One cheerful moment for Parker had been when the postmaster informed him of Sunkhaze's equilibrium in the matter of news-monging But a more cheerful moment was when Mank, his foreman, standing with him on the ice above the submerged Swogon told him that a sandbar made out into the lake at that point and that the locomotive was probably lodged on the bar, only a little way below the surface. When they had sawed the ice and sounded they found this to be true. As soon as a broad square of ice had been removed they saw her, all her outlines clear against the white sand. The sunken sleds were equally in evidence. It was not a diver's job, then, as Parker, in his worryings, had feared. On the thick ice surrounding the whole there was solid foothold for the raising apparatus and Parker's crew set at work with good cheer. It was a cold, wet and tedious job, the grappling and the raising, but his derricks were strong and his rigging plentiful. Moreover, the water was not deep. All the material that could not be recovered by the grapples was duplicated by means of quick replies to wired orders, and the work of transportation across the lake was successfully completed. It was well into a warm May, and his men for the last week had been moving soil and building culverts before the case of Col. Gideon Ward was brought to Parker's attention in a manner requiring action. One evening just after dusk his foreman scratched on the flap of the engineer's tent, in which he was now living at Poquette. “Come in!” he called. The canvas was lifted and a man entered. Parker turned the reflector of his lantern on the visitor. “Joshua Ward!” he exclaimed, as he started up and seized the old man's outstretched hand. He led him to a camp-stool. They looked at each other for a time in silence. Tears trembled on Joshua's eyelashes, and he passed his knotted hand over his face before he spoke. “Mr. Parker,” he said, tremulously, “I've come to bring ye money to pay for every cent's worth o' damage to property 'an loss o' time an' everything.” He laid a package in the young man's hand. “Help yourself,” he quavered. “I'm goin' to trust to your honesty, for I'm certain I can. Take what's right. Gid and I don't know anythin' about railroads an' what such things as you lost are worth. All we can do is to show that we mean to square things the best we can now. Gid's sorry now, Mr. Parker, he's sorry--sorry--sorry--poor Gid!” The old man sobbed outright. “Did he--” The young man paused, half-fearing to ask the question. Joshua again ran his rough palm across his eyes. Then, in dumb grief, he set the edge of his right hand against his left wrist, the left hand to the right wrist, and then marked a place on each leg above the ankle. “All off there, Mr. Parker.” The old man bent his head into his hollowed palms. Tears trickled through his fingers. There was a long silence. The young man did not know how to interrupt that pause.