by L. T. Meade
them, 'cept Miles; and then the Lord, He went and stood by Miles,on the empty space, and He put His arm round Miles, and he looked at me,and I saw the Lord and Miles going down into the dark, dark pittogether."
"I'm sure that was true," I said, "that was very much what Miles saidhimself, don't you remember? You were much better after your dream,were you not? Nan."
"Yes, miss, I was light and easy in my mind, as if I was twenty!"
"What _do_ you mean, now?" I said.
"Well, Miss Morgan, I can't help it. I know I'm queer, the folks allsay I'm queer. I know I haven't h'aged with my years. Sometimes, miss,the anxiety brings me up to fifty, and I feels my hair's a-turnin'white; then again, I'm thirty, and forty; most times I feels likethirty, but now and then, as to-day, the Lord gives me a specialrevelation, and then, why, I'm as light as a feather, and down totwenty, but I'm never below that, miss."
And yet I meant to offer that creature toys! Such was my mentalcomment, but before I could speak again, the door was opened, and a tallman--coal-black--with gleaming eyeballs, and snowy teeth, came in. Hetook no notice of me, perhaps he did not see me, but in passing throughto another room, he called out in a full cheery voice--
"I say, little lass, how do you feel?"
"Fine, father, down to twenty."
"Well, Twenty, bustle about, and get me some dinner; I'll be ready forit in ten minutes."
"I must go away now," I said, rising.
"No, miss, that you mustn't; I wants you to see father. Father's awonderful man, Miss Morgan, he have had a sight o' trouble one way andt'other, and he's up to fifty in years; but the Lord, He keeps him thatstrong and full o' faith, he never passes thirty, in his mind; butthere, what a chatterbox I am, and father a wantin' his dinner!"
The old-fashioned mortal moved away, laid a coarse but clean cloth on asmall table, dished up some bacon and potatoes in a masterly manner, andplaced beside them a tin vessel--which, she informed me, was a miner's"jack"--full of cold tea.
"Father will never go down into the mine without his jack o' tea," sheexplained; and just then the miner, his face and hands restored to theirnatural hue, came in.
"Father," said Nan, in quite a stately fashion, "this lady is MissMorgan; she's a very kind lady, and she spoke good words to Miles o'Saturday."
"Mornin', miss," said the miner, pulling his front lock of hair, "I'mproud to see you, miss, and that I am; and now, lass," turning to hisdaughter, "you'll have no call to be anxious now no more, for this younglady's brother was h'all over the mine this mornin', and he and SquireMorgan promises that all that is right shall be done, and the place madeas snug and tight as possible. That young gentleman, miss," againaddressing me, "is very sharp; _he_ knows wot he's about, that he do!"
"Is the mine dangerous?" I asked.
"No, no," said the collier, winking impressively at me, while Nan washelping herself to a potato, "but might be made safer, as I says, mightbe made safer; another shaft let down, and wentilation made more fresh.But there! praise the Lord, 'tis all to be done, and that in no time;why, that mine will be so safe in a month or two, that little Nan mightgo and play there, if she so minded."
As the big man spoke, looking lovingly at his tiny daughter, and thedaughter replied, with anxious, knitted brows, "You know, father, as Idon't play," he looked the younger of the two.
"No more you does, Twenty," he replied, "but even Twenty can put awayher fears and sing us a song when she hears a bit of good news."
"Shall I sing a hymn? father."
"Well, yes, my lass, I does feel like praisin'--there, you begin, andI'll foller up."
Little Nan laid down her knife and fork, fixed her dark eyes straightbefore her, clasped her hands, and began--
"We shall meet beyond the river, By and by, And the darkness shall be over, By and by. With the toilsome journey done, And the glorious battle won, We shall shine forth as the sun, By and by."
She paused, looked at her father, who joined her in the next verse--
"We shall strike the harps of glory, By and by. We shall sing redemption's story. By and by. And the strains for evermore Shall resound in sweetness o'er Yonder everlasting shore, By and by.
"We shall see and be like Jesus By and by. Who a crown of life shall give us, By and by. All the blest ones who have gone To the land of life and song, We with gladness shall rejoin By and by!"
I have given the words, but I cannot describe the fervent looks thataccompanied them, nor catch any echo here, of the sweet voice of thechild, or the deep and earnest tones of the man. The strong spirituallife in both their natures came leaping to the surface, the man forgotthe stranger by his hearth, he saw his God; the child, too, forgot herfears and her anxieties, and as she sang she became really young.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THEY TALKED OF MONEY.
Since my arrival at smoky, ugly Ffynon, I had never again to complain ofbeing buried alive. The life I led was certainly not the life I shouldhave chosen. I was young; I had day dreams. Had the choice been mine,I should have liked, as all other young things, to win for myself eitherpleasure, love, or fame. But the choice was not mine; and at Ffynon,strange as it may seem, I grew more contented than I had been now formany years at Tynycymmer.
I was pleased with the people, I liked their occupation, their life. Isoon found interests outside myself--a grand secret--thus I grew happy.Nan and Miles soon also became my real friends: I learned to appreciatetheir characters, to understand them; they were alike in many ways, butin far more ways were they different. Nan had more character and moreoriginality than Miles, but Miles had far more simple bravery than Nan.They were both religious; but Miles's religion was the least dreamy, andthe most practical. On the whole, I think the boy had the grandernature, and yet I think I loved the girl best.
I made many other acquaintances amongst the colliers, but these twochildren were my friends.
In about a fortnight after Owen's return, David went back to Tynycymmer,and we settled down quietly into our new and altered life. From morningto night Owen was busy, now making engineering plans, now down in themine. As a boy he had been dilatory and fitful in his movements,working hard one day, dreaming or idling away the next; but now thisboyish character had disappeared--now all this was changed. Now heworked unremittingly, unflinchingly; he had a goal before him, and tothis goal he steadily directed his steps, looking neither to the righthand nor to the left. In his present plans, whatever they may havebeen, mother helped him. Mother gave him of her sympathy and herinterest. Long ago, dearly as they loved each other, I don't thinkthose two natures had quite met; but this was no longer so now; the samehope animated both pairs of eyes, the same feeling actuated bothbreasts. They had long conferences, anxious, and yet hopefulconsultations; but it was less in their words than in their faces that Iread that their wishes were the same.
I never saw mother look happier. Her long-lost son seemed now more herson than ever.
And I--had I, too, got back my Owen? had my hero returned? was this mybrother, once dead to me, now alive again?
Alas! no. We were friends, Owen and I; we were outwardly affectionate,outwardly all that could be wished; but the man of the world made noadvances of heart and confidence to the still childish sister; and thesister was glad that this should be so. We kissed each otheraffectionately night and morning, we chatted familiarly, we broached athousand gay topics, but on the old sacred ground we neither of usventured to set our feet. After a time I concluded that Owen had reallyforgotten the old days; and believing this, I yet was glad.
Why so? Why was my heart thus hard and unforgiving? Had my love forOwen really died? I do not think it had. Looking back on that winternow, with the light of the present, making all things clear, I believethat this was not so. I know now what was wrong: I know that I, by mypride, by the lack of all that was really noble in my affection, had setup a thin wall of ice betwee
n my brother's heart and my own.
Once, I think, Owen made an effort, though a slight one, to break itdown. He had been talking to my mother for an hour or more; theirinterview had excited him; and with the excitement still playing in hiseyes he came to my side, and stood close to me as I bent down to watersome plants.
"Poor little girl!" he said, laying his hand on my hair, "you are verygood to come and live in this poky, out-of-the-way corner of the world;but never mind, Gwladys, soon there will be plenty of money, and you cando as you like."
"How soon? Owen," I said, raising my head and looking in his face.
"How soon?
