She loved the bridge as much as he.
On the little platform of the working railroad station he had said good-by to her. The train started and she ran alongside.
"Stop the train!" she cried.
He pulled the emergency cord.
"What is it, Cecily? Changing your mind?"
"Dearest one, I just want to kiss you again before you go. Just once more. I 'm a silly woman."
"Come with me, Cecily. Come as you are. We can get you clothes in town."
"No, lover. I must stay and take care of your bridge. I don't mind who 's looking, lover. Just—kiss me again."
Had she some premonition of the disaster? Did that spiritual wisdom which we call intuition, tell her of ruin that was hovering like a hawk? Poor Cecily! How heartbroken she'd be. Her eyes, her poor eyes, would be burnt with crying. Poor Cecily! Perhaps he could make her believe it did n't matter. Nothing mattered so long as he had her. Ah, but it did! He would never build another bridge. He might do mighty structures of iron and cement, immense feats of engineering, but never a great stone bridge again. Never again!... Poor Cecily!