They sat late listening to the gurgle and trill and tinkle of the water slipping over the stones. Neither man said anything more, nor mouthed, nor kneeled, nor amened, nor did save as men among men do and say: but somehow Wayland had never felt so sure of the God, who was Love and whose Love washed men clean, being, as he told himself, 'on the job.' It may not have been religion; and it may not have been theology; but I think it was the workable conviction that many a fighting man incorporates into his life. Perhaps, it was what Christians call Belief, only we have so slimed that good word over with hypocrisy that it's hard for fighting working men among men, women among women, people on the job, to mine down to the exact business sense of those old religious terms. 'Slimed with hypocrisy?' Yes, good friends, 'slimed with hypocrisy.' Have you not known men and women, legions of them, who shouted their fire-proof Belief, Belief, Belief, their fire-insurance Belief that was to roof them from rain of fire and act as an umbrella against the results of their own misdeeds; who underscored their Bibles, and prayed long and loud, and proclaimed themselves right, when every day, every act of every day, every leastermost act of very hour, shouted blasphemous denial of what so ever is lovely and pure and unselfish and Christlike; whose influence damned and injured and blighted every life it touched? You must not blame business men and women for wanting a workable faith, a faith that will deliver the goods on the job. CHAPTER XXI THE HAPPY AND TRIUMPHANT HOME-COMING They were up before sunrise following along a rock trail against the face of a mountain through the morning mists, when they turned a sharp crag and came suddenly on one of those flower slopes bevelled out of the forests by snow or ice. The slant sunlight met their faces, and the mists were lifting in a curtain, with a riffle of wind that ran through the grasses like the ripple of waves to the touch of unseen feet. The slope lay literally a field of gold, spikes and umbels of gold--the gold of yellow midsummer light dyed in the asters and sunflowers and great flowered gaillardias and golden rod, with an odor of dried grasses or mint or cloves. "By George," cried Wayland, "you'd not believe it! Only seven weeks; look!" Matthews looked but apparently did not see. "Don't you see? It's the place where the snow slide slumped down!" "But where in the name o' conscience is all yon snow; and where's th' bodies, Wayland?" "Washed down to the bottom of the Lake Behind the Peak by this time; or you may find a great rock pile at the foot of the slope." "A'm thinkin' they'll lie quiet till the crack o' doom, Wayland; but, but do y' no' see a tent back in yon larches across th' slide, man, where the thing knocked us both sprawlin'?" "By George, yes, I do! Wonder if they're homesteading this next? It's off the N. F."