Mr. Welles’ curiosity satisfied, he fell back into his old shimmer of content and walked along, hearing Paul’s voice only as one of the morning sounds of the newly awakened world.

Presently he was summoned out of this day-dream by a tug at his hand.  Paul gave out the word of command, “We turn here, so’s to get into the men’s short-cut.”

This proved to be a hard-trodden path, lying like a loosely thrown-down string, over the hill pasture-land which cut Ashley village off from Crittenden’s mill.  It was to get around this rough tract that the road had to make so long a detour.

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Welles.  “I’d been thinking that it must bother them a lot to come the two miles along the road from the village.”

“Sure,” said Paul.  “Only the ones that have got Fords come that way.  This is ever so much shorter.  Those that step along fast can make it easy in twelve or fifteen minutes.  There they come now, the first of them.”  He nodded backward along the path where a distant dark line of men came treading swiftly and steadily forward, tin pails glistening in their hands.

“Some of those in that first bunch are really choppers by rights,” Paul diagnosed them with a practised eye, “but of course nobody does much chopping come warmer weather.  But Father never lays off any men unless they want to be.  He fixes some jobs for them in the lumber-yard or in the mill, so they live here all the year around, same’s the regular hands.”

The two stood still now, watching the men as their long, powerful strides brought them rapidly nearer.  Back of them the sun rose up splendid in the sparkling, dustless mountain air.  The pasture grass on either side of the sinuous path lay shining in the dew.  Before them the path led through a grove of slim, white birches, tremulous in a pale cloud of light green.

“Well, they’ve got a pretty good way to get to their work, all right,” commented Mr. Welles.

“Yep, pretty good,” agreed Paul.  “It’s got tramped down so it’s quite smooth.”

A detachment of the file of tall, strongly built, roughly dressed men had now reached them, and with friendly, careless nods and greetings to Paul, they swung by, smoking, whistling, calling out random remarks and jokes back and forth along the line.

“Hello, Frank.  Hello, Mike.  Hello, Harry.  Hello, Jom-bastiste.  Hello, Jim.”  Paul made answer to their repeated, familiar, “Hello, Paul.”

* * * * *

Mr. Welles drew back humbly from out their path.  These were men, useful to the world, strong for labor.  He must needs stand back with the child.

With entire unexpectedness, he felt a wistful envy of those men, still valid, still fit for something.  For a moment it did not seem as sweet as he had thought it would always be, to feel himself old, old and useless.

II