He climbed the steep path, and paused for a moment to look down over the yards before knocking at the door. His eyes gleamed with pride as he watched the busy engines, the assembled cars, the evidences of orderly and busy life. Then he turned and knocked. An Irish woman well past middle-age, and with hair snowy white, opened the door. “Mrs. Magraw?” asked the visitor. “Yis, sir.” “My name’s Schofield.” “I know ye, sir,” said Mrs. Magraw, quietly. “This ain’t the first toime ye’ve been to see me.” “No—but that was a good many years ago. If you don’t mind, I’ll sit down here on the porch. I want to talk to you.” “All right, sir,” said Mrs. Magraw, and tried to dust off the bench, but Mr. Schofield was too quick for her. “I’ve heard how your husband died,” he began gently, “and I want to say this: no man ever died a nobler death.” “I’m proud of him, sir,” said Mrs. Magraw, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m prouder of him than I kin say.” “We’re all proud of him. I’ve been proud of him for many years. It isn’t the first time he’s proved the stuff he was made of.” Mrs. Magraw nodded. “But there’s no use for me to tell you that,” went on the superintendent. “You knew him better than I did. Now here’s what I’ve come to say. The road has pensioned you for life. You will receive a check every month for thirty dollars.” “Thirty dollars!” echoed Mrs. Magraw. “Why, sir,—” “I know it isn’t very much—” “Very much! It’s all the difference between starvin’ an’ livin’, sir.” “I’m glad of that. How old is your oldest boy?” “Thirteen, sir.” “What do you want him to be?” “Well, sir, he seems to have a taste fer mechanics.” “All right; there’s a job waiting for him, and for all the other boys when they’re old enough. The road wants to make life just as easy for you as it can, Mrs. Magraw; and even at that, it feels that it has done mighty little—so little that I was almost ashamed to come here to-day and tell you. It’s not in any sense intended as a recompense—don’t think it.” “I understand, sir,” said Mrs. Magraw, and there was in her face a sweet dignity. “An’ I’ve had my recompense—with the flowers an’ the men at the funeral—the shop-men, sir, an’ the brotherhood—stretchin’ clear out t’ the street yonder, an’ cryin’, sir, as if ’twas their own brother—” She stopped, her eyes gleaming. “He was the brother of every one of us,” he said; and added, soberly, “I wish I was as good a man!” Mrs. Magraw watched him as he crossed the yards; watched him till a corner of the round-house hid him from view; then she turned slowly back into the house, her face shining. “Oh, Reddy,” she said hoarsely to herself; “it’s a proud woman I am this day; proud fer ye—proud fer ye—oh, an’ heart-broken, too.” * * * * * The next afternoon, Mr. Schofield called up Jack Welsh’s residence. “How’s Allan getting along?” he asked of the woman’s voice which answered the phone.