Men came from far to do honour to the poor, blackened body of Joe Denny, who had come into kinship with all heroic dead, and they buried him--it was Wayne’s idea--beside the friendless Pole in the fairest spot the town commanded. Mrs. Blair came with Jean, and Walsh and Wingfield were there, too--and Paddock read the office for the dead. But this was not enough, and at the end the minister stood beside Joe’s grave and spoke to the great throng of the beauty of the life that had gone out, of the nobility of its sacrifice and the glory of it, so that eyes were wet that had never known tears. And when he had finished, as the sun dipped low behind the hills, he raised his hands above the crowd and blessed them, and it seemed that a great peace fell upon the world. CHAPTER XXXIX WE SEE WALSH AGAIN A fortnight later Wayne cut the twine that held the key of his desk to Walsh’s lamp. The publicity attending his search for Joe at Denbeigh had driven him away, and he had gone quietly back to Pittsburg and taken his place in the glass pilot-house with Walsh. The newspapers had not neglected him; he had spent a small fortune at the Florence colliery in securing the body of a young miner who had been his friend, and the event was not without its spectacular value. When Wayne left Denbeigh a great crowd gathered at the station and cheered him, and there was no suppressing this; and the shame of it was that he could not explain to a public anxious to praise him the truth about Joe’s death--that it was only through loyalty to himself that Joe had gone back to Denbeigh and donned again the miner’s cap--that Joe had sunk his own aims to serve and guard and protect him. Wayne had taken a room at the Allequippa Club and lodged next to Walsh. He had visited his father both at his office and at home, and he knew from Walsh that the outlook for the Craighill interests was brightening daily. A few days after his return Wayne dined at the Club with Walsh and Wingfield. Wingfield was almost insufferably arrogant now that Wayne had become a hero, and he took occasion to snub persons who had never seen anything in Wayne but the dissolute son of a distinguished father, and who now declared that Wayne was a good fellow, but that he had been his own worst enemy--and so on. It pleased Wingfield to have men ask him for the facts touching Wayne’s recent exile, and on all inquiries he turned his eye-glasses coldly. People who had been prone to kick Wayne need not trouble themselves to praise him now--this was all they got out of Dick Wingfield as he sipped koumiss in his particular corner of the Allequippa smoking room, and studied the men of Pittsburg with a mild and philosophic eye. As they drank their coffee to-night a telegram was handed Walsh. He read it slowly. “Um! I got to go up to your father’s,” he said, and left them a few minutes later.