“I didn’t need one.”
“Son, are you sure? This has been a stumper. What you say—seems too good—too—”
“Am I sure?” cried Neale, gaily. “Look at Baxter’s face!”
Indeed, one look at the old engineer was confirmation enough.
Neale was made much of that night. The chief and his engineers, the officers and their wives, all vied with one another in their efforts to celebrate Neale’s return to work. The dinner party was merry, yet earnest, too. Baxter made a speech, his fine old face alight with gladness as he extolled youth and genius and the inspiring power of bright eyes. Neale had to answer. His voice was deep and full as he said that Providence had returned him to his work and to a happiness he had believed lost. He denied the genius attributed to him, but not the inspiring power of bright eyes. And he paid a fine tribute to Baxter.
Through all this gaiety and earnestness Allie’s lips were mute, and her cheeks flushed and paled by turns. It was an ordeal for her, both confusing and poignant. At last she and Neale got away alone to the cabin room where they had met earlier in the day.
They stood at the open window, close together, hands locked, gazing out over the quiet valley. The moon was full, and broad belts of silver light lay in strong contrast to black shadows. The hour was late. The sentries paced their beats.
Allie stirred and lifted her face to Neale’s. “What they said about you makes me almost as happy as to see you again,” she said.
“They said! Who? What?” asked Neale, dreamily.
“Oh, I heard, I remember!... For instance, Mr. Baxter said you had genius.”