His head pounded from the pressure of intensified heart action.

His eyes closed wearily, yet with a wholesome fatigue.
Nor did he wake until Harry was pounding on the door in the dawn of the morning.
Their meal came before the dining room was regularly open.

Mother Howard herself flipping the flapjacks and frying the eggs which formed their breakfast, meanwhile finding the time to pack their lunch buckets.

Then out into the crisp air of morning they went, and back to their labors.
Once more the pumps; once more the struggle against the heavy timbers; once more the "clunk" of the axe as it bit deep into wood, or the pounding of hammers as great spikes were driven into place.

Late that afternoon they turned to a new duty,--that of mucking away the dirt and rotted logs from a place that once had been impassable.