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all in the face of the tragedy. The youth held no grievance against the magnate. And, it seemed to Abner, no longer did Miss Haly. The wreck which the financier had made of the Sandages and of Abner's fortunes had been so terribly atoned that nothing was left in Abner's heart except pity and tears. And these were mostly for Adelaide. The tears he stoically repressed, walking along with a strained face and compressed lips, because he was a hillman.

From every direction the villagers were gathering at the Jones home. Some came in motors, some drove horses and buggies ready to ride in the procession. A great many of the poorer folk came to walk in the line.

A feeling of leaderlessness, of being abandoned to their own futilities, filled the whole village. As Abner approached the manor where the dead lay in state, he instinctively framed the thought of the stricken town, "What can we do now?"

A hand took gentle hold of Abner's arm, as men sympathize with each other in the presence of death. The hillman looked around and saw Mr. Ditmas.

"It's a great pity, it's a great tragedy," said the engineer in a hushed voice, and after a few moments he added, "It was inevitable, I suppose."

Abner could not say anything. He bit the corner of his trembling lips and walked on under Mr. Ditmas's hand.

"The work on the railroad has stopped, of course," continued the engineer, "thoroughly disorganized. I doubt if any one goes on with it."

"I—I reckon not," assented Abner unsteadily, thinking of Adelaide.

After some moments, the engineer said, "We had a very bad thing happen down at camp, too, last night."

"What was that?"

"The train hit old man Belshue; the last train in; probably the last train that will ever run."

"Did it kill him?" asked Abner, looking at the Northerner.