“I thought you cared for Natalie,” she said, softly, after a while.

“It was always you.”

“Always?”

“Always!”

She turned her lips to his, and lifted her entwining arms.

The breakfast-gong had called the men away before the two figures far out upon the bridge picked their way slowly to the shore.  The Salmon was still flooded with hurrying masses of ice, as it would continue to be for several days, but it was running free; the channel in front of the glacier was open.

Blaine was the first to shake O’Neil’s hand, for the members of Murray’s crew held aloof in some embarrassment.

“It’s a perfect piece of work,” said he.  “I congratulate you.”

The others echoed his sentiments faintly, hesitatingly, for they were abashed at what they saw in their chief’s face and realized that words were weak and meaningless.

Dan dared not trust himself to speak.  He had many things to say to his sister, but his throat ached miserably.  Natalie restrained herself only by the greatest effort.

It was Tom Slater who ended the awkward pause by grumbling, sarcastically: 

“If all the young lovers are safely ashore, maybe us old men who built the bridge can go and get something to eat.”

Murray smiled at the girl beside him.

“I’m afraid they’ve guessed our secret, dear.”

“Secret!” Slater rolled his eyes.  “There ain’t over a couple thousand people beside us that saw you pop the question.  I s’pose she was out of breath and couldn’t say no.”

Eliza gasped and fled to her brother’s arms.

“Sis!  Poor—­little Sis!” Dan cried, and two tears stole down his brown cheeks.  “Isn’t this—­just great?” Then the others burst into a noisy expression of their gladness.

“Happy Tom” regarded them all pessimistically.  “I feel bound to warn you,” he said at length, “that marriage is an awful gamble.  It ain’t what it seems.”

“It is!” Natalie declared.  “It’s better, and you know it.”

“It turned out all right for me,” Tom acknowledged, “because I got the best woman in the world.  But”—­he eyed his chief accusingly—­“I went about it in a modest way; I didn’t humiliate her in public.”

He turned impatiently upon his companions, still pouring out their babble of congratulations.

“Come along, can’t you,” he cried, “and leave ’em alone.  I’m a dyspeptic old married man, but I used to be young and affectionate, like Murray.  After breakfast I’m going to cable Mrs. Slater to come and bring the kids with her and watch her bed-ridden, invalid husband build the rest of this railroad.  I’m getting chuck full of romance.”

“It has been a miraculous morning for me,” said Murray, after a time, “and the greatest miracle is—­you, dear.”

“This is just the way the story ended in my book,” Eliza told him happily—­“our book.”

He pressed her closer.  “Yes!  Our book—­our bridge—­our everything, Eliza.”