“Of course,” he went on, “the credit belongs to Parker, who worked the bridge out in each detail—­he’s marvelous—­and to Mellen, who actually built it, but I helped a little.  Praise to me means praise to them.”

“It is all over now, isn’t it?”

“Practically.  Blaine has cabled New York that we’ve won.  Strictly speaking, we haven’t as yet, for there’s still the break-up to face; but the bridge will come through it without a scratch.  The ice may go out any minute now, and after that I can rest.”  He smiled at her gladly.  “It will feel good to get rid of all this responsibility, won’t it?  I think you’ve suffered under it as much as I have.”

A little wistfully she answered:  “You’re going to realize that dream you told me about the day of the storm at Kyak.  You have conquered this great country—­just as you dreamed.”

He acquiesced eagerly, boyishly.  “Yes.  Whirring wheels, a current of traffic, a broad highway of steel—­that’s the sort of monument I want to leave.”

“Sometime I’ll come back and see it all completed and tell myself that I had a little part in making it.”

“Come back?” he queried.  “Why, you’re going to stay till we’re through, aren’t you?”

“Oh no!  I’m going south with the spring flight—­on the next boat, perhaps.”

His face fell; the exultant light gradually faded from his eyes.

“Why—­I had no idea!  Aren’t you happy here?”

She nodded.  “But I must try to make good in my work as you have in yours.”

He was looking at her sorrowfully, almost as if she had deserted him.  “That’s too bad, but—­I suppose you must go.  Yes; this is no place for you.  I dare say other people need you to bring sunshine and joy to them just as we old fellows do, but—­I’ve never thought about your leaving.  It wouldn’t be right to ask you to stay here among such people as we are when you have so much ahead of you.  Still, it will leave a gap.  Yes—­it certainly will—­leave a gap.”

She longed desperately to tell him how willingly she would stay if he only asked her, but the very thought shocked her into a deeper reserve.

“I’m going East to sell my book,” she said, stiffly.  “You’ve given me the climax of the story in this race with the seasons.”

“Is it a—­love story?” he asked.

Eliza flushed.  “Yes.  It’s mostly love.”

“You’re not at all the girl I thought you when we first met.  You’re very—­different.  I’m sure I won’t recognize myself as the hero.  Who—­or what is the girl in the story?”

“Well, she’s just the kind of girl that would appeal to a person like you.  She’s tall and dark and dashing, and—­of course, she’s remarkably beautiful.  She’s very feminine, too.”

“What’s her name?”

Miss Appleton stammered:  “Why—­I—­called her Violet—­until I could think of a better—­”

“What’s wrong with Violet?  You couldn’t think of a better name than that.  I’m fond of it.”