gain time for the execution of a long-cherished plan: Frank was to be in charge of the substitution of a new bridge for an old one over a river not far from their home, and Dan knew that he could obtain employment there from a foreman under whom he had often worked. In fear of offending his son, Dan thought of going to the bridge as a mere onlooker, but the alternative was dismissed as not affording him the pleasure he longed for. What can the sightseer know of the relation—the subtile causes of hate and fear, of love and respect-between master and man? He wanted to observe his son from the viewpoint he had always had of the directing genius of work; to be a laborer among laborers under him, and hear and feel his fellows' estimate of his son; to know at last, from the one familiar, humble post he had always held, that the man in charge of all, himself included, was his boy. Only in that way could he quench his thirst for a seeing, feeling knowledge of Frank's greatness. His son's very manner might change if he knew his father was a sightseer. The only way was to be one of those Frank ruled.

His plan was easily carried out; the foreman was glad to employ as faithful and intelligent a man as Dan; so each morning early he left his home in his sedate frock suit, well brushed, looking like a prosperous man of business. Changing to his laborer's clothes in a tool-house, Dan worked steadily, proudly waiting for the daily visit of the engineer in charge-his son! It was as he thought; nothing his imagination summoned had given him a true picture of the importance of his boy. Here was no mere boss who ordered laborers and directed details of the work, but a master who dealt with the superintendent and foremen. Dan had no trouble in keeping his son ignorant of his presence; indeed, he would have had to force himself on his notice had he wished to be discovered, for Frank's eyes were on the work, not the workmen, and his speech was with the men in charge under him. At times Dan was near enough to hear his boy directing the very superintendent, a personage Dan never could have approached, yet there was Frank giving him orders! This was so far

beyond his imaginings that the father could not wholly realize it at once, but day after day gloried more in heart and mind as Frank's real position became apparent to him-a boss of bosses!

"If ever I took that farm without seeing this," he would say to himself, "I would have died without knowing half the truth. My boy the boss of the boss! And the gentle words he uses; not an oath, but a polite, 'I'll have it done this way, if you please, Mr. Jones,' and 'See that this change is made before I'm here to-morrow noon, if you please.' Not a word of back talk from Mr. Jones, who could discharge the man who hires me. 'Tis wonderful!”

Mr. Jones had noticed the intelligence with which Dan performed the simple tasks given to him, and that he was a strong, sober man, and so asked for him with others who were to do some quick, precise work at the moment the new bridge, floated to its destined berth, settled down on the nicely adjusted bearings.

A number of officials of the contracting company and of the railroad which used the bridge were to be present when the creation of engineer Frank Conroy should be pronounced finished and ready for its appointed service. Dan's duty that morning was to hold suspended by a line a heavy bolt which, at a signal, was to be dropped into place. He was instructed to watch for the signal and lower at the moment, not sooner or later, or the tide would have altered an alignment the bolt was to secure, and another tide would have to be waited for to complete the work. Dan was proud of the assignment to such an important duty; to him it seemed as if he was to help emphasize the nicety of his son's mathematical skill. As he toiled and sweated among the greasy iron, and helped rig the line he was to handle at the critical moment, he felt that this was the climax of his own life's hard work, and rejoiced that it was to be identified with his son.

There was delay; a strong wind affected the tide, and the signalman called to Dan that he could rest his burden, but the old man would not do so. His arms were strong, his nerves steady, and he would hold the weight, for if the tide was at fault it might change unexpectedly, and he must be ready. But he could look about a little and see what was going on. At the

turned his face away from the approaching party upon discovering their intention to cross the bridge. This would bring them so close to him that he would be recognized unless he were quick in getting away when the bolt was placed. He had not counted on this; he thought he would have finished his task and slipped away long before the visitors would cross, but the delay owing to the tide variation had brought them near his post earlier than he had expected. Soon they came so close that while he watched the signalman he could also, out of the corner of an eye, see Frank and Miss Holden. They stopped and Frank called back to those behind that a certain bolt must drop into place before they could proceed.

I

Dan heard him say to the girl by his side: "That workman has something to do before I can say that this is a success. hope he has a steady eye and hand, for a nice point in the operation depends on him."

Dan's bent head and soft hat concealed his face, and he was glad of it, for this unexpected occurrence, and the strain of his burden, were twisting his face into unlovely snarls. The suspense was affecting others; the visitors, the spectators on land and water, were silent, and, as they watched the slow movements of the mighty mass of steel, every action of a workman caused a start of nervousness. The signalman's hand rose; when it fell Dan must quickly, steadily, lower the bolt. His head began to swim a little with the excitement and the physical strain, and he prayed that his eyes might not fill, and obscure his sight. He saw nothing now but the raised hand, though he heard, mistily, the girl saying, "How exciting it is, Frank! But I know everything will be perfect, because you did it all."

"I'm only the boss," Frank answered, laughing, but a little nervously, as it sounded to Dan. "Everything now depends on the workmen."

Dan saw the signalman's hand wave, then fall, and with it he lowered the rope, steadily, quickly, and the great bolt slipped noiselessly into the well-oiled eyes; the bridge trembled, steadied, and then settled as true and firm on its piers as if it were an arching rock. There was a mad whistling by tugs and locomotives, cheers by the crowds, and the party back of Frank

clapped their hands and cried, "Conroy! Bravo, Conroy!"

Frank smilingly lifted his hat, then gave his hand to Miss Holden to help her over an open space. Dan, the words "Bravo, Conroy!" ringing in his ears above all the din, slowly straightened up and tried to move away, but for the first time in his life that he could remember he felt faint, and his knees trembled. Miss Holden was first to notice his plight, and exclaimed, "See, Frank, that poor man who fastened the bridge is suffering!"

Dan turned his back and staggered a few paces, but Frank sprang to his side, caught him, and then for the first time saw his face. "Father!"

"Go on, my boy. Go on, and no one will know me," whispered Dan huskily.

The young man flushed scarlet. His father's face was covered with grease and sweat, and drawn with strain and excitement. "Pass along," the old man pleaded; "I couldn't help coming to see you as a boss, but I didn't think you would see me. Go on!"

Frank turned to Miss Holden, stretched out his hand to her, and as she stepped to his side, said, "Mary, this is my father-my dear old dad."

The girl started, but not from embarrassment, and without a shadow of hesitation bent forward toward Dan, gathered up his cramped, moist, blackened hands in hers, supple, untried, white gloved, saying, “I would have known him, Frank, for no one but your father could have just such eyes.

Instinctive chivalry prompted Dan's reply: "I saw you looking into my boy's eyes a bit ago, and I pray to God you'll never see anything in them but love."

Mary Holden smiled, though her eyes filled with quick tears; and she said,“Frank, your father must come to the car and hear them congratulate you.

"Indeed he must," assented. Frank. "Wash up, dad, and come to the car for lunch." Dan's knees were all right, now. He hurried to the tool-house, where, after a lively splashing in a bucket of water, he put on his "walking clothes," as he called them, thankful that he wore such fine garments to and from work, and was soon seated at Miss Holden's side listening to compliments to his boy.

"Isn't Frank splendid?" asked Miss Holden of Dan, when the hero had modestly responded to the speeches. "He is so," whispered Dan. "He's the finest boss ever I saw. Oh, but I'm glad I saw him boss a job." Miss Holden looked at the old man with

a new expression. "I did not mean that," she said, "I mean how splendid it was in him to have you here to help him finish the work. That was fine!"

"It was so," answered Dan simply. "It has made the day my triumph, as well as his, miss.”

T

HE sundew was having a bad quarter of an hour. Its sticky red feelers had long ago curled up tight with injury, and still Rebecca prodded it savagely with one little brown forefinger. Stretched prone upon the stony soil of Maine, Rebecca looked as she felt, the wretchedest little girl in seven counties. When one has been for a fortnight the playfellow of a resourceful Harvard man, it hurts to be tumbled back into just an ordinary little girl whom nobody

wants.

Lifting her head, Rebecca could still catch glimpses of her recalcitrant knight in the very act of desertion. His white tennis-cap and Miss Polly's bright head bobbed cheerily in and out of sight as their owners descended the rough path that led to the Checkley Rocks. And Seth had promised honor bright to go a-fishing with Rebecca!

From the bottom of her rebellious little soul Rebecca wished that Miss Polly had stayed in Portland. . Till she came to the Neck Rebecca had been, as Seth put it, "the only sail on the horizon." He was a Harvard sophomore, six feet two and broad in proportion, and she was small for eight and three-quarters. Yet Seth had taken. notice of Rebecca. He had showed her Spouting Cave and the cranberry patch; had taught her to braid sweet-grass; had carried her "picky-back" over barnacles and slippery kelp to explore the sea marvels of the anemone pools at low tide. Between petting and bullying he had reduced her to adoring subjection. And then,

just as the wild roses were rioting over the Neck, Miss Polly came, in all the radiance of young ladyhood, and Rebecca's little candle was snuffed out.

For a moment she thought weakly of running home to mother. But young as she was-she lacked a quarter to nineRebecca had learned to keep her troubles to herself, lest they get on mother's invalid nerves. Gulping down a particularly bitter tear, she renewed her assault upon the sundew.

It is a poor-spirited worm which, trodden, will not turn. But there was nothing poor-spirited about Rebecca. Her tortured self-love shortly goaded her into action. Seth should notice her again. She'd do something desperate. She'd-she'd get lost! Then she guessed he'd feel sorry. Her short memory went back to a summer when Cousin Tom got stranded in a tidal river and didn't come home till morning. She knew what would happen if she disappeared. Search parties would scour the Neck; all night long torches would go flashing about the dim woods and wagons would creak along the roads, the drivers hallooing into the dark. Rebecca had a feeling for the dramatic. Assuredly she would get lost.

Nerved by the vengeful thought, Rebecca scrambled to her feet and set off precipitately-nowhere in particular. The footpath into which she strayed led through a fragrant tangle of sweetbrier, sweetfern, and glossy bay, into a sandy road which climbed a low hill and seemed to stop in the sky. That road would do as well as any; Rebecca addressed herself to the ascent.