THE UNDERWORLD

The Story of Robert Sinclair, Miner

by

JAMES C. WELSH

New YorkFrederick A. Stokes CompanyPublishers

1920

PREFACE

I have tried to write of the life I know, the life I have lived, and ofthe lives of the people whom, above all others, I love, and of whom I amso proud. 

My people have been miners for generations, and I myself became a minerat the age of twelve. I have worked since then in the mine at everyphase of coal getting until about five years ago, when my fellow workersmade me their checkweigher. 

I say this that those who read my book may know that the things of whichI write are the things of which I have firsthand knowledge. 

 JAMES C. WELSH. DOUGLAS WATER, LANARK. 

CONTENTS

 CHAPTER

 I. THE THONG OF POVERTY

 II. A TURN OF THE SCREW

 III. THE BLOCK

 IV. A YOUNG REBEL

 V. BLACK JOCK'S THREAT

 VI. THE COMING OF A PROPHET

 VII. ON THE PIT-HEAD

 VIII. THE MANTLE OF MANHOOD

 IX. THE ACCIDENT

 X. HEROES OF THE UNDERWORLD

 XI. THE STRIKE

 XII. THE RIVALS

 XIII. THE RED HOSE RACE

 XIV. THE AWAKENING

 XV. PETER MAKES A DECISION

 XVI. A STIR IN LOWWOOD

 XVII. MYSIE RUNS AWAY

 XVIII. MAG ROBERTSON'S FRENZY

 XIX. BLACK JOCK'S END

 XX. THE CONFERENCE

 XXI. THE MEETING WITH MYSIE

 XXII. MYSIE'S RETURN

 XXIII. HOME

 XXIV. A CALL FOR HELP

 XXV. A FIGHT WITH DEATH

CHAPTER I

THE THONG OF POVERTY

"Is it not about time you came to your bed, lassie?"

"Ay, I'll no' be very long now, Geordie. If I had this heel turned, I'llsoon finish the sock, and that will be a pair the day. Is the pain inyour back worse the nicht, that you are so restless?" and the clickingof the needles ceased as the woman asked the question. 

"Oh, I'm no' so bad at all, " came the answer. "My back's maybe a wee bitsore; but a body gets tired lying always in the yin position. Forby, theday aye seems long when you are out, and I dinna like to think of youout working all day, and then sitting down to knit at nicht. It must bevery tiring for you, Nellie. "

"Oh, I'm no' that tired, " she replied with a show of cheerfulness, asshe turned another wire in the sock, and set the balls of wool dancingon the floor with the speed at which she worked. "I've had a real goodday to-day, and I'm feeling that I could just sit for a lang while thenicht, if only the paraffin oil wadna' go down so quick. But the longerI sit, it burns the more, and it's getting gey dear to buy now-a-days. "

"Ay, " said the weary voice of the man. "If it's no' clegs it's midges. Folk have always something to contend against. But don't be long tillyou stop. It's almost twelve o'clock, and you ought to be in your bed. "

"Oh, I'll no' be very long, Geordie, " was the bravely cheerful answer. "Just you try and gang to sleep and I'll soon finish up. I'll have totry and get up early in the morning, for I have to go to Mrs. Rundelland wash. She always gi'es me twa shillings, and that's a good day'spay. The only thing I grudge is being away all day, leaving you and thebairns, for I ken they're no' very easy to put up with. They're steerin'weans, and are no' easy on a body who is ill. "

"Ay, they're a steerin' lot, lassie, " he answered tenderly. "But, poorthings, they must hae some freedom, Nellie. I wish I was ready for mywork. "

"Hoot, man, " she said with the same show of cheerfulness. "We might havebeen worse, and you will be better some day, and able to work as well asever you did. "

For a time there was silence, broken only by the loud ticking of theclock, the clicking of the needles, and occasionally a low moan from thebed, as the injured miner sank into a restless sleep. 

There had been an accident some six weeks before, and Geordie Sinclair, badly wounded by a fall of stone, had been brought home from the pit ina cart. 

It was during the time known to old miners as the "two-and-sixpennywinter, " that being the sum of the daily wage then earned by the miners. A financial crisis had come upon the country and the Glasgow City Bankhad failed, trade was dull, and the whole industrial system was inchaos. It had been a hard time for Geordie Sinclair's wife, for therewere four children to provide for besides her injured husband. Workwhich was well paid for was not over plentiful, and she had to toil fromearly morning till far into the night to earn the bare necessities oflife. There were times like to-night, when she felt rebellious andbitter at her plight, but her tired eyes and fingers had to get to theend of the task, for that meant bread for the children in the morning. 

The silence deepened in the little kitchen. No sound came now from thebed, and the lamp threw eerie shadows on the walls, and the chimneysmoked incessantly. 

Her eyes grew watery and smarted with the smoke. She dropped stitchesoccasionally, as she hurried with her work, which had to be lifted againwhen she discovered that the pattern was wrong, and sometimes quite aconsiderable part had to be "ripped out, " so that she could correct themistake. 

The dismal calling of a cat outside irritated her, and the loudcomplacent ticking of the clock seemed to mock her misery; but still sheworked on, the busy fingers turning the needles, as the wool unwounditself from the balls which danced upon the floor. There was life inthose balls of wool as they spun to the tune of the woman's misery. Theyadvanced and retired, like dancers, touching hands when they met, thenwhirling away in opposite directions again; they side-stepped andwheeled in a mad riot of joyous color, just as they were about to meet:they stood for a little facing each other, feinting from side to side, then were off again, as the music of her misery quickened, in anembracing whirl, as if married in an ecstasy of colored flame, many-shaded, yet one; then, at last, just as the tune seemed to havereached a crescendo of spirit, she dashed her work upon the floor, asshe discovered another blunder, and burst into a fit of passionateweeping. 

Suddenly there was a faint tap at the window, and she raised her head, staying her breath to listen. Soon she heard it again, just a faint butvery deliberate tap, which convinced her that someone was outside in thedarkness. Softly she stole on tiptoe across the room, so as not todisturb her sleeping husband, and opening the door quietly, cranedforward and peered into the darkness to discover the cause of the tap. 

"It's just me, " said a deep voice, in uneasy accents, from the darknessby the window, and she saw then the form of a man edging nearer thedoor. 

"And who are you?" she asked a little nervously, but trying to masterthe alarm in her voice. 

"Do you not ken me?" replied the voice with an attempt to speak asnaturally as possible; yet there was something in the tone that made hermore uneasy. 

Then the figure of the man drew nearer, and he whispered "Are they allsleeping?" alluding to the inmates of the house. 

"Ay, " she answered, drawing back into the shelter of the doorway. "Whydo you ask? And what is it you want?"

"Oh, I just came along to see how you were all getting on, " was thereply. "I ken you must be in very straitened circumstances by this time, and thought I might be able to help you a bit, " and there was aningratiating tone in the words now as he sidled nearer. "You must have avery hard battle just now, and I would like to do something to helpyou. "

"Come away in, " said the woman, with still an uneasy tremor in hervoice, yet feeling more assured. "Geordie is sleeping, but he'll not behard to waken up. Come away in, and let us see who you are, and tell uswhat you really want. "

"No, I'm no' coming in, " he whispered hoarsely. "Do you no' ken me? Shutthe door and not let any of them hear. I'm wanting you!" and he steppedinto the light and reached forward his hand, as if to draw her to him. 

Mrs. Sinclair gasped and recoiled in horror, as she recognized who itwas that stood before her. 

"No, " she cried decisively, stepping further back into the shelter ofthe house, her voice low and intense with indignation. "No, I have notcome to that yet, thank God. Gang home, you dirty brute, that you are!I'll be very ill off when I ask anything, or take anything, from you, Jock Walker!" For it was well known in Lowwood that Jock Walker'serrands to people in distress had always in them an ulterior motive. 

He was the under manager at the pits, and his reputation was of theblackest. There were men in the village of Lowwood who were well awareof this man's relations with their wives, and they openly agreed to thesale of the honor of their women folk in return for what he gave them inthe shape of contracts, at which they could make more money than theirneighbors, or good "places, " where the coal was easier won. In fact, tobe a contractor was a synonym for this sort of dealing, for no one evergot a contract from Walker unless his wife, or his daughter, was a womanof easy virtue, and at the service of this man. 

"Very well, " replied Walker with chagrined anger. "Please yourself. Butlet me tell you that you'll maybe no' ay be so high and mighty; you'llmaybe be dam'd glad yet of the chance that I have given you. "

"No, no, " protested Mrs. Sinclair. "Go away--"

"Look here, Nellie, " he said, his voice changing to a low pleading tone, "you're in a hole. You must be. Be a sensible woman, and you'll neverneed to be so ill-grippet again. I can put Geordie in a position thathe'll make any amount of money as soon as he is able to start. You arenot a bit better than anyone else, and for the sake of your bairns youshould be sensible. And forby, " he went on, as if now more sure of hisground, "what the hell's wrang in it? It's no' what folk do that iswrong. It's in being found out. Now come away and be sensible. You kenwhat is wanted, and you ken that I can make you well off for it. "

"No, by heavens, " she cried, now tingling with anger at the insult. "Never! Get out of this, you brute! If Geordie Sinclair had been ablethis nicht, I'd have got him to deal with you. Get out of here, or I'llcleave your rotten body, and let out your rotten heart. " And she turnedin, and closed and bolted the door, leaving Walker fuming with anger atthe repulse of his advances. Nellie Sinclair had never felt so outragedin all her life before. She was trembling with anger at the insult ofhis proposals. She paced the floor in her stockinged feet, as if a wildspirit were raging within her demanding release; then finally she flungherself into the "big chair, " disgust and anger in her heart, and forthe second time that night burst into a passionate fit of weeping, whichseemed to shake her body almost asunder. For a long time she sat thus, sobbing, her whole being burning with indignation, and her mind in afury of disgust and rebellion. 

Then there was a faint stirring in the bed where the children slept, anda little boy's form began to crawl from amongst the rough bedclothes, his eyes gazing in amazement at the bowed figure of his mother. She wascrying, he concluded, for her shoulders were heaving and it must besomething very bad that made his beautiful mother cry like this. Hecrept across the bare wooden floor, his bare sturdy legs showing beneaththe short and meager shirt, and was soon at her side. 

"What's wrang wi' you, mother?" he asked, as he put his soft littlehand upon her head. "What's wrang wi' you? Will I kiss you held and makeit better?" But his mother did not look up--only the big sobs continuedto shake her, and the boy becoming alarmed at this, also began to cry, as he placed his little head against hers. "Oh, mother, dinna greet, " hesobbed, "and I'll kiss your heid till it's better. "

At last she lifted her head, and seeing the naked boy, she caught him inher arms and crushed him to her breast, as if she would smother him. This was strange conduct for his usually undemonstrative mother; but itwas nice to be hugged like that, even though she did cry. 

"What made you greet, mother?" he queried, for he had never before, inall his four years, seen his mother cry. For answer she merely caughthim closer to her breast, her hair falling soft and warm all over him asshe did so. 

