Donaldson never glanced up. With the precision of a machine he bent over his shovel, lifted, and threw without pause. The men near him looked askance at such unceasing labor. In time, the foreman blew a shrill note on a whistle and as though he had applied a brake connected with every man, the shovels dropped and the motley gang scrambled for their dinner pails. Donaldson for the first time then lifted his face to Arsdale. The seventh noon had come, and never had a midday been ushered in to such a sweet note as the foreman had blown on his penny whistle. Donaldson, picking up his coat, made his way to the side of Arsdale, who had risen to meet him with Sandy barking at his heels. "I have only an hour," apologized Donaldson, "I 'm afraid I 'm hardly in a condition to go into the house." "You are n't coming back here?" "Yes." Once again Arsdale found his protest choked at his lips. What was the use of talking to a man in such a stubborn mood as this? He led the way to the house. In the hall, he shouted up the stairs, "Elaine, Peter Donaldson is here!" The girl stepped from the library clutching the silken curtains. She hesitated a moment at sight of him and then faltering forward, offered her hand. "I 'm glad you came back," she said. His fingers closed over her own with a decisiveness that made her catch her breath. As the woman in the mirror had divined, there was nothing more left for her to do. "But the old chump is going again in an hour," choked Arsdale, "he 's taken a job shovelling dirt." She met Donaldson's eyes. For a moment they questioned him. Then her own eyes grew moist and she smiled. The joy of it all was too much for her. She stooped and patted Sandy who was clawing her skirts for recognition. "Oh, little dog," she whispered in his silken ear, "I am glad you came back. Glad--glad--glad!" THE END End of Project Gutenberg's The Seventh Noon, by Frederick Orin Bartlett