The two stood still now, watching the men as their long, powerful
strides brought them rapidly nearer. Back of them the sun rose up
splendid in the sparkling, dustless mountain air. The pasture grass on
either side of the sinuous path lay shining in the dew. Before them the
path led through a grove of slim, white birches, tremulous in a pale
cloud of light green.

"Well, they've got a pretty good way to get to their work, all right,"
commented Mr. Welles.

"Yep, pretty good," agreed Paul. "It's got tramped down so it's quite
smooth."

A detachment of the file of tall, strongly built, roughly dressed men
had now reached them, and with friendly, careless nods and greetings to
Paul, they swung by, smoking, whistling, calling out random remarks and
jokes back and forth along the line.

"Hello, Frank. Hello, Mike. Hello, Harry. Hello, Jom-bastiste. Hello,
Jim." Paul made answer to their repeated, familiar, "Hello, Paul."

* * * * *

Mr. Welles drew back humbly from out their path. These were men, useful
to the world, strong for labor. He must needs stand back with the child.

With entire unexpectedness, he felt a wistful envy of those men, still
valid, still fit for something. For a moment it did not seem as sweet as
he had thought it would always be, to feel himself old, old and
useless.