"Was you hungry, mither?" he tried again. 

"No' very, " she answered, choking back her sobs. 

"Are you often hungry, too, mither?" he persisted, feeling encouraged atgetting an answer at last. 

"Sometimes, " she replied. "But dinna bother me, Rob, " she continued. "Gang away to your bed like a man. "

He was silent for a time at this repulse, and lay upon her knee puzzlingover the matter. 

"Do you greet when you are hungry?" he enquired, with: wide-eyedearnestness and surprise. 

"There noo, " she answered, "don't ask so many questions, Daddy'll not belong till he is better again, and when he is at work there'll be plentyof pieces to keep us all from being hungry. "

"And will there be jeely for the pieces?" pursued the boy, for it seemedto him that there had never been a time when there was plenty to eat. 

"Yes, we'll get plenty o' jeely too, " she replied, drying the remainingtears from her eyes, and hugging him again to her breast. 

"Oh, my, " he said, with a deep sigh. "I wish my father was better!" andthe little lips were moistened by his tongue, as if in anticipation ofthe coming feast. 

Another silence; and then came the query--"What way do we not get plentyo' pieces when my daddy's no' working? Does folk no' get them then?"

"No, Robin, " she answered, "but dinna fash your wee noddle with that. You'll find out all about it when you get big. Shut your eyes andmother'll sing, an' you'll go to sleep. " And he snuggled in and shut hiseyes, while Mrs. Sinclair gathered him softly to her breast and began tocroon an old ballad. 

As she sang it seemed to the boy that there were no such things as"jelly-pieces" to bother about. He liked his mother to sing to him, forhe seemed to get rolled up in her soft, warm voice, and become restfuland happy. Gradually the low crooning song grew fainter in his ears, theflicker of the fire danced further and further away, until long streaksof golden thready light seemed to reach out, straight from his eyes tothe fireplace, and all the comfort that it was possible to have flowedthrough his soul, and at last he slept. Mrs. Sinclair placed him besidehis brothers and sisters in the bed and went back to finish herknitting. The night was far gone before she accomplished her task, andshe stood and surveyed her humble home with weariness in her heart. 

Through the dim smoke which hung like a blue cloud along the roof, andmade more seemingly thick by the small lamp upon the table, she lookedat her husband lying asleep, and so far free from pain. Then her eyestraveled to the children in the other bed, and they filled with tears asshe thought that she had had to put them supperless to bed that night, and again rebellion surged through her blood as she thought of all themisery of her life. Was it worth living and going on in this way? Was itworth while to continue? What had she done to reap all this suffering?

She was hungry and weak and exhausted. Perhaps if she could sleep shewould forget it, and in the morning the socks she had finished wouldbring her a few pence, and that would mean food. 

She decided to go to bed, and in passing by the shelf at the window, her eye caught sight of a plateful of potato skins, the remains of themeager dinner of boiled potatoes which the children had had; andclutching them, she began greedily to devour them, filling her mouth andcramming them in in handfuls, until it seemed as if she would chokeherself. Then, licking the plate clean of every crumb, she undressed andslipped quietly into bed, to lie and fret and toss, as she thought ofthe insult which Black Jock had offered her, and pondered over theunhappy lot of her children and their injured father. 

CHAPTER II

A TURN OF THE SCREW

On the Friday following Jock Walker's visit to Mrs. Sinclair, a noticewas put up at the pit by Peter Pegg and Andrew Marshall, to the effectthat a collection would be taken next day on behalf of Geordie Sinclair. The notice was posted up before Andrew and Peter descended the pit forthe day. 

"Black Jock, " as Walker was called by the miners, saw the notice beforeit had been ten minutes posted, and deliberately tore it down. He thenvisited Peter Pegg and Andrew Marshall at the coal face. 

"I suppose you an' Andrew are goin' to gather for Geordie Sinclair themorn?" he said, addressing Peter. 

"Ay, " Peter answered, "we were thinkin' it was aboot time somethin' wasdone. There's four bairns an' their two selves, an' though times are no'very guid for ony of us now, it maun be a lot worse for them. Geordiehas been a guid while off. "

"Do ye think, Peter, they are in such need?" asked Walker, with a hintin his voice that was meant to convey he knew better. 

"Lord, they canna be aught else!" decisively returned Peter. "How canthey be? I ken for mysel', " he went on, "that if it was me, I wad haebeen in starvation lang syne. "

"Weel, wad ye believe me when I tell ye--an' it's a fact--they're aboutthe best-off family in this place, if ye only kent it. "

"What!" cried Peter in surprise, "the best-off family in the place!Lord, I canna take that in!"

"Maybe no', " said Walker, "but I ken, an' ye're no' the first that'sbeen taken in by Nellie Sinclair. If ye notice, she never tells anythin' to anybody; but she lets ye carry the notion in your mind thatshe's in great straits. She's a cute one, Nellie. "

"Weel, Nellie does keep hersel' to hersel', " admitted Peter. "She's no'given to clashin' and claverin' about the doors like some o' the rest o'the women; but I canna' for the life o' me see where she can be onythin'but ill aff at this time. "

"Weel, I ken when folk are bein' imposed on, " said Walker, in a knowingtone, "an' I tore down your notice this mornin'. I didna want to see youmak' a fool o' yersels. I ha'e been considerin' for a while, " he wenton, speaking quickly, "about puttin' a stop to this collectin' businessat the office on pay Saturdays, for it just encourages some men to lieoff work when there's no' very muckle wrong wi' them; after they get thecollection they soon start work again. Ye had better no' stand the morn, for I might as well begin at once and put a stop to it. "

Up till now Andrew Marshall had not spoken; he was a silent man, givenmore to thought than speech, but this was a way of doing things he didnot like. 

"But ye might let us tak' the collection first, and then put up a noticeyersel sayin' that a' collections have to be stopped. It wad be best togi'e the men notice. "

"No, " said Walker, "there's to be nae mair collections taken. I might aswell stop it this time as wait. So ye'll no' stand the morn. "

"Will I no'?" returned Andrew challengingly. "How the hell do ye kenwhether I will or no'?"

"I ken ye'll no', " replied Walker, with quiet menacing tones; "theground at the office belongs to the company, and is private. So ye cando it if ye like, but ye'll be weel advised no' to bother. "

"I don't gi'e a damn, " cried Andrew explosively, "whether the ground isprivate or no'. I'll take that 'gathering' for Geordie Sinclair themorn, though ye ha'e a regiment o' sodgers at the office. "

"Very well, " said Walker, as he departed, "if ye do, ye can look out. "

Peter took his pipe out of his mouth and spat savagely on the ground;he then replaced it with great deliberation and looked gloomily at thestoop-side. He was a man about thirty-five, tall, bony and angular; hisneck was long and thin, and his head seemed always on the point ofturning to allow him to look over his shoulder. His right eye was halfclosed, while his left eye looked big and saucer-like, and never seemedto wink; one eye was ready to laugh and the other to "greet, " as hiscomrades described it. He had been badly disfigured in a burningaccident in the pit when he was a young man, and a broken nose addedstill more to the strangeness of his appearance. Andrew, on the otherhand, was stout and broadly built, with a bushy whisker on each cheek, and a clump of tufty hair on his head. 

"What do ye mak' o' that, Andrew?" enquired Peter, after a few minutes, as he again spat savagely at the stoop-side. 

"What do I mak' o't?" echoed Andrew, as he glowered across the littlebing of dross at his mate, "it's just in keepin' wi' the rest o' hisdirty doin's, the dirty black brute that he is!"

"I wonder what's wrong wi' him?" mused Peter as he sucked quietly at hissnoring pipe. But there was no answer from Andrew, who was sittingsilent and glum, gazing at his little lamp. 

"What are ye goin' to do about it, then?" broke in Peter again. 

"Just what I said, " returned Andrew with quiet firmness. "I'll take thatcollection the morn, some way or another, if I should be damned for it. Does he mean to say that we can let folk starve?" He lifted his pick andbegan to hew the coal with an energy that told of the passion ragingwithin him. 

"Does he mean to think I'm goin' to see decent folk starve afore mye'en?" he asked after a while, pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes. "No' damned likely! Things ha'e come to a fine pass when folk arecompelled to look at other folk starvin' an' no' gi'e them a crust. "

"Do ye think there's onything in what he said about them bein'weel-aff?" asked Peter cautiously, while his big eye tried to wink. "Nellie is a wee bit inclined to be prood an' independent, ye ken, an'disna say muckle about her affairs. An forby we don't ken very muckleabout her; she's an incomer to the place, and she might ha'e beenweel-aff afore she married Geordie, for aught we ken. "

"It disna matter, " replied Andrew, "I dinna care thoughthey had thousan's. What I don't like is this'ye'll-no'-do-this-an'-ye'll-no'-do-that' sort o' thing. What the hellright has ony gaffer wi' what a man does? It's a' one to him what I do. I'm nae slave, an' forby, I dinna believe they are weel-aff. They maunbe hard up. "

"But he'll maybe sack ye, " suggested Peter, "if ye take the collection. "

"Well, let him, " cried Andrew, now thoroughly roused, "the bastard! Iwould see the greyhounds o' hell huntin' him roun' the rocks o' blazesafore I'd give in to him!"

Nothing further was said of the matter until well on in the day, when itsuddenly occurred to Andrew that Peter, who had a large family, mightnot care to incur the displeasure of Walker by taking the collection thenext day. 

"Of course, Peter, " he said, after he had thought the matter over, "ifye don't care to take the collection wi' me, I won't press ye. I'll no'think ony worse o' ye if ye don't. Ye ha'e a big family, while I ha'eonly the wife to look after. Sometimes I think it's lucky we ha'e naeweans; I can flit, and ye might no' be able to rise an' run. But I meanto take the collection onyway, for I don't like a man to order me what Iha'e to do. "

"Oh, I wasna mindin' that, Andra, " replied Peter, trying to make Andrewbelieve that he had not guessed the truth. "I'll take the collectin wi'ye, an' Black Jock can gang to hell if he likes. "

"No, Peter, ye'll do naethin' o' the kind. I'll take it mysel'. " AndAndrew would not move from that decision. 

Next day everybody was curiously expectant; it had got noised abroadthat Walker had defied Andrew Marshall to take a collection at theoffice, and had threatened him with arrest. There were wild rumors ofother penalties, and when pay-day came everybody was surprised to seeAndrew draw his pay and walk home. They concluded that Andrew hadthought better of it, and had been cowed into submission. When darknessbegan to fall, however, Andrew sauntered out and visited every home inthe village, soliciting aid on behalf of Geordie Sinclair. There werefew houses from which he did not get a donation, though the will to givewas often greater than the means. In each house Andrew had to give indetail the interview between Black Jock and himself in the pit. 

"The muckle big, black, dirty brute that he is!" the good-wife would cryin indignation. "It's a pity but he could ken what starvation ishimsel'. It might make him a bit mair like a human bein'. "

"That's true, " Andrew would agree. 

