"Mother," was still for a minute, looking at the fire in the grate. "James, it is late in life to apply such tests, but love is like gold; ours will be better now--the dross has been burned away in the fire. I did what I did for love of you, and you did what you did for love of me; let us all commence to live again in the old way," and those arms of hers could not keep away from his neck. Ed went out with tears in his eyes, and I beckoned the daughter to follow me. We passed into the parlor, drew the curtain over the doorway--and there was nothing but that rag between us and heaven. THE CLEAN MAN AND THE DIRTY ANGELS When I first went firing, down in my native district, where Bean is King, there was a man on the road pulling a mixed train, by the name of Clark--'Lige Clark. Being only a fireman, and a new one at that, I did not come very much in contact with Clark, or any of the other engineers, excepting my own--James Dillon. 'Lige Clark was a character on the road; everybody knew "old 'Lige;" he was liked and respected, but not loved; he was thought puritanical, or religious, or cranky, by some, yet no one hated him, or even had a strong dislike for him. His honesty and straightforwardness were proverbial. He was always in charge of the funds of every order he belonged to, as well as of the Sunday-school and church. He was truthful to a fault, but above all, just. "'Cause 'tain't right, that's why," was his way of refusing to do a thing, and his argument against others doing it. After I got to running, I saw and knew more of 'Lige, and I think, perhaps, I was as much of a friend as he ever had. We never were chums. I never went to his house, and he never went to mine; we were simply roundhouse acquaintances; used to talk engine a little, but usually talked about children--'Lige had four, and always spoke about "doing the right thing by them." 'Lige had a very heavy full beard, that came clear up to his eyes, and a mass of wavy hair--all iron grey. His eyes were steel grey, and matched his hair, and he had a habit of looking straight at you when he spoke. On his engine he invariably ran with his head out of the side window, rain or shine, and always bareheaded. When he stepped upon the footboard, he put his hat away with his clothes, and there it stayed. He was never known to wear a cap, excepting in the coldest weather. Once in a while, when I was firing, I have seen him come in, in winter, with his beard white with frost and ice, and some smoke-shoveling wit dubbed him Santa Claus.