AND so it happened that Allan arose next morning about two hours earlier than usual, in order to catch the five o’clock train for Cincinnati. It reminded him of the far-off days when he was taking his trick of track-walking in the early morning. As he came down the stairs, he saw a yellow band of light under the kitchen door, and he heard somebody clattering about within. He opened the door to find Mary already busy with the kitchen stove. “Why, Allan,” she said, “what’re ye doin’ up so early?” “I’ve got to go to Cincinnati on Number One,” he answered. “I’ll be back on Two to-night.” “Why didn’t ye tell me last night?” she demanded. “I’d ’a’ had your breakfast ready.” “I know you would,” Allan answered, looking at the patient, kindly face. “That’s the reason I didn’t say anything. I’ll get breakfast on the diner. Good-bye,” and snatching up hat and overcoat, he was off. He reached the station just as the train was pulling in and found Mr. Schofield awaiting him. Together they clambered into the Pullman and took their seats in the smoking compartment. It was still quite dark, but a faint band of gray over the hills to the east told that the dawn was not far distant. The train rolled out of the yards, through the deserted streets, along the embankment by the dark river, past the twin bridges spanning canal and highway at the city limits, up the long grade that led to the slate cut, through the cut, over the bridge spanning the deep ravine beyond, and so on toward Cincinnati. For some time, neither Allan nor Mr. Schofield spoke, but sat silently staring out of the window, for every foot of the way had some association for them. It was that embankment which they had laboured so hard to save in time of flood, when the mighty current of the river was slowly seeping over it; it was in that cut that Allan had encountered Reddy Magraw, half crazed, one wild night; it was from the bridge beyond that a gang of wreckers had attempted to hurl the pay-car. How familiar it all was—how near, and yet how far-away, those days seemed! Then, as the dawn lightened, a tousle-headed man came in, coat, collar and shoes in hand, and made a hasty toilet. “Couldn’t sleep a wink last night,” he said, when he had got his hands and face washed, his collar on and his tie tied. “This road certainly has got ’em all beat for curves.” “It _does_ wind a little as it comes through the mountains,” agreed Mr. Schofield, smiling. “Wind!” exclaimed the stranger. “It corkscrews!” “You see, it has to follow the streams,” explained the superintendent. “Well, the streams must ’a’ been drunk when they struck out their path, then. Well, well,” he added, glancing through the window at the frost-whitened fields, “that’s the first time I’ve seen any frost for two years.” “Where’ve you been?” inquired Mr. Schofield. “Down at Panama. I run an engine on the Isthmus railroad.” “Do you?” and Mr. Schofield looked at him with interest. “How are things getting along down there?”