In one or two houses he met with a blank refusal, but in these he wasnot disappointed, for he knew that the men would not risk Walker'sdisapproval by contributing. Again, some were wholly hostile. They werethe "belly-crawlers, " as Geordie Sinclair had once dubbed them at ameeting, those who "kept in" with the management by carrying tales, andgenerally acting as traitors to the other men. 

"No, I'll no' gi'e ye onythin', " would be the reply; "he can just belike me an' gang an' work for his bairns. Forby, look at yon stuck-upbaggage o' a wife o' his. She can hardly pass the time o' day wi'ye--she thinks hersel' somethin'. "

"Very well, " Andrew would reply, "maybe ye ha'e mair need o't for otherthings. " And he would pass on to the next house. 

He had gathered between three and four pounds, contributed sometimeseven in pennies, and going to Geordie's house, he knocked at the door. This was the most uncomfortable part of his work, and he stood shiftingfrom one foot to the other, wondering what he would say when he entered. Mrs. Sinclair was busy washing the floor and cleaning up, after havingbeen at work all day washing for someone in the village. She wiped herhands and opened the door. 

"How are ye a' keepin' the night?" inquired Andrew, as he stepped insideat Mrs. Sinclair's invitation, feeling more and more uncomfortable. Itwas a hard enough matter to go and ask others whom he knew had littleto spare, but now, having got the money, he did not know how he wasgoing to hand it over to Nellie. He ruminated for a time as to how hewould break into the subject. He knew that Nellie Sinclair must haveheard of the collection, and guessed his errand, for he saw that she, too, was uneasy and agitated. 

"How are ye a' the night?" he again enquired, to break the silence. 

"Oh, I'm no' so bad at a', Andra, " replied Geordie. "I'm feelin' a weebit easier the night. How's yersel'?"

"No' so bad, " answered Andrew, putting his hand in his pocket for hispipe. 

"Dash it! I'm away without my pipe, " he said with a show of annoyance. "Can ye len' me yours, Geordie, to get a smoke? I ha'e my tobacco andmatches. Ye see, " he went on, speaking more rapidly, "I thought I wouldjust slip round to see how ye was keepin'. "

Andrew knew that Geordie would not have had a smoke for a long time, andthis was his way of leaving him with a pipeful of tobacco. 

"I think my pipe's on the mantelshelf, " returned Geordie, "but I dootit's empty. "

Andrew took down the pipe, filled it generously, set it alight, and satfor a few minutes trying vainly to keep up a connected conversation. After he had puffed a few minutes at Geordie's pipe he laid it down, dived his hand into his trousers pocket as he made for the door. Hepulled forth the money, which was in a little bag, and laid it down onthe table, saying: "I'm no' guid at this kind of thing, Geordie. There'ssomething for ye from the men. Guid nicht!" and he was off, leavingNellie in tears and Geordie in glum silence. 

Mrs. Sinclair's tears were tears of rebellion as well as of gratitude. She was touched by Andrew's delicacy, but her independent spirit waswounded at having to take help from anyone. She thought of the childrenand of her husband, who needed nourishment, and taking up the little bagshe poured its contents into her lap, while her hot tears fell upon themoney. Little Robert, who was sitting watching, and who had never inall his life seen so much money, ran to his mother with a cry ofdelight. 

"Oh, mammy, will I get sweeties noo?" and the boy danced with glee, ashe shouted, "I'll get jeely-pieces noo, hurray!"

That night there was happiness in Geordie Sinclair's house, for therewas food in plenty, and it seemed as if the children would never be ableto appease their hunger. 

The "jeely-pieces, " or slices of bread with jam on them, disappearedwith amazing rapidity, and Geordie had some beef-tea, which seemed toimprove him almost as soon as he had taken it. For the first time formany months Mrs. Sinclair and the children went to bed with satisfiedappetites; and the children's dreams were as the incidents in the lifeof a god, exalted and happy, and their mother's rest was unbroken andfull of comfort. 

But on Monday morning Andrew Marshall had to pay the price of thehappiness he had been instrumental in giving them, for he was informedby one of Walker's henchmen that his place was stopped. The excuse givenwas that it was too far in advance of the others. Andrew knew what thatmeant, and as he went home, fierce rebellious feelings stirred withinhim. Peter Pegg, he was glad to know, had got started on "oncost" work, and Andrew felt he had done right in not allowing Peter to take thecollection with him. 

CHAPTER III

THE BLOCK

"I see Andra Marshall's back again, " observed Sanny Robertson to PeterPegg one evening three months later. 

"Ay, " said Peter, "he was at Glampy, but his place was stopped, an'there wasna anither for him. "

"Got the sack again, I suppose, " said Sanny. "Weel, he maun learn, Peter, that gaffers are no' gaun to put up wi' his nonsense. If a manwill no' do what he's telt, he maun just take the consequences. "

"Ay, " said Peter, very dryly, and as Peter knew his man, no more wassaid. 

Later the same night Matthew Maitland observed to Peter, as they sat ontheir "hunkers" at the corner:

"Andra's back again, I suppose. "

"Ay, " was the answer, "he was telt his place was stopped. "

"Imphm, " said Matthew, "it's a damn fine excuse. It's a pity butsomethin' could be done. "

"It's the Block, " said Peter. "I'm telt that a' the managers roun' abootha'e an understandin' with one another no' to gi'e work to onybody theytake a dislike to. "

"Ay, " agreed Matthew, "I ha'e heard aboot it, but I would soon put astop to it. "

"Ay, Matthew, it's a union we need up here badly. I'm telt that thatchap Smillie has managed to start one down in the West Country, an' it'sdaein' weel. He's got some o' their wages up a hale shillin' a day sincehe took it in hand. "

"Is that a fact, Peter? The sooner we ha'e him up here the better then. Black Jock needs a chap back onyway, " and Matthew looked like a man whohad suddenly discovered a great truth. 

Andrew Marshall had never been allowed to forget his action in defyingWalker; everywhere he went it was the same story--no work for him. The"Block" system among the managers was in good working order, and couldeasily starve a man into docility. Andrew became more desperate as timepassed, and he knew that he and his wife were nearing the end of theirsmall savings. He returned home one evening from his usual fruitlesssearch for employment, and threw himself into the arm-chair by thefireside. 

"No work yet, Andra?" asked Katie. 

"Nane, " was the gloomy response. 

"We have no' very mony shillin's left noo, Andra. I dinna ken what we'lldo. "

Savage, revengeful feelings surged through Andrew, and found vent in avolley of oaths which terrified his wife. 

"Dinna talk like that, Andra, " she pleaded. "It's no' canny, an' forby, the Lord disna like ye to do it. "

"If the Lord cared He could take Black Jock by the scruff o' the neckan' fling him into hell oot o' the road. It's Black Jock that's at thebottom o' this, an' I could twist his dirty neck for him. "

"Weel, Andra, it's the Lord's doin', an' maybe things'll soon men'. "

"If it's the Lord's doin', I dinna think muckle o' His conduct then, "and Andrew lapsed into sullen silence. 

On Monday morning he was up at five o'clock, desperately resolved to layhis case before the men. He walked to the end of the village, knowingthe colliery would be idle, for Tam Donaldson was to be "creeled. " Thiswas a custom at one time very prevalent in mining villages. When a youngman got married, the first day he appeared at his work afterwards he wastaken home by his comrades, and was expected to stand them a drink. Itgenerally ended in a collection being made, after they had tasted thenewly-married man's whiskey, and a common fund thus being established, alarge quantity of beer and whiskey was procured, and all drank to theirheart's content. 

Andrew heard the men calling to each other as they made their way to thepit, the lights from their lamps twinkling in the darkness of the wintermorning. 

"Is Tam away yet, Jamie?" he heard wee Allan ask, as he overtook oldJamie Lauder on his way to the pit. 

"Ay, I saw to that, " replied Lauder, "I chappit him up at five o'clock, so that he wadna sleep in. I hinna missed a creelin' for thirty-fiveyears, an' I wasna' gaun to miss Tam Donaldson's. I heard him goin' oottwo or three minutes afore me. We're in for a guid day, for he telt mehe had in two bottles for the spree. "

"That's a' right, then; I was afraid he wad maybe sleep in, " and the twotrudged on together towards the pit. 

A group of dark figures stood on the pithead, waiting their turn to gobelow. The cage rattled up from the depths of the shaft, the men steppedin, and almost immediately disappeared down into the blackness. Arrivedat the bottom, they walked along towards the different passages, chaffing and jesting with Tam Donaldson, the newly-married one. 

"Ye'll be gaun to do something decent the day, Tam, when we take yehame?" said Jamie Allan. "I hear ye ha'e two bottles ready for theoccasion. "

"Ay, but I'm damned shair there's no a lick gaun unless ye take mehame, " answered Donaldson. "If I ha'e to be creeled, I'll be creeledright, an' every one o' ye'll gang hame wi' me afore ye get a taste. "

"Oh, but we'll see to that, chaps, " said old Lauder. "Here's a hutch, get him in an' aff wi' him. "

The victim pretended to resist, and stoutly maintained that they shouldnot creel him. He was seized by half a dozen pairs of arms, and withmuch expenditure of energy and breath, deposited in the hutch. Someconsiderate person had put some straw and old bags in the "carriage" tomake it more comfortable, and a few of the wags had chalkedinscriptions, the reverse of complimentary, all over it. 

"There, noo', boys, " said old Lauder, who had been busy hanging lightedpit lamps round Tam's cap, "gi'e him a guid run to the bottom, and seethat he gets a guid bump in the lye. "

The men ran the hutch to the "bottom" straight against the full tubsready to be sent to the surface. 

"Come on, Sourocks, let us up, " called Allan to the old man who acted as"bottomer. "

"Hell to the up will ye get!" replied the old fellow, "I'm gaun to puton these hutches first. "

"No, ye'll no', an' if ye do, you'll gang into the 'sump, ' an' we'llchap the bell oorsels"--the sump being the lodgment into which the watergathered before pumping operations could start. 

"Sourocks" thought discretion the better part of valor in this case, andswearing quietly to himself, he signaled to the engineman at the top todraw them up. 

"He's no gaun to walk hame, " said Allan, as they all gathered again onthe pit head. "We'll take the hutch hame wi' Tam in it. Put a rope onit, and we'll draw the damned thing through the moor, an' maybe Tam'llmind the day he was creeled as lang as he lives. "

This proposal was jumped at, especially by the younger men, to whom anidle day did not mean so much worry on pay-day as to their marriedelders. 

Andrew Marshall had waited at the end of the village, knowing that thecreeling was to take place, and that he would get the men on their wayfrom the pit. Presently old Lauder, who had taken a short cut across themoor, came up, and Andrew accosted him. 

"Will ye wait here, Jamie, so that I can try an' get a meetin' held wi'the rest o' the men when they come alang?"

"I will that, Andra, " replied Jamie, taking the lighted lamp from hishead, and sitting down at the corner on his "hunkers. " "They're a'comin' hame anyway, for we're creelin' Tam Donaldson. "

Soon the procession appeared, the hutch jolting along the rough street, the men shouting and singing as they came. The village had turned out tosee the fun. Andrew and Jamie found themselves in the midst of a crowdof women and children, as the foremost of the men came to a halt at thecorner. 

Andrew quietly stepped out and addressed the men, asking them if theywould wait a few minutes--as they were idle in any case--to have ameeting. All were agreed. 

"Here's Sanny Robertson, " said Tam Tate, peering into the breakinglight, "he'll no' likely wait, but we'll see what he says aboot it, " andall waited in silence until Robertson approached. He seemed to guesswhat was in the air, and hurriedly tried to pass on, but Andrew steppedout with the usual question. 

"No, " he replied uneasily, "I'll ha'e no part in ony mair strife. Folkjust get into bother for nothing. Men'll ha'e to keep mind that gaffersnow-a-days'll no' put up wi' disobedience. "

"Ay, but ye maun mind, " said Tam Tate hastily, "that men maun be treatedas human bein's, even by a gaffer. "

"I can aye get on with the gaffer, " replied Robertson, "an' I dinna seewhat way ither folk canna do the same. "

"That's a' richt, " put in old Jamie Lauder, "but a' men are no' justprepared to do as ye do, " and there was a hint of something in his voicewhich the others seemed to understand. 

"I ha'e no quarrel, " sulkily replied Robertson, "an' I dinna see whatway I should get into this one. I can get plenty o' work, an' ither folkcan get it too, if they like to behave themselves. "

"Ye're a liar, " roared Tam Tate angrily, his usual hasty temper gettingthe mastery. "It's no' you that gets the work, it's Mag!"

The others laughed uproariously, for it was common knowledge that Sannygot his good jobs because of Walker's intimacy with his wife. 

"Ye leave the best man in the house every mornin' when ye gang oot!"roared another amid coarse laughter, whilst Andrew turned to tackle thenext comer. 

A few refused to wait, but it was generally known that these were themen whose houses were always open to Walker by day or night. When theywere all gathered, Andrew Marshall stood up, and for the first time inhis life spoke at a meeting. 

"Weel, men, " he began, "ye a' ken the position o' things. Ye ken as weelas me that I got the sack for gatherin' for Geordie Sinclair. Weel, Iha'e been oot o' work three months; the Block is on against me, an' itseems I ha'e to starve. I canna get work onywhere, an' I stopped ye a'the day to ask ye to make my quarrel yours, an' try and put an end tothis business. "

That was the whole speech, but its simple sincerity appealed to all, andmany expressed approval and determination to stand by Andrew in hisfight. 

"I think it's a damn'd shame, " said old Lauder. 

"I'll tell ye what it is, " said Matthew Maitland, "it's a downrichtbarefaced murder, an' I would smash this damn'd cantrip o' Black Jock's. I ken that he'll get a' that is said at this meetin', an' maybe I'll getthe same dose; but I think it's aboot time somethin' was done to put anend to his capers, " and so Matthew floundered on. 

"Ay, an' let us see what can be done for Geordie, too, " put in PeterPegg, and his long neck seemed to get longer at every syllable, whilehis big eye made a great attempt to wink and to look backward, as if heexpected to see someone coming from behind. "We a' ken, " continuedPeter, "that Geordie is ready for work noo', this fower week syne, butBlack Jock says he has no places, an' forby two strangers got jobs justyesterday. "

"I ken for yae thing that there's fower places staunin' in Millar'sLevel, " said Jamie Lauder, "an' I'm telt there's five or six staunin' inthe Black Horse Dook. It's a' a bit of humbug, an' I think we should tryan' put an end to it. "

"Weel, I think we're a' agreed on that, " said Tam Tate. "Has ony o' youonything to suggest?"

For a few minutes there was silence, while they sat or stood deep inthought, trying to find a solution. It was an eerie gathering, with thegray dawn just beginning to break, while on every head theindispensable lamp burned and flickered. Men expectorated savagely uponthe ground, staring hard at the stones at their feet, thinking andwondering how they might serve their comrades. 

"It's about time we had a union, " said one. 

"Ay, " replied another, "so that some bigmouthed idiot can pocket themoney an' get a guid saft job oot o' it. "

"We've had plenty of unions, " put in another. "The last yin we startedhere--ye mind Bob Ritchie gaed aff to America wi' a' the money. It was afine go for him!"

"Oh, ay, but let us see what can be done wi' this case, " said JamieLauder. "Hoo' wad it do if we appointed a deputation to gang an' lay thehale thing afore Mr. Rundell?"

Jamie was always listened to with the respect due to his proved goodsense, for everyone knew that he was a man who would not intentionallyhurt a fellow creature by word or deed. 

"I believe it wad be a guid plan, " agreed Tam Tate. "He maybe disna kenthe hauf that gangs on. What do ye a' think o' it, men?"

This was before the days of limited companies and coal syndicates, andthe proprietor of the pits in Lowwood, Mr. Rundell, lived about twomiles out of the village. He was not a bad man, as men go; he was fieryand quick-tempered, but had a not ungenerous nature withal, and wasusually susceptible to a reasoned statement. Just as they were about todecide on a course of action, Andrew spoke: "I dinna want ony mair o' yethan can be helped to get into bother, so, if ye like, Jamie Lauder--ifhe's agreeable--could gang wi' me and Geordie Sinclair, and we'll putthe hale case afore him an' see what he mak's o't. "

This was received with approval, and it was agreed that Andrew, Jamieand Geordie should form the deputation. 

But Black Jock soon heard of the decision, and, as usual, acted withalacrity; for, had the men only known it, they had decided on a coursewhich he did not want them to adopt. He visited Jamie Lauder, and toldhim that the day before Rundell and he had agreed that the places in theBlack Horse Dook should be started at once, and that he was angry atthe course taken by the men. He believed that Mr. Rundell would also bevery angry, and if only Andrew and Geordie had come to him the nightbefore, they could have been working that day. He represented Rundell asbeing in an explosive mood, and that he was furious at the men takingthe idle day, and that he had threatened that if they were not at worknext day, he would lock them out. So plausibly did he speak, and sosincere did his concern appear, that Jamie, who was withal a simple man, and aware that the circumstances of his comrades would not admit of avery long fight, began to think it might be as Black Jock had said. 

"I think ye'd better ca' a meetin' o' the men, Jamie, and put the halecase afore them. Let them ken that Rundell decided just yesterday tostart the places, and that Andra and Geordie can start the morn. I ha'eno ill wull at ony o' the twa o' them, and I'm vexed that things ha'ebeen as bad as they've been, but I couldna get the boss to start theplaces, and what could I do? They can a' be back at their work the mornif they like to look at it reasonably. Of course, ye can pleaseyersel', " he went on, "it's a' yin to me; but if Rundell tak's it intohis head to ha'e a fight, well--ye ken what it means, an' I wouldna liketo ha'e ony strife the noo', for times are very hard for us a'. "

Simple and honest as Jamie was, Black Jock's plausibility appealed tohim, and he began to think that Walker perhaps was not so bad as he wasmade to appear. Again, Jamie knew that Rundell was a man of hasty temperand impulsive judgments, and could not brook trouble, and he began tothink that perhaps it might be better to hold the meeting as suggestedand tell the men what he had heard, and appeal to them to go back towork. 

"All right, " he said to Walker, "I'll call a meeting to-night and putthe case as you have said, and ask them to go back. But mind, you've notto go back on your promise. You'll have to start Andrew and Geordiewithin twa days, or the men will no' continue to work. Mind, I'm takinga lot on myself to do this, and you'll have to carry out your part andstart them. "

"I'll fill my part, never fear, " was the answer, and there was relief inWalker's voice. "See, there's my hand, " he said, extending a big blacklimb as he spoke, first spitting on his palm to ensure due solemnity. "There's no dryness about that, Jamie. I mean it. I'll start Geordie andAndrew all right. You get the men to go back to work to-morrow, for I'mafraid Rundell will make trouble if you remain idle anither day. Noo' Ipromise. " And Jamie took the extended hand in token of the bargain andreturned to summon the meeting, which was duly held, and, as Walker hadanticipated, the men were appeased, and returned to work the next day. 

Sure enough, within two days Andrew Marshall and Geordie Sinclair wereboth started to work, and matters went smoothly for a time. 

But though they had had a lesson, it did not stop their activities asagitators for the establishment of a union, for they knew that there wasno protection for any of them if they remained unorganized. 

"Men never were meant to work and live as colliers do, " said Geordie, thoughtfully. "Life should be good, and free, and happy, with comfortand enjoyment for all. Look at the birds--they are happy! So are theflowers, or they wouldn't look so pleased. God meant a' men and weeminto be glad, even though they have to work. But hoo' the hell can folk behappy and worship God on two and sixpence a day? It's all wrong, Andrew, an' I'll never believe that men were meant to live as we live. "

"That's true, Geordie, " agreed Andrew soberly. "I only wish we could geteverybody to see it as we see it. There's plenty for a' God'screatures--enough to make everybody happy, an' there need be no ill-willin the world, if only common-sense was applied to things; but I'm damn'dif I can see where even the men can be happy who are making their moneyoot o' our lives. They're bound to ken surely that what comes frommisery can not make happiness for them. "

"True, Andrew, true, and we maun just go on working for it. Sometimes Ihave the feeling that we are on the point of big changes: just as if thefolk would awaken up oot o' their ignorance, with love in their hearts, an' make all things right for everybody. A world o' happiness foreverybody is worth workin' for. So we maun gang on. "

And so they talked of their dreams and felt the better for it. 

CHAPTER IV

A YOUNG REBEL

About two years after these events little Robert Sinclair went toschool. It was a fine morning in late spring, and Robert trudged theseemingly long road, clasping an elder brother's hand, for the schoollay about a mile to the north-west of the village, and that seemed tothe boy a very long way. 

It was a great experience. Robert's clothes had been well patched, hisface had been washed and toweled till it shone, his eyes sparkled withexcitement, and his heart beat high; yet he was nervous and awed, wondering what he would find there. 

"By crikey, " said wee Alec Johnstone to him, "wait till auld Clappergie's ye a biff or twa wi' his muckle tawse. Do ye ken what he does tomak' them nippy? He burns them a wee bit in the fire, an' then st'eepsthem in whusky. An' they're awful sair. "

"Oh, but I ken what to do, Rab, if ye want to diddle him, " put inanother boy. "Just get a horse's hair--a lang yin oot o' its tail--andput it across yer haun', an' it'll cut his tawse in twa, whenever hegie's ye a pammy. "

"That's what I'm gaun to do, Jamie, " replied another. "I'll get somehairs frae Willie Rogerson. He's gettin' me some frae his father's whenhe's in the stable the morn, an' ye'll see auld Cabbage-heid's tawsegaun in twa, whenever he gie's me yin. " And they all looked admiringlyat this little hero who was going to do this wonderful thing so simply. 

"I got four yesterday, " said another, "an' I wasna' doin' onything. Bycriffens! it was sair, an' gin I had only had a horse's hair, I'd soonha'e putten his tawse oot the road. "

"I got four yesterday too, " said another, "an' a' because I was lookingat yon new laddie wha cam to the schule yesterday. By! they were sair. Inever heard auld Cabbage-heid till he cam up an' telt me to put oot myhaun. "

"It's Peter Rundell's his name, " chimed in another. "He's the Boss'sladdie. My! if you just saw what fine claes he has on. A new suit, an'lang stockings, an' a pair o' fine new buits. "

"Ay, an' a white collar too, " said another, "an' hundreds o' pooches inhis jacket. "

"He has a waistcoat wi' three pooches in it--yin for a watch--an' abraw, black, shiny bonnet. "

"He had a white hankey too, an' sweeties in yin o' his pooches. "

Robert felt a certain amount of resentment as he listened to thedescription, and he grudged Peter Rundell his new suit for he himselfhad never known anything of that kind, but had always worn "make-downs"created by his mother's clever fingers out of the discarded clothes ofgrown-ups. 

"Auld Cabbage-heid didna' like me looking at Peter Rundell an' that'sthe way he gied me four, but I'll get a horse's hair too, an' his tawse'll soon get wheegh. He's awful cruel, Rab, " he said, turning to Robert, "an' ye'd better look oot. "

Each and all had some fearful story to tell of the cruelty of theheadmaster, and all swore they'd get even with him. These stories filledRobert with a certain fear, for he was an imaginative and sensitive boy. Still he knew there was no escape. He must go to school and go throughwith it whatever the future might hold for him. 

So far he had grown wild and free, and loved the broad wide moor whichbegan even at the end of the row where he lived. It seemed to him thatthere never had been a time when he did not know that there was a moorthere. Nothing in it surprised him, even as a child. Its varied moodswere already understood by him, and its silences and its many voicesappealed to and were balm to his soul. The great blue hills whichfringed it away in the far distance were for him the ends of the world, and if he could go there some day, he would surely look over andfind--what? The thought staggered him, and his imagination would not, orcould not, construct for him what was at the other side. All day, often, he had lain stretched full length upon the moor, watching the greatwhite clouds sailing past, seeing himself sometimes sitting astridethem, proudly surveying, like God, the whole world. At times it was soreal that he bounded to his feet when by some misadventure he slippedfrom the back of the cloud. He listened to the songs of larks, the criesof curlews and lapwings and all the other moorland birds, and became asfamiliar with each of them as they were with one another. 

But this going to school was a break in his freedom, and it stirred himstrangely. He felt already that he would rather not go to school. He hadalways been happy before, and he did not know what lay ahead. 

In the schoolroom that morning, Robert was called out by theheadmistress to her desk, and while she was jotting down in her registerparticulars as to his age, etc. , it happened that Peter Rundell was alsoon the floor. Robert looked so wonderingly at the white collar and theshining boots, that Rundell, to fill in the blanks and keep himselfcheerful, promptly put out his tongue. Robert, not to be behind inrespectfulness, just as promptly put out his, at the same time making agrimace, and immediately they were at it, pummeling each other in heartyglee before the teacher could do anything to prevent them. It was theirfirst fight. The whole class was in immediate uproar and cries of--"Goon, Rob!" and "Good Peter!" were ringing out, as the supporters oneither side shouted encouragement. Both went at it and for a couple ofminutes defied the efforts of the teacher to separate them; but inresponse to calls for help, Mr. Clapper, the headmaster, came in, andtaking hold of Robert soon had him across his knee, and was giving him ataste of the "tawse" he had heard so much about that morning, and Robertwent back to his seat very sore, both physically and mentally, andcrying in pain and anger. Thus his first day began at school, and thesucceeding months were full of many such incidents. 

Life ran along in the ordinary ruts for three or four years, but alwaysPeter and Robert were antagonists. If Rundell happened to get to the topof the class, Robert never rested till he had excelled and displacedhim; and then it was Peter's turn to do likewise till he too succeeded. 

Robert, when in the mood, was eager and brilliant, and nothing seemedable to stay him. At times, however, he was given to dreaming, and livedthrough whole days in the classroom quite unconscious of what was goingon around him. He worked mechanically, living in a strange world of hisown creation, usually waking up to find himself at the foot of the classwith Peter smiling at the top. 

Often he went hungry, for times were still hard, and the family hadincreased to six. It was a bitter struggle in which Mrs. Sinclair wasengaged to try and feed--let alone clothe--her hungry children. Patient, plodding, and terrible self-sacrifices alone enabled her to accomplishwhat she did. It was always a question of getting sufficient food ratherthan aiming at any particular kind. It was quantity rather than qualitythat was her biggest problem, for the children had sharp appetites andcould make a feast of the simplest material. A pot of potatoes, boiledwith their "jackets" on, tumbled on to the center of the bare, uncoveredtable and a little salt placed in small heaps at the exact positionwhere each person sat, a large bowl of butter-milk when it could be got, with a tablespoon for each with which to lift a spoonful of the milk, and thus was set the banquet of the miner's family. 

"Mither, Rob's taken twa sups of milk to yae bite o' tattie, " littleMary would say. 

"Ay, an' what did you do?" Robert would reply. "When you thought naebodywas lookin', you took three spoonfu' to yae wee tattie. I was watchin'you. "

"Now that'll do, " the mother would admonish them. "Try and make it gangas far as ye can. Here you!" she would raise her voice to another, "dinna be so greedy on it. The rest maun get some too. " At this theguilty child would frown and look ashamed at being caught taking morethan his share. 

Robert's dreams, however, were always satisfying, and even the sordidsurroundings of the home were gilded by the warmth and glow of hisimagination. Some day, somewhere he seemed to feel, there was a placefor him to fill in the hearts of men. Vague stirrings told him of greatfuture events which no one could dominate, save the soul that filled hisbody. 

One day, during the dinner hour, when the school children were all atplay, Robert and Peter again came into conflict. Some girls were playingat a ring game, and Robert and a few other boys were shamefacedlylooking on. He was by this time at the bashful age of ten, and alreadythe sweet, shy face of Mysie Maitland had become familiar in everydream. Mysie's modesty and grace appealed to him and the strangemagnetic power of soul for soul was continually drawing them together, even at this early age. No voice was like Mysie's voice, no name likeher name to him. If only she chanced shyly to ask if he had a sparepiece of pencil Robert was happy; he'd gladly give her his only pieceand forthwith proceed to borrow another for himself. He saw that Mysiedid certain things, used, for instance, to clean her slate with a bit ofrag, and he instantly procured one, and this kept his jacket sleeveclean and whole. 

 "Choose, choose wha' ye'll tak', Wha' ye'll tak', wha' ye'll tak', Choose, choose wha' ye'll tak', A laddie or a lassie. "

So sang the girls, as with hands joined they walked round in a ring, with Mysie, blushing and sweet, standing in the center--a sweet, shy, little rosebud--a joy in a cheap cotton frock. 

"Come on, Mysie, " urged the girls, who had now come to a standstill withthe finish of the song. "Choose an' dinna keep us waiting. " But Mysiestood still, her little heart beating at a terrible rate, her breathcoming in short, quick gasps, and a soft, glowing light of nervousintensity in her eyes. 

"Oh, come on, Mysie Maitland, " cried one girl in hurt tones, "choose an'dinna spoil the game. "

"Come on, " urged another, "the whistle will be blawn the noo. "

"She's feart, " said one, "an' she disna need, for we a' ken that shewants to choose Bob Sinclair. "

Something sang uproariously in Bob's ears at this blunt way of statingwhat they all felt; a hot wave surged over him, and his whole beingseemed to fill with the energy of a giant. He shifted uneasily, hissenses all acutely alert to pick up even Mysie's faint gasp of shame, asthe hot blood suffused her face. Would she choose him before all theseothers? He hoped she wouldn't, and he tried to summon a smile to hidehis uneasiness. Still Mysie hesitated. She wanted to choose Robert, butif she did, perhaps the other boys and girls would tease themafterwards. 

"Oh, come on, Mysie. It's no' fair, " cried one of the girls, gettingmore and more impatient. "Choose an' be done wi' it. It's only a game. "

Thus urged Mysie stepped forward, and, excited out of all judgment, herface covered with shame, her heart thumping and galloping, she grabbedthe first hand she saw, which happened to be Peter Rundell's, andsomething seemed to darken the day for all. Robert, now that he had notbeen chosen, felt murder in his heart. His body felt charged withenergy, a flood of passion poured over him and he lost all discretion. He saw only Peter's shining collar, his fine boots and good clothes, andabove all the smile, half of shame, half of triumph, upon his face. Inpassing Peter staggered against Robert, who let drive with his fist, andthere was a fight before anyone really knew what had happened. 

"What are ye shovin' at? Can ye no' watch folk's toes?" And he was onPeter like a whirlwind. There was the hatred of years between them, andthey pummeled each other heartily. 

"A fight, boys!" yelled the others. "Here's a fight!" and a crowdrapidly gathered to watch operations, while little Mysie, who had beenthe cause of it all, shrank back into a quiet corner, the tears runningfrom her eyes and a sore pain at her heart. 

"Go on, Bob! Gi'e him a jelly yin, " cried Bob's supporters. 

"Watch for his nose, Peter, " cried those who pinned their faith to thecoal-owner's son. Amid a chorus of such encouragement, both boysbelabored each other and fought like barbarians. 

"Let up, Peter, " cried Bob's admirers, "an' gi'e him fair doo, " as thetwo rolled upon the ground, with Peter, who was much the bigger boy, ontop. "Come on now, he let you up when you was doon, " and so they keptthe balance of fair play. But the fight raged on in a terrible fury ofbattle, sometimes one boy on top, sometimes the other. Bob was the moreactive of the two, and hardier, and what he lacked in weight he made upin speed. One of Peter's eyes was bruised, while Robert's lip wasswelling, and each strained to plant the decisive blow that would endthe fight. 

"Nae kickin', Peter! Ye're bate, " yelled one watchful supporter of Bob, as he noticed the former's booted foot come into violent contact withBobbie's bare leg. 

"Big cowardie!" cried another, as Peter, crying now with rage andvexation, hit out with his foot. "Fight fair an' nae kickin'!"

Bob managed to dodge the kick, and flinging himself in before Peterrecovered his balance, planted a heavy blow upon his opponent's nose. 

"Ho! a jelly yin! a jelly yin!" roared the crowd in admiration. "Gi'ehim anither yin, " and even Peter's supporters began to desert him. Bob, thus encouraged, laid about him with all the strengthened "morale" of aconscious victor, finding it comparatively easy now to hit hard--andoften. Peter, blinded by tears and choking with passion, could not see, but struck aimlessly, till one resounding smack upon his already injurednose brought the eagerly looked for crimson blood from it, and that ofcourse, in schoolboy etiquette, meant the end of the fight. Peter wasnow lying upon the ground, his handkerchief at his nose, and roaringlike a bull, not so much because of his injured nose, as because of thehurt to his pride and vanity. 

"Haud back yer held, " advised one boy, "an' put something cauld doonyer back. "

Suddenly there was silence, and everyone looked awed and shamefaced asMr. Clapper, the headmaster, strode into the midst of them. He had heardthe noise of the fight, and had stolen up unobserved just in time to seePeter get the knockout blow. 

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded sternly, his eyes travelingall over the children, till they rested finally on Robert. No oneanswered, and so he proceeded to question Peter, who had struggled tohis feet. Peter, like many other boys in similar circumstances, pouredforth a great indictment of his adversary, and Mr. Clapper then turnedto Robert. 

"What have you to say, Sinclair?" he asked. "Speak out, and give me yourside. "

But Robert said nothing. His rebellious spirit was roused, and heresented the tone of the headmaster's voice. Again Mr. Clapper tried, but Robert remained silent. 

"Come now, tell me what led to the fight? Why were you fighting withPeter?"

Robert would not speak, and Mr. Clapper, being of an explosivetemperament, with little tact, was fast losing his temper. He turned toquestion some of the other boys, finally calling them all into theschool, and putting Robert into the teacher's room, so that he might"get to the bottom of it. "

Mr. Clapper, whatever good points he may have possessed, was not at allfitted for the teaching profession, for he lacked the sympathy necessaryin dealing with children, and he was a rigid believer in the doctrine ofpunishment. 

After a time he came into the room where Robert sat, and began once moreto question him. But Robert was still obdurate, and stolidly keptsilent. Mr. Clapper recognized at once that this was a clear case of adour nature in the wrong. It needed correction, and that of a severekind. That spirit he felt must be broken, or there would be troubleahead in after years for Robert Sinclair. Mr. Clapper was determined todo his duty, and he believed that Robert in later life would probablyfeel grateful for this thrashing. He thrashed the boy soundly andseverely upon the most sensitive parts of his body, so that the painwould help to break his spirit. He saw no indignity heaped upon ahigh-spirited, sensitive soul. It was all for the boy's own good, and sothe blows fell thick and heavy upon the little back and hips. 

Robert bit his lip to repress the roar of pain that wanted to escape. Hewould not cry, and this was another spur to the efforts of Mr. Clapper. The boy's flesh twitched and quivered at every blow, yet never a crycame from him. It but served to feed his rebellion, and he struggled andfought with fury until completely exhausted. 

"There now, " declared Mr. Clapper, flinging down the "tawse" upon thetable, panting from his exertions and wiping his brow, "I shall leaveyou for a time until you decide to speak. If you will not speak when Ireturn, I shall thrash you again, " and he went out, locking the door, leaving the boy, still proud and unsubdued, but aching in every muscleand bone of his little body. 

Left to himself, Robert very nearly cried, but he dashed the gatheringtears from his eyes, angry at the weakness, and resolved, as he adjustedhis garments, that he would die rather than speak now. He looked round, and seeing the window raised a little from the bottom, sprang to it, asudden resolve in his heart to run away. Just as he got astride the sillhe spied a piece of chalk and the "tawse" on the table, so turning backhe put the "tawse" in his pocket, and with the chalk wrote on thetable:--

"You are an ould pig and I'll not speak, and you'll never put your handson your tawse again. "

Then he was out of the window, dropped easily to the ground, and wasaway to the moors. He ran a long way, until finding that he had not beendetected, he skirted a small wood, dug a hole in the soft moss, put inthe "tawse, " and covered them up. There they may be lying to this day, for no one ever learned from him where they were buried. 

The spell of the moor took possession of him, and his wounded soul wassoon wrapped in the soft folds of its silence. The balm of its peacecomforted him, and brought ease and calmed the rebellion in his blood. He was happy, forgetting that there ever had existed a schoolmaster, oranything else unpleasant. Here he was free, and no one evermisunderstood him. He gave pain to no one, and nothing ever hurt himhere. 

He flung himself down among the rank gray grass and heather, while themoor cock called to his mate in an agony of pleading passion, thelapwing crooned upon a tuft of grass as she prepared a place for hereggs, the whaup wheepled and twirled and cried in eerie alarm, theplover sighed to a low white cloud wandering past; while the snipe andthe lark, the "mossie, " the heather lintie, and the wandering, sighingwinds among the reeds and rushes of the swampy moss, all added theirnotes to soothe and satisfy the little wounded spirit lying there on thesoft moorland. Already he was away upon the wings of fancy in a world ofhis own--a world full of dreams and joys unspeakable; a world of calmcomfort, where there was no pain, no hunger, no unpleasantness; a worldof smiles and warm delights and love. 

Thus he dreamed as he watched the white clouds trailing their draperiesalong the sky, till the shadows creeping over the hills, and the criesof the heron returning to his haunts in the moor, woke him to arealization of the fact that the school was long since out, and probablyanother thrashing awaited him when he got home. Sadly and regretfully hedragged his little aching body from its soft mossy bed, felt that hislimbs were still sore, and that he was very, very hungry. Rebellionagain surging within him as he remembered all, he trudged home, fearfulyet proud, resolved to go through with the inevitable. 

CHAPTER V

BLACK JOCK'S THREAT

That same day Walker intimated to Geordie, when he was at workunderground, that a reduction was to be imposed on his ton rate, whichmeant for Sinclair that it would be more difficult to earn a decentwage. Geordie had always had it in his head to confront Walker about hisvery unfair treatment of him, and on this occasion he decided to do so. 

"What way are you breakin' my rate?" he asked, when Walker told him ofthe reduction. 

"Oh, it's no' me, " replied Walker. "It's Rundell. He thinks it can beworked for less than it's takin', and, of course, I've just to do as Iam tell'd. "

"Weel, I don't ken, " said Geordie. "But I've thocht for a lang whileback that you had a hand in it. Have I done anything to ye, for I don'tken o' it?"

"Ye've never done me any harm, Geordie, " replied Walker with a show ofsincerity. "What mak's ye think that?"

"Weel, for a lang time noo', I've ay been kept in hard places, or placeswi' nae air, or where there was water to contend wi'. There's ay beensomething, an' I ha'e come to the conclusion that there's mair designthan accident in it. "

"I dinna think so, " was the reply. "But maybe it's because you're ayagitatin' to have a union started. "

"An' what about it, " enquired Geordie, getting a bit heated. "If I ha'ebeen advocatin' the startin' o' a union? It seems to me to be muckleneeded. "

"Oh, I've nothing to say aboot it, " replied Walker. "It's the boss, an'I was merely givin' ye a hint for yer ain guid. "

"It's a' richt, " exclaimed Geordie, getting still more heated. "I cansee as far through a brick wall as you can see through a whin dyke. Theboss has naething to do wi' it. It's you, an' I'm quite pleased to getthe chance to tell ye to yer face. Ye could, many a time, ha'e given mea better place, if you had cared. But let me tell you, if there was aunion here, it would soon put an end to you an' yer damn'd cantraips. "

"Very weel. Gang on an' start yin. Man, though ye were a' in a union themorn, I could buy an' sell the majority of them for the promise of aguid place, or a bottle of whisky--Ay, if they jist thocht they were inwi' the gaffer, I'd get all I wanted frae the maist o' them. A clap onthe shoulder, a smile, or even a word would do it. The one hauf o' themen can ay be got to sell the ither. Ye daurna' cheep, man, but I hearof it. "

"Damn'd fine I ken that, " replied Geordie, "an' it's mair the peety. Butthat's no' to say that men'll ay be like that. If they'd be true an'stick to yin anither, they'd damn'd soon put an end to sic gaffers asyou. "

"Maybe ye'll be the first to be put an end to, " said Walker, rising toleave. "I might ha'e something to say to--"

"You rotten pestilence o' hell, " cried Geordie, now fairly roused, andjumping over the coals on the "roadhead" after him. "I'll cleave therotten heart o' ye if I get my fingers on ye, you an' yer fancy women, yer gamblin' an' yer shebeens!"

But Walker was off; he did not like to hear these matters of his privatelife mentioned, and so Geordie, left to himself, lit his pipe, and satdown to cool his temper. 

A few minutes later Matthew Maitland came round to borrow a shot ofpowder, and Geordie unburdened his mind to him. 

"He's a dirty brute, " said Matthew, "an' it's time we had a unionstarted. I hear great stories aboot how Bob Smillie's gettin' on wi' theunion that he started doon the west country. "

"I ken Bob fine, " said Geordie. "He's a fine fellow. I worked next wallto him doon there a while, an' a better chap ye couldna' get. "

"I hear that he's gotten as muckle as tippence on the ton to some o'the miners who ha'e joined. I'm gaun to join whenever it can bestarted. "

Geordie agreed that it would be good to have a union, but he knew thatwhoever led in the matter would very likely have to pay for his courage. There was the "Block" to consider, and he could not see how they mightstart a union just then in such hard times. 

He sat and thought after Matthew had gone away, and was still sittingwhen Matthew's shot went off. His lot, he knew, was hard. He could notafford to "flit, " even though he did find work somewhere else. His sixchildren depended upon his readiness to swallow insult and injustice, and he could see no way but to submit. If only his first boy were readyfor work, it would soon make a difference in the house. It was only afew months now till that time would come, and perhaps things mightchange. 

All day he was sullen and angry, and he tore at his work like someimprisoned fiend, a great rebellion in his heart, and a fury of angerconsuming him. Everything seemed to go wrong that day, and at last when"knock-off" time came, he felt a little easier, though still silent andangry. His last shot, however, missed fire, just as he was coming awayhome; and that, added to all the other things that day, made him feelthat his whole life was clouded, and was one long trial. 

On the way home from the pit he heard the story of Robert's rebelliousoutburst at school, and when he came into the house his wife saw by hisface that something had upset him. She proceeded to get him water towash himself, and brought in the tub, while he divested himself of hisclothes, flinging each garment savagely into the corner, until he stoodnaked save for his trousers. Most miners are sensitive to the presenceof strangers during this operation, and it so happened at thatparticular time the minister chose to pay one of his rare visits amonghis flock in the village. 

"Wha the hell's this noo?" asked Geordie, when he heard the tap at thedoor, as he looked up through soapy eyes, his head all lathered with theblack suds. "Dammit, they micht let folk get washed, " he said angrily. 

When he heard the voice of the minister, he plunged his head into thetub, and began splashing and rubbing, and lifting the water over hishead. 

"Oh, you are busy washing, I see, Mr. Sinclair, " observed the minister, looking at the naked collier. 

"Ay, " said Geordie shortly, "an' I dinna think you'd ha'e thankit me forcomin' in on the tap o' you, when you were washin' yerself, " he saidbluntly--a remark which his wife felt to be a bit ill-natured, thoughshe said nothing. 

"Oh, I am sorry, " replied the minister. "I did not mean to intrude. I'llnot stay, but will call back some other time, " and his voice wasapologetic and ill at ease. 

"I think sae, " retorted Geordie, splashing away and spitting the soapfrom his mouth. "Yer room's mair to my taste than yer company the noo. "

"My! that was an awfu' way to talk to the meenister, " said Mrs. Sinclairwhen the door was again closed. "You micht aye try to be civil to folk, "and there was resentment in her voice. 

"Ach, dammit, wha can be bothered wi' thae kind o' folk yapping roun'about when yer washin' yerself. He micht ken no' to come at this time, when men are comin' hame frae their work, " and he went on with hissplashing. "Here, gi'e my back a rub, " and he lay over the tub while shewashed his back from the shoulders downward, making it clean and freefrom the coal dust and grime. Then she proceeded to dry him all overwith a rough towel, after which he put on a clean shirt, and taking offhis pit trousers, stepped into the tub and began to wash his lower limbsand make them as clean as the upper part of the body. 

"Ach, folk should ha'e a place to wash in anyway, " he grumbled, as if tojustify his outburst, for secretly he was beginning to feel ashamed ofit. "The folk that ha'e the maist need o' a bath are the folk wha neverget the chance o' yin, " he went on. "Look at that chap wha was in thenoo. He never needs to dirty a finger, an' look at the hoose he has tobide in, wi' its fine bathroom an' a' things that he needs. Och, but weare a silly lot o' blockheads!" And so he raved on till he sat down tohis frugal dinner of potatoes and buttermilk, after which he relapsedinto silence again, and sat reading a newspaper. 

It was in this mood that Robert found him when he returned from themoors. Nellie had noticed that something was worrying her husband, andshe suspected some fresh trouble at the pit, though she asked noquestions. 

"Where hae ye been?" asked Geordie very calmly, as Robert enteredfurtively, and sat down on a chair near to the door. The boy did notanswer. He dreaded that calmness. He seemed to feel there was somethingstrong, cruel and relentless behind it. But he had something of hisfather's nature in him, so he sat in silence. 

"What kind o' conduct's this I hear ye've been up to?" was the nextquestion, with the same studied calm, seemingly passionless and pliable. Still no answer from the boy, though when he looked at his father hefelt afraid. He turned his eyes appealingly to his mother, but her facebetrayed nothing, and a feeling of hopelessness entered Robert's heart. There was nothing else but to go through with it. 

"Tak' aff yer claes, " quietly commanded the father, and the boyreluctantly began to peel off his scanty garments one by one, till hestood naked on the bare floor. He was glad that no one except the babywas in to see his humiliation, his brothers and sisters being all out atplay. 

The father rose and went to the corner where his working clothes lay ina heap. Selecting the belt he wore round his waist at his work, hegrasped it firmly, and with the other hand took the boy by one arm, saying:--

"Are ye going to answer my question noo', and tell me where ye ha'ebeen?"

But Robert did not answer, so down came the hard leather belt with ahorrible crack across the naked little hips, and a thick red markappeared where the blow had fallen. A roar of pain broke from the boy'slips, in spite of his resolution not to cry, as lash after lash fellupon his limbs and across the little white back. Horribly, cruelly, relentlessly the belt fell with sickening regularity, while the tenderflesh quivered at every blow, and an ugly series of red stripesappeared along the back and down across the sturdy legs. 

"Oh, dinna' hit me ony mair, faither, " he pleaded at last, the firmresolution breaking because of the pain of the blows. "Oh, dinna hitme!" and he jumped as the blows fell without slackening. "Oh, oh, oh!Mother, dinna' let him hit me ony mair!" roared the boy, while the grim, set face of the parent never relaxed, and the belt continued to lash thequivering flesh. 

Mrs. Sinclair, who by this time was crying too, feeling every blow inher mother-heart, began to fear this grim, cruel look on her husband'sface. He was mad, she felt, and there was murder in his eyes; and atlast, spurred to desperation, she jumped forward, tore at the belt withdesperate strength, and flung it into the corner, crying, as she grippedthe boy in her arms. 

"In the name of Heaven, Geordie, are ye gaun to kill my bairn afore myeen?"

She tore the boy fiercely from his father's grasp and shielded him fromher husband, exclaiming at the same time with indignation, "Ha'e ye naehumanity aboot ye at a'? Hit me if ye are goin' to hit any more. It'smurder, an' I'll no' stand ony longer an' let ye do it. "

Geordie, surprised and amazed at her action, and the fierceness in hervoice, looked up, and immediately reason seemed to steal back into hismind. A flush of shame overspread his face, and he sat down, burying hisface in his hands. 

"Wheesht, sonny. Wheesht, my wee man, " crooned the mother soothingly, asshe began to help Robert to get on his clothes, the tears falling stillfrom her own eyes, as she saw the ugly stripes and bruises upon his backbeginning to discolor. "Wheesht, sonny! Dinna' greet ony mair. Therenoo', my wee son. Daddy's no' weel the nicht, " she excused, "an' didna'ken what he was doin'. " Then breaking into a louder tone: "I wonder whatin Heaven's name puir folk are born for at a'. There noo'. There noo'. Dinna greet, my wee man, an' mither'll gi'e ye yer denner. "

Sinclair could stand it no longer, so slipping on his boots andreaching for his cap, he went out, never in all his life feeling moreashamed of himself. 

Left to themselves--for all the other children were still out atplay--Nellie soon had Robert quietened and sitting at his dinner of coldpotatoes and buttermilk. Bit by bit she drew from him the story of thefight at school; divining for herself the reason for Robert's attackupon Peter Rundell, she soon was in possession of the whole story withits termination of revolt against the headmaster and even the confessionof what he had written on the table. 

"An' what did ye do wi' the tawse, son?" she enquired, her dark eyesshowing pride in the revolt of her laddie. She was proud to know that hehad sufficient character to stand up to a bully, even though he were aheadmaster. 

"I buried them in the muir, " he replied simply, "but I dinna' want totell naebody where they are. I'll never gi'e them back. "

"Oh, weel, if ye dinna' want to tell me, dinna' do it, " she said. "I'llgang with ye to the school the morn, an' I'll see that ye're no' meddledwi'. But, Robin, while I like to see ye staunin' up against what iswrong, I dinna want ye to dae wrang yerself. An' I think ye was in thewrang to strike Peter. He staggered against ye, an' I dinna think he wadtry to tramp on yer taes. An' always when ye're in the wrang, own up toit, an' make what amends ye can. "

Robin did not reply to this, but she could see that he knew she wasright. Before he could say anything she added, "Come awa' noo', if yeha'e gotten yer denner, son, I think ye should gang awa' to yer bed. Ye'll be the better o' a lang sleep. Dinna' think hard o' yer faither;he's feelin' ashamed o' hittin' ye. There must be something botherin'him, for I dinna' mind o' him ever leatherin' one o' ye like that. "

This was true, for Geordie Sinclair was rather a "cannie" man, and hadnever been given to beating his children before. She felt that somethinghad happened in the pit, and whatever it was it had made her husbandangry. 

Robert again stripped off his clothes and crept into bed, while hismother seemed to feel every pain once more as she looked upon the softlittle body with the ugly black stripes upon it. She placed him underthe rough blankets as snugly as possible, telling him to lie well overnear to the wall, for there were five of them now who lay abreast, andthere was never too much room. He was soon asleep, and Mrs. Sinclair putfresh coals on the fire, and began to tidy up, so as to have everythingas cheerful as possible when her husband should return. It was no easymatter to keep a house clean, with only a single apartment, and eightindividuals living in it. 

The housing conditions in most mining villages of Scotland are anoutrage on decency. In Lowwood there were no sanitary conveniences ofany kind, and it was a difficult matter for the women folk to keep atidy house under these circumstances. But it was wonderful, thehomeliness and comfort found in those single apartment houses. It washome, and that made it tolerable. In such homes fine men and women werebred and reared, but the credit was due entirely to our womenfolk; forthey had the fashioning of the spirit of the homes, and the spirit ofthe homes is always the spirit of the people. 

CHAPTER VI

THE COMING OF A PROPHET

Another year passed, and Robert was now eleven years of age. Though fullof hardship, hunger and poverty, yet they were not altogether unhappyyears for him. There were joys which he would not have liked to havemissed, and in later life he looked back upon them always through a mistof memory that sometimes bordered on tears. 

He had grown "in wisdom and stature, " and gave promise of being a finesturdy boy; but lately it had been borne in upon him that no one seemedjust to look at things from his point of view. He was alluded to as "astrange laddie, " and the gulf of misunderstanding seemed to grow widerevery day. Old Granny Frame, the "howdie-wife" of the village, alwaysdeclared that he would be a great man, but others just took it forgranted that he would never see things as they saw them. 

He was already too serious for a boy, and his joys were not the joys ofother children. Sensitive, and in a measure proudly reserved, he tookmore and more to the moors and the hills. All day sometimes he rovedover them, and at other times he would lie motionless but happy, for themoor always understood. If he were hurt at anything which happened, themoor brought him solace; if he grieved, it gave him relief; and if hewere happy, it too rejoiced. He loved it in all moods, and he could notunderstand how its loving silence was dreaded by others. 

His parents now found that their battle, though not much easier, certainly was no worse, and hope shone bright for them in the future. The oldest boy was already at work and one girl was away "in service. "Robert, too, would soon be ready, and in quick succession behind himthere were three other boys. Geordie Sinclair was often told by hisworkmates that he would "soon ha'e naethin' to do but put in wicks inthe pit lamps. " But Geordie merely smiled. How often before had he heardthat said of others who had families like his own and he knew that hewould never see them all working. Fifty years was a long time to livefor a collier in those days of badly ventilated and poorly inspectedpits and many men were in their graves at forty. 

Walker still indulged in petty persecution, whilst Geordie agitated forthe starting of a union, and many a battle the two had, until the enmitybetween them developed into keen hatred. 

"I wonder what Black Jock really has against me, " he had said over andover again, unable to understand his persistent hostility, but his wifehad never dared tell him. 

One night, however, after he had been out of work a week, because, asBlack Jock had said, "there was nae places, " she decided to tell him thereal reason of Walker's antipathy. 

"Man, it's no' you, Geordie, that Black Jock has the ill will at, " sheventured to say, "it's me, an' he hits me an' the bairns through you. "

"You, " said Geordie in some surprise, "hoo' can that be?"

Bit by bit, though with great reluctance, she told her husband how andwhen Black Jock had attempted to degrade her. When she had ended, he satin grim silence, while the ticking of the clock seemed to have gained inloudness, and so, too, the purring of the cat, as it rubbed itselfagainst his leg, first on one side and then the other, drawing itssleek, furry side along his ankle, turning back again, and occasionallylooking up into his face for the recognition which it vainly tried towin. 

The fire burned low in the grate as Nellie busied herself with washingthe dishes; while outside the loud cries of the children, playing on thegreen, mingled occasionally with a clink, as the steel quoits fell uponeach other, telling of some enthusiastic players, who were practicingfor the local games. Loud cries of encouragement broke from thesupporters, and Geordie and Nellie heard all these--even the plaintivewail of a child crying in a house a few doors farther up the "row, " andthe mother's attempts to soothe it into forgetfulness of its temporarypain or disappointment. 

The little apartment seemed to have become suddenly cheerless. Nelliefelt the silence most oppressive, for she was wondering how he wastaking it all. Soon, however, he rose and reached for his cap. Lookingat his wife with eyes that set all her fears at rest--for she saw pridein them, pride in her and the way she had acted--he said:--

"Thank ye, Nellie; ye are a' the woman I always thocht ye was, an' I'llsee that nae dirty brute ever again gets the chance to insult ye, " andhe was out of the door before she could question him further. 

Geordie went straight to where Walker lived and knocked at the door. Agirl of fourteen came in answer to his knock, for Walker was a widower, his wife having died shortly after the birth of their only child. 

"Is yer faither in?" enquired Geordie quietly, hardly able to controlthe raging anger in his heart. 

"No, he's no' in, " replied the girl. "Oh, is that you, Geordie?" sheasked, recognizing him in the darkness. "My father said when he went ootthat if ye cam' to the door, I was to tell ye he had nae places yet. "

"That's a' richt, " said Geordie, still very quietly. "Do ye ken onythingaboot where he is this nicht?"

"No, unless he's up in Sanny Robertson's, or maybe in Peter Fleming's. "

"Thank ye, " said Geordie, turning away, "I'll go up an' see if he isthere. "

He knew that Peter Fleming was working that night, and had stopped on anextra shift to repair a road, by special instructions from Walker; soGeordie went direct to Fleming's house and knocked at the door. After aninterval a woman's voice enquired, "Wha's that?" and Geordie thoughtthere was anxiety in it. 

"Open the door, " said Geordie quietly. "What the hell are ye afert for?"and the woman, thinking it was her husband returned from work, immediately opened the door. 

"You're shairly early, " she said; then suddenly recognizing who theintruder was, she tried to shut the door. 

"Na, na, " said Geordie, now well in the doorway, "I want to see BlackJock. "

"He's no' here, " she lied readily enough, but with some agitation in hervoice. 

"You're a liar, Jean, " replied Geordie, "that's him gaun oot at the roomdoor, " and Geordie withdrew hurriedly, determined that Black Jock shouldnot escape him. He hurried to the end of the "row, " and waited with allthe passion of long years raging through his whole being. He stepped outas Walker advanced, and said: "Is that you, Walker?"

"Ay, " came the answer, "what do ye want?" as he came to a halt. 

"Just a meenit, " said Geordie, placing himself in front of Walker, barring his way. "I want to warm yer dirty hide. It ought to have beendone years ago, but I never kent till the nicht, and I'm gaun to dae itthe noo, " and the tones of his voice indicated that he meant what hesaid. 

"Oh! What's wrang?" asked Walker in affected surprise. "I'll get ye aplace, " he went on hurriedly, "just as soon as I can--in fac' there'syin that'll be ready by the morn. "

"I'm no gi'ein' a damn for yer place. It's you I'm efter the nicht. Comeon, face up, " and Sinclair squared himself for battle. 

Thus challenged, Walker, who was like all bullies a coward at heart, tried to temporize, but Sinclair was in no mood for delay. 

"Come on, pit them up, or I'll break yer jaw for you, " he saidthreateningly. 

"Man, Geordie, what ails ye the nicht?" asked Walker in hurried alarm, wondering wildly how he could stave off the chastisement which he knewfrom Geordie's voice he might expect. "Talk sensibly, man. Try an' ha'esome sense. What's the matter wi' ye?"

"Matter, " echoed Geordie, "jist this. The wife has jist telt me a' abootthe nicht ye cam' chappin' to the door when I was lyin' hurt. She kentI'd break yer neck for it, and she was feart to tell me. So put up yerfists, ye black-hearted brute that ye are. I'm gaun to gi'e ye what weshould hae gotten seven years syne, an' it'll maybe put ye frae preyin'on decent women. Come on. "

"Awa', man, Geordie, an' behave yersel', " began Walker, trying to evadehim. 

"Tak' that, then, ye dirty brute!" and Geordie smashed his fist straightbetween Walker's eyes. 

Roused at last, Walker showed fight and swung at Sinclair. He was theyounger man by about two years, and had not had the hard work and badconditions of the other, but Sinclair was a strong man, and was nowroused to a great pitch, so he struck out with terrific force. Then thetwo closed and swayed about, struggling, cursing and punching each otherwith brutal might. Sinclair's extra weight and more powerful build soonbegan to tell, and he was able to send home one or two heavy blows onBlack Jock's face and body. Panting and blowing, they separated, and asthey did so, Sinclair caught his opponent a straight hard crash on thejaw that sent him rolling to the muddy road, and feeling as if athousand fists had struck him all at once. 

Walker lay for a short time, then gathering himself together, he rose tohis feet and set off at a quick pace in the direction of his house, whilst Geordie, too, turned homewards, feeling that it was useless tofollow him. 

Mrs. Sinclair did not hear what had happened till a week later, whenGeordie, being in a communicative mood, told her of the affair insimple, unaffected terms. 

Shortly afterwards a great event happened in Lowwood, which made thedeepest impression on Robert's mind. His father still being out of work, had sent a letter to Robert Smillie, who was then beginning to be heardof more and more in mining circles. In the letter Geordie explained, tothe best of his ability, the local circumstances, and he mentioned hisown case of persecution, and his agitation for the starting of a union. Smillie sent word in reply that he would come in two days, and Geordieenthusiastically set to work to organize a meeting, going round everyhouse in the district, telling the folks that Smillie was coming, andexhorting them to turn out and hear him. 

"I dinna think it'll do any guid, " said old Tam Smith, when Geordiecalled upon him. "It's a' richt talkin' about a union, but the mair yefecht the mair ye're oppressed. The bosses ha'e the siller, an' they canay buy the brains to serve them. "

Geordie made no reply, for he knew from experience that it was only tootrue. 

"Just look at young Jamie Soutar, " continued Tam. "He is yin o' thecleverest men i' the country. He wrocht wi' me as a laddie when he wentinto the pit, an' noo' he's travelin' manager for that big company doonthe west country, an' I'm telt he's organizin' an' advocatin' theformin' o' what he calls a Coal Combine. "

"That's a' richt, Tam. I admit it a', though I dinna jist ken what aCoal Combine means; but I ken that Bob Smillie is makin' great wark wi'the union he has formed. I ken he has gotten rises in wages for a' themen who ha'e joined, an' that he is advocatin' an eight hours day. Ifthat can be done doon there, it can be done here; for there's naebodyhas ony mair need o' a eight hours day than miners. "

"Oh, I'll turn oot a' richt at the meetin', " said Tam, who was alwayscredited with seeing farther than most of his workmates, "an' I'll jointhe union, too, if it's formed; but ye'll see if ye live lang enoughthat the union'll no' be a' ye think it. The ither side will organize tobate ye every time. " And with this encouraging prophecy, Geordie went onto the next house. 

"No, I'm no' comin' to nae meetin'. I want naethin' to dae wi' yerunions. I can get on weel enough without them, " curtly said Dan Sellars, the inmate. He was what Geordie somewhat expressively called a"belly-crawler, " a talebearer, and one who drank and gambled along withWalker, Fleming, Robertson and a few others. 

"Man, it'll no' do muckle guid, " said another, "ye mind hoo' big GeordieRitchie ran awa' wi' the money o' the last union we started? It'll gi'ea wheen bigmouths a guid job and an easy time. That's a' it will do. "

"Oh, ay, " answered Sinclair, "but that's no' to say that the union'llay fail. Folks are no' a' Geordie Ritchies, an' they're no' a' bigmouthseither. We're bound to succeed if we care to be solid thegither. "

"I'll come to the meetin', Geordie, although I was sayin' that, but I'llno' promise to join yer union, " was the answer, and Sinclair had to becontent with that. 

Thus went Geordie from house to house, meeting with much discouragement, and even downright opposition, but he was always good-humored, and so heseldom failed to extract a promise to attend the meeting. 

The night of the meeting arrived, and the hall--an old, badly lit andill-ventilated wooden erection--was packed to its utmost. There wereeager faces, and dull, listless ones among the audience; there were eyesglad with expectancy, and eyes dulled with long years of privations andbrutal labor; limbs young and supple and full of energy, and limbs stiffand sore, crooked and maimed. 

Geordie Sinclair was chairman, and when he rose to open the meeting andintroduce Smillie, he felt as if the whole world were looking on andlistening. 

"Weel, men, " he began, halting and hesitating in his utterance, "for alang time now there has been much cryin' for a union here. There hasbeen a lot of persecution gaun' on, an' it has been lang felt thatsomething should be done. We ha'e heard of how other men in other placesha'e managed to start a union, and how it has been a guid thing inrisin' wages. Mr. Smillie has come here the nicht to tell us how theother districts ha'e made a start, and what thae other districts hasgotten. If it can be done there, it can be done here. I ha'e wrochtaside Bob Smillie, an' I ken what kind of man he is. He has done greatwark doon in the west country, an' he is weel fitted and able to be thespokesman for the miners o' Scotlan'. I'm no gaun' to say ony mair, butI can say that it gie's me great pleasure to ask Mr. Smillie to addressye. "

A round of applause greeted Smillie as he rose to address them. Tall andmanly, he dominated his audience from the very first sentence, rousingthem to a great pitch of enthusiasm, as he proceeded to tell of all themany hardships which miners had to endure, of the "Block" system ofpersecution, and to point to the only means of successfully curing themby organizing into one solid body, so that they might become powerfulenough to enforce their demands for a fuller, freer, and a happier life. Never in all his life did he speak with more passion than he did thatnight in Lowwood. 

Little Robert was present in the hall--the only child there; and asSmillie spoke in passionate denunciation of the tyrannies andpersecutions of the mine-owners and their officials, his little heartleapt in generous indignation. Many things which he had but dimlyunderstood before, began to be plain to him, as he sat with eyes rivetedupon Smillie's face, drinking in every word as the speaker plead withthe men to unite and defend themselves. Then, as his father's wrongswere poured forth from the platform, and as Smillie appealed to them inpowerful sentences to stand loyally by their comrade, the boy felt hecould have followed Smillie anywhere, and that he could have slain everyman who refused to answer that call. Away beyond the speaker the boy hadalready glimpsed something of the ideal which Smillie sketched, and hissoul throbbed and ached to see how simple and how easy it was for lifeto be made comfortable and good and pleasant for all. Bob Smillie neverwon a truer heart than he did that night in winning this barefooted, ragged boy's. 

Round after round of applause greeted the speaker when he had finished, and in response to his appeal to them to organize, a branch of the unionwas formed, with Geordie Sinclair as its first president. At the requestof the meeting Smillie interviewed Black