by L. T. Meade
breasts of the bravemen. Every thought of persona! danger was put out of sight, and allnight they laboured to cut away the wall of coal, fondly hoping that allthe men were safe, imprisoned, but not drowned, and in a few hours theywould rescue them. Well, as I said before, the story is known: in themorning five men were reached; four of these five were brought in safetyto the surface; but the fifth, a noble young fellow, who had workedsplendidly all night for his own rescue, and that of his companions, waskilled by a terrific gas explosion, which took place when the coal wasworked through.
I was standing by the pit bank when these four men were brought to thesurface. I saw women rush forward, and welcome with tears, ferventthanks, and joy, a father, a brother, a husband. I looked in the facesof the four, and turned away with a sick heart, for David was notamongst them. Yes, I was selfish. I could not rejoice in the joy ofthe few, but most bitterly could I sorrow in the grief of the many.
Mother, who had come down with me in the morning to the mouth of theshaft, quite sure of seeing David, was now weeping hysterically; cryingfeebly for Owen, who, she said, if present, would surely save David; andmother and I at that time had both that dim idea of the mine, that itseemed to us quite possible that if only men brave enough could befound, they might go even through the water to the rescue.
But what if the nine remaining men were dead! drowned. I knew thecolliers were working with might and main, through that slow, torturingpassage, the solid coal, to reach them. But what if, after all theirefforts, they were only met by death!
Down on my knees in my room, beside the coffin that contained what wasmortal of David's little lad, I thought these thoughts of David. Downon my knees, I say, but not to pray. I was in a wild state ofrebellion; it seemed to me that the events of the last few days had putthe whole world into a state of chaos--a state of confusion so great,that even God Himself could never put it straight again. As this wasso, why should I pray to Him? I had never in days of happiness mademyself acquainted with God. How could I go to Him in my misery?
I was angry with God. He had been too hard on us. What had we donethat He should crush us to the earth?
In a few days what had not befallen us? The sudden and terrible deathof David's only little child! Gwen's accident! Owen's disappearance!Now David himself probably dead.
Yes, truly, a whirlwind of destruction had encompassed us; but the Lordwas not in the wind.
Raising my head with my mind full of these thoughts, my eyes again fellupon the happy, smiling face of the dead child. The little face seemedto say more eloquently than words, "Yes, God has done all this to you;but He is good--He is very good!"
The face of the baby made me cry; and my tears, without then in any wayturning me consciously towards my Father, eased my heart. I was wipingthem away, when the handle of the door was turned, and Nan came in.This was no time for ceremony, and Nan made none.
"The men are not all drowned, Miss Morgan; my father and the otherworkers have heard knockings, very faint like, and a long way off; butstill, that is what they want."
"Oh! Nan, is it possible? Is it possible that they'll all be saved?Oh! I cannot believe it!" and I burst into tears.
"Now isn't that wrong and faithless?" said the little girl, taking myhand. "Ain't this a time to exercise faith? Why, there ain't a manthere--no, not a _man_, as won't work with a will. Why, when fathercome up, he had the blood streaming from his hands. I tell you, MissMorgan, there's no halting when we looks to bring h'out our brothers andsons!"
"Then, Nan, they may be out to-night?"
"No, Miss; that ain't likely--we mustn't look for impossibles. They arein a stall a long way off, called Thomas Powell's stall; and to get tothat, they must work through thirty-eight yards of coal. That ain'tlight labour; but h'everything that men can do will be done. Why,engineers and miners from all the collieries round are on the spot."
"Nan," I said, "I think I will ask God for one thing. I don't mindtelling you, but I have been feeling very bitter against God; but now ifHe brings me back David and Owen--both of them safe and well--why, then,I will love Him and serve Him always."
Nan was silent for a long time--some thought knitting anxiously her darkbrows.
"I don't think I'd make a bargain with the Lord," she said.
"Oh! but, Nan, you cannot quite understand; I have never told you thestory of my life. I see now that I never cared for either Owen or Davidquite in the right way. I want to change all that. Yes," I added,humbly, "I have a great deal to change. I had a beautiful home before Icame here; and I grew so tired of it, I wanted to leave it. I know Ivexed David--dear, dear David, by wishing to leave Tynycymmer; and thenwe came here; and he asked me to try, in the little ways a sister can,to help Owen; but I didn't. Oh! Nan, I have not been at all good, andI want to change all that."
"Well, Miss Morgan, from your own words, it seems to me you have a dealto ask the Lord to forgive you."
"Yes, I know I have," I added, humbly.
"Then why don't you ask to be forgiven now--right away?"
"No, I cannot ask now. God is punishing me too hard. I don't love Himnow at all."
"You want the lads home first?"
"Oh! yes, indeed. Oh! if I might hope for that, I could love Him--Icould serve Him well."
"Eh! dear," said little Nan, "I think I could love Him, even if Mileswas gone to Him. Seems to me, for all I'm so timmersome, and I doescling so to Miles, that even if Miles was dead, I could love the Lord.I think father and me, for all we'd grieve bitter, we'd never turn agenthe Lord. Why, the Lord's our guide, Miss Morgan; and however rough theway, we'd rayther go that road with Him, than any other in the worldwithout Him. And father and me, we'd soon see that having Miles up inthe better land, only 'ud make it more home like. Oh! Miss Morgan, itdon't seem to me that yours is a bit the right way."
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That night the doctor gave mother a composing draught. She had notslept for two nights; and the sleeplessness, added to her anxiety, hadbrought on feverish symptoms. Happen what might, sleep was necessaryfor her, and she was now in bed, wrapped in heavy slumber. After doingwhat he could for mother, the doctor looked hard into my eyes, but Iassured him I was well, which was true--for in body I never felt better.He made me promise, however, to go to bed. I agreed to do so, thoughsleep seemed very far away. The night was still early, and for an houror two longer I would sit by the dining-room fire. As mother had donetwo nights before, I made down a good fire, then sat opposite to it. Isat with my head pressed on my hands, my eyes gazing into the ruddyflames, my thoughts very busy. My thoughts were troublesome--almostagonising. For the first time in my life, my will and God's werestanding opposite to one another, opposing one another in grim conflict.My young desire dared to stand up and defy its Creator. The Creatorsaid to the thing that He had made, "_My_ will be done."
The tiny atom replied, "No; not Thy will, but mine."
Thus we were at variance--God and I. I knew I must submit--that Godcould sweep me aside to perform, independent of me, what seemed good toHim. He could do this, but still my will might rise in rebellion, mightdash itself out and die against this rock; but never, no, never submit.I was quite ready, as little Nan had expressed it, to make a bargainwith God. I was ready to sell my submission at a fair price. If Heleft to me that for which my soul longed, then my soul, with itstreasures, should be His. But without them--empty, torn, and bare;could that soul go to Him?--go to Him in its desolation, and say, "You,who have taken what I love, who have emptied me in my youth of all lightand joy, take me too, and do with me what you will." This I could notdo--this deed of submission I could not perform. No, if God would begood to me, I would be good to Him--that was my rebellious thought. Nowonder it brought me no rest. No wonder I was tossed about by this windof desolation; and the Lord--the Lord whom I needed, the Lord who,though I knew it not, was wounding but to heal; slaying, to make metruly live--the Lord w
as not in the wind. I was sitting so, thinkingthese thoughts, wondering why trouble had awakened all these depths inme--why I, who only six months ago had been, in every sense, a child,should now feel so old and heavy at heart--when at the window of theroom where I was sitting there came a very low tap. At another timesuch a sound, in the stillness of the night, would have frightened me;but not so now. I went directly to the window, and looked out; then,indeed, my heavy heart gave a bound, for Owen stood without. I couldnot raise the sash of the window without the possibility of awakingmother; but I went to the front door, and managed softly to open it.
"Is my mother up? Gwladys."
"No, no, Owen," clasping his hands, and trying
