nearing completion.  Pile-drivers were piercing the ice with long slender needles of spruce; across the whole river was weaving a gigantic fretwork of wood which appeared to be geometrically regular in design.  The air was noisy with the cries of men, and a rhythmic thudding, through which came the rattle of winches and the hiss of steam.  Over the whole vast structure swarmed an army of human ants, feeble pygmy figures that crept slowly here and there, regardless of their dizzy height.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said the builder, gazing at the scene with kindling eyes.  “We’re breaking records every day in spite of the weather.  Those fellows are heroes.  I feel guilty and mean when I see them risking life and limb while I just walk about and look on.”

“Will it—­really stand the break-up?” asked the girl.  “When that ice goes out it will be as if the solid earth were sliding down the channel.  It frightens me to think of it.”

“We’ve built solid rock; in fact, those piers are stronger than rock, for they’re laced with veins of steel and anchored beneath the river-bed.”

But Eliza doubted.  “I’ve seen rivers break, and it’s frightful; but of course I’ve never seen anything to compare with the Salmon.  Suppose—­just suppose there should be some weak spot—­”

O’Neil settled his shoulders a little under his coat.  “It would nearly kill Mellen—­and Parker, too, for that matter.”

“And you?”

He hesitated.  “It means a great deal to me.  Sometimes I think I could pull myself together and begin again, but—­I’m getting old, and I’m not sure I’d care to try.”  After a pause he added a little stiffly, as if not quite sure of the effect of his words:  “That’s the penalty of being alone in life, I suppose.  We men are grand-stand players:  we need an audience, some one person who really cares whether we succeed or fail.  Your brother, for instance, has won more in the building of the S. R. & N. than I can ever hope to win.”

Eliza felt a trifle conscious, too, and she did not look at him when she said:  “Poor, lonely old Omar Khayyam!  You deserve all Dan has.  I think I understand why you haven’t been to see us.”

“I’ve been too busy; this thing has kept me here every hour.  It’s my child, and one can’t neglect his own child, you know—­even if it isn’t a real one.”  He laughed apologetically.  “See! there’s where we took the skiff that day we ran Jackson Glacier.  He’s harmless enough now.  You annoyed me dreadfully that morning, Eliza, and—­I’ve never quite understood why you were so reckless.”

“I wanted the sensation.  Writers have to live before they can write.  I’ve worked the experience into my novel.”

“Indeed?  What is your book about?”

“Well—­it’s the story of a railroad-builder, of a fellow who risked everything he had on his own judgment.  It’s—­you!”

“Why, my dear!” cried O’Neil, turning upon her a look of almost comic surprise.  “I’m flattered, of course, but there’s nothing romantic or uncommon about me.”