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 sometimes from dusk till dawn again.  She had been his life’s companion while on the road, who now, “like some familiar face at parting, gained a graver grace.”

Presently the lamp-lighters came and began lighting the oil lamps that stood in brackets along the wall; but before their gleam reached his face the old engineer slid down and hurried away home with never a backward glance.

* * * * *

That night when Mrs. Hautman had passed the popcorn and red apples, and they had all eaten and the men had lighted cigars, the engineer’s wife brought a worn Bible out and drew a chair near the master-mechanic.  The “old man,” as he was called, looked at the book, then at the woman, who held it open on her lap.

“Do you believe this book?” she asked earnestly.

“Absolutely,” he answered.

“All that is written here?”

“All,” said the man.

Then she turned to the fly-leaf and read the record of Henry’s birth,—­the day, the month, and the year.

Henry came and looked at the book and the faded handwriting, trying to remember; but it was too far away.

The old Bible had been discovered that day deep down in a trunk of old trinkets that had been sent to Henry when his mother died, years ago.

The old engineer took the book and held it on his knees, turned its limp leaves, and dropped upon them the tribute of a strong man’s tear.