by L. T. Meade
selfish. I went on my way. Oh! that ugly coal country, with thewintry fading light of the first November evening over it! I kicked upcoal dust with my feet, and two heavy tears fell from my eyes. Yes,Owen was coming home. Even now, each moment was bringing him nearer tous. Owen was coming home, and I was unhappy. Between this hour, andthe hour six weeks before, when David had broken to me one sad fact, astrange but complete revulsion had taken place within me. I was achildish creature still, childish in heart and nature; but just,perhaps, or in part, perhaps, because I _was_ so inexperienced, soimmature, I had turned from my hero, I had hardened myself against thewarmest love of my life.
Yes, I had made a god and worshipped it. Nothing was too good for it,no homage too great to lay at its feet, no sacrifice too worthy to offerat its shrine. Mother, David, Amy, were all as nothing in comparison ofthis my hero. My dream lasted through my childhood and early youth,then suddenly it vanished. My god was a clay god, my idol was dust.
Owen Morgan still lived. Owen Morgan was coming back to his mother,brother, sister, but my perfect Owen was dead. A man who had sinned,who had brought disgrace on us, was coming home to-day. More and moreas the time drew nearer I had shrunk from seeing, from speaking to, fromtouching, this altered Owen. I was intensely unmerciful, intenselysevere, with the severity of the very young. No after repentance, nofuture deed of glory could wipe away this early stain. I had beendeceived--Owen had sinned--and _my_ Owen was dead. As I walked quicklyalong the barren, ugly coal country, I pictured to myself what myfeelings would have been to-day had this not been so. Would mother havesat alone then in her velvet and lace to meet the returning hero? WouldI? ah! what would I _not_ have done to-day? I could not think of it. Idashed away another tear or two and walked on. I chose unfrequented,lonely paths, and these abounded in plenty, paths leading up to old,used-up shafts, and neglected mines; paths with thin ragged grasscovering them, all equally ugly. At last I came to a huge cinder-heap,which had lain undisturbed so long, that some weak vegetation hadmanaged now to grow up around it. Here I sat down to rest. Thecinder-heap was close to the closed-up shaft of an unused pit. In thisfortnight I had already learned something of mining life, and I knewwhere to look for the old shafts, and always examined them withcuriosity. As I sat there, I heard the voices of two children, who,evidently quite unaware of my close neighbourhood, were talking eagerlytogether, at the other side of the cinder-heap. It was a boy's voice Iheard first--high, shrill, passionate.
"Yes, indeed, Nan; they'll call me a coward. No, Nan; I'll not bedaunted. I will go down on Monday!"
To these words the girl replied with sobs. I heard the boy kissing her;then there was silence, then the same eager voice said--
"Don't cry, Nan; Monday ain't come yet. Let's talk of somethingpleasant."
"Don't talk at all, Miles. Let's sing."
"Shall we sing `The Cross?'"
"I don't--no, I do care. Yes, we'll sing that." There was a pause,then two sweet, wild voices took up the following words to a plaintiveWelsh air:--
"The cross! the cross! the heavy cross! The Saviour bore for me! Which bowed Him to the earth with grief, On sad Mount Calvary.
"How light, how light, this precious cross Presented now to me; And if with care I take it up, Behold a crown for me!"
Here the voices ceased suddenly, and I again heard a kiss of comfort,and the sound of a girl's sob. I could bear no more. I started to myfeet, ran round the cinder-heap, and confronted the children.
"Please don't be frightened! I heard you sing. I want you to singagain. I want to know what's the matter. I'm Gwladys Morgan--you mayhave heard of me; my brother is going to manage the mine at Ffynon."
Two pairs of black eyes were raised to my face, then the boy rose slowlyto his feet, came forward a step or two, and after gazing at me with themost searching, penetrating glance I had ever been favoured with, saidbrightly, as if satisfied with the result of his scrutiny--
"I'm Miles, and this is little Nan."
"And father works down in the mine," said little Nan.
"Father's name is Moses Thomas--he's deputy," said the boy again, in aproud tone.
"Go on," I said, seating myself close to the children; "tell me allabout yourselves. I'm so glad I've met you. I am sure we shall befriends. I like you both already. Now you must let me know your wholestory, from beginning to end; only first, do, _do_ sing that lovely hymnagain."
"I'll sing, Miss Morgan," said the boy, instantly; "but you'll forgivelittle Nan; little Nan's in trouble, and her voice ain't steady."
Throwing back his head, looking straight before him, and clasping hishands round his knee, he sang to the same wild measure the next verse ofthe Methodist hymn:--
"The crown! the crown! the glorious crown! A crown of life for me. This crown of life it shall be mine, When Jesus I shall see."
"When Jesus I shall see," he repeated, under his breath, looking at thegirl as he spoke. As the children looked at each other they seemed tohave forgotten my presence.
"What's the cross you've got to bear? Nan," I asked.
An old-fashioned, troubled, anxious face was raised to mine; but it wasMiles who answered.
"'Tis just this, Miss Morgan: 'tis nothing to fret about. I've got togo down into the mine to work on Monday. I've never been into the minebefore, and little Nan's rare and timmersome; but I says to her thatshe's faithless. She knows, and I know, that the Lord'll be down in themine too. 'Tis none so dark down there but He'll find me h'out, andtake care on me."
"He didn't find out Stephie," sobbed Nan, all her composure giving way."He took no care on Stephie."
"What is it?" I said; "do tell me about it; and who is Stephie?Miles."
"Stephie is dead, Miss Morgan. There's only us two now--only us andfather. Mother died arter Stephie went; she fretted a good bit, and shedied too; and then there was Nan, and me, and father. We lives nearFfynon Mine, and father's deputy; and we're none so rich, and fatherworks rare and 'ard; and he don't get much money, 'cause the times isbad; and I'm fourteen, and I'm very strong, and I says I should work."
"No--no--no!" here screamed the girl, forgetting, in a perfect paroxysmof fright and grief, the presence of the stranger. She clasped her armsround the boy's neck, and her white lips worked convulsively.
"There it is," said Miles; "she's sure set agen it, and yet it must be."Then bending down and speaking in a low voice, in her ear. "Shall Itell the lady about Stephie? Nan."
"Yes," said Nan, unloosing her hold, and looking up into his face with asigh. She had the scared look in her wild, bright eyes, I have seen inthe hunted hare, when he flew past me--dogs and horsemen in fullpursuit. Now she buried her head in her brother's rough jacket, withthe momentary relief which the telling of Stephie's story would give tothe tension of her fears.
"Tell me about Stephie," I said.
"Stephie," continued Miles--"he was our brother. Mother set great storeby Stephie; he was so strong, and big, and brave. Nothing 'ud daunt'im. Many of the lads about 'ere 'ud try; and they'd say, `Wait tillthe day you goes down inter the mine, and you'll show the whitefeather'; but he--he larfed at 'em. He 'ad no fear in 'im, and h'allthe stories 'bout fire-damp, and h'all the other dangers--and worse'rnall, the ghosts of the colliers as died in the mine, they couldn't daunthim. Other lads 'ud run away, wen they come near the h'age; but he--heon'y counted the days; and `Mother,' 'e'd say--for mother war werryweakly--`Mother, wen you 'as my wage, you can buy this thing and t'otherthing, and you'll be strong in no time.' Well, mother she thought asight on Stephie, and she never wanted 'im to go down inter the mine;and she used to ask father to try and 'prentice 'im to another trade,for he war so big, and bright, and clever; but the times was bad, andfather couldn't, so Stephie had to go. He _was_ clever, and fond o'readin', and a man wot lived near, lent 'im books, real minin' books,and he knew 'bout the dangers well as anybody; but nothing could dauntStephie, and he often said that he'd work and work, and rise
hisself;and he'd try then ef he couldn't find h'out something as 'ud help tolessen the danger for the colliers. At last the day came wen he was togo down."
Here Miles paused, drew a long breath, and little Nan buried her headyet farther into his rough jacket. He stooped to kiss her, then raisinghis head, and fixing his eyes on my face, he continued. "The day 'adcome, and Stephie got h'up very early in
