his part in the daily tasks, assumed his share of the conversation, entered into the fun, and contributed his ideas toward the endless discussions.  No one noticed that he was in any way different from his ordinary self.  But it was as though some one outside of himself, in the outer circle of his being, carried on these necessary and customary things.  He, drawn apart, watched by the shrine of his soul.  He did nothing, either by thought or effort—­merely watched, patient and rapt, while foreordained and mighty changes took place—­

He reached the edge of the roof; stood on the ladder to finish the last row of the riven shingles.  Slowly his brush moved, finishing the cracks deep down so that the principle of decay might never enter.  Inside the office Thorne sat dictating a letter to some applicant for privilege.  The principle was new in its interpretation, and so Thorne was choosing his words with the greatest care.  Swiftly before Bob’s inner vision the prospect widened.  Thorne became a prophet speaking down the years; the least of these men in a great new Service became the austere champions of something high and beautiful.  For one moment Bob dwelt in a wonderful, breathless, vast, unreal country where heroic figures moved in the importance of all the unborn future, dim-seen, half-revealed.  He drew his brush across the last shingle of all.  Something seemed to click.  Swiftly the gates shut, the strange country receded into infinite distance.  With a rush like the sucking of water into a vacuum the everyday world drew close.  Bob, his faculties once more in their accustomed seat, looked about him as one awakened.  His hour was over.  The change had taken place.

Thorne was standing in the doorway with Amy, their dictation finished.

“All done?” said he.  “Well, you did a thorough job.  It’s the kind that will last.”

“I’m right on deck when it comes to painting things red,” retorted Bob.  “What next?”

“Next,” said Thorne, “I want you to help one of the boys split some cedar posts.  We’ve got a corral or so to make.”

Bob descended slowly from the ladder, balancing the remainder of the red stain.  Thorne looked at him curiously.

“How do you like it as far as you’ve gone?” he permitted himself to ask.  “This isn’t quite up to the romantic idea of rangering, is it?”

“Well,” said Bob with conviction, “I suppose it may sound foolish; but I never was surer of anything in my life than that I’ve struck the right job.”

As he walked home that night, he looked back on the last few days with a curious bewilderment.  It had all been so real; now apparently it meant nothing.  Thorne was doing good work; these rangers were good men.  But where had vanished all Bob’s exaltation? where his feeling of the portent and influence and far-reaching significance of what these men were doing?  He realized its importance; but the feeling of its fatefulness had utterly gone.  Things with him were back on a work-a-day basis.  He even laughed a little, good-humouredly, at himself.  At the gate to the new pasture he once more stopped and looked at his horse.  A deep content came over him.