The Philadelphians took to the homeward trail with backward glances and something of regret lest the archaean foundations of that mountain of ore might shift over night. There was no sense of fatigue now. Birch skipped over logs in wayward abandon and laughed like a schoolboy when Clark picked a heavy gold watch chain that dangled from an overhanging bush. Riggs' thin legs were being scratched by the sharp samples with which he had stuffed his trouser pockets, but he felt them not, and Stoughton's choler had given way to a profound contemplation out of which he periodically breathed the conviction that he would be damned. Wimperley was already organizing a new company--an iron corporation--and hazarding shrewd guesses as to the effect this discovery would have on the outstanding stock. The result, he concluded, would be most inspiring. They lunched on the tug, an admirable meal, while the vessel vibrated gently and through the open portholes came the swish of bubbling water and a flood of sunlight. Then Riggs made a little speech and they all drank Clark's health, promising him continued support and such money as he needed to make steel rails. The threatening specter of Marsham had vanished utterly. The answer was characteristic. There was no mention of anything the speaker had contributed, but just the voicing of his unalterable faith in a country which so far had never failed to produce whatever the industry required. It was a pleasure for him to work for directors and shareholders who had so practically demonstrated their confidence. He said this with a smile which was absolutely undecipherable, then drank their health in water which was his only drink---declined one of Wimperley's cigars, for he did not smoke--and inquired quietly if he was to get his railway as well. Whereupon he was immediately assured that he would get anything he asked for. That evening the Philadelphians left in the private car. They were rather quiet, being caught up in contemplation of a new vision. As the train pulled out Clark waved a hand to the group on the rear platform and returned thoughtfully to the blockhouse where he began to write. The letter was to his mother. He told her that he had been too busy for correspondence of late, and had just concluded a very satisfactory and official visit from his directors. In consequence, he would now be busier than ever. He stared at his own signature for a moment, then opened a window and stood peering out toward the river. The moon was up, and he caught the snowy gleam of foam at the foot of the rapids. Their voice seemed very clear and very triumphant that night. They sang of providence--or was it destiny?