“It wouldn’t be published if I wrote it.”

“Then you can’t be much of a writer.”  He glared at her, and slowly, distinctly, with all the emphasis at his command, said:  “I had smallpox—­and a dam’ bad case, understand?  I was sick.  I had miseries in every joint and cartage of my body.  I’m going to use a pick-handle for a cane, and anybody that laughs will get a hickory massage that’ll take a crooked needle and a pair of pinchers to fix.  Thank God I’ve got my strength back!  You get me?”

“I do.”

He snorted irately and turned to go, but Eliza checked him.

“What about those shift bosses?” she asked.

Slater rolled his eyes balefully.  “Just let one of ’em mention smallpox,” he said, “and I’ll fill the hospital till it bulges.”

“No, no!  Are you going to pay them?”

“Certainly not.”

Eliza considered for a moment.  “Don’t let them see Dr. Gray,” she said, at length.  “He has enough to worry him.  Meet them at the train and bring them here.”

“What for?  Tea?”

“You boys have done all you can; I think it’s time Dan and I did something.”

Tom stared.  “Are you going to pay ’em?” he asked, gruffly.

“Yes.  Mr. O’Neil needs time.  Dan and I have saved four thousand dollars.  I’d offer it to Dr. Gray—­”

“He wouldn’t take it.”

“Exactly.  Send Dan up here when you see him.”

“It doesn’t seem exactly right.”  Tom was obviously embarrassed.  “You see, we sort of belong to Murray, and you don’t, but—­” He shook his head as if to rid himself of unwelcome emotion.  “Women are funny things!  You’re willing to do that for the chief, and yet you won’t write me a little affidavit!” He grunted and went away, still shaking his head.

When Eliza explained her plan to Dan she encountered an opposition that shocked and hurt her.

“I won’t do it!” he said, shortly.

“You—­what?”

“We can’t build the S. R.

“Yes, and made you love him, too,” said Dan, roughly.  “I can see that.”

Eliza lifted her head and met his eyes squarely.

“That’s true!  But why not?  Can’t I love him?  Isn’t it my privilege to help him if I want to?  If I had two million dollars instead of two thousand I’d give it to him, and—­and I wouldn’t expect him to care for me, either.  He’ll never do that.  He couldn’t!  But—­oh, Danny, I’ve been miserable—­”

Dan felt a certain dryness of the throat which made speech oddly difficult.  “I don’t see why he couldn’t care for you,” he said, lamely.

Eliza shook her head hopelessly.  “I’m glad it happened,” she said—­“glad.  In writing these articles I’ve tried to make him understood; I’ve tried to put my whole soul into them so that the people will see that he isn’t, wouldn’t be, a thief nor a grafter.  I’ve described him as he is—­big, honorable, gentle—­”

“I didn’t know you were writing fiction,” said her brother, impatiently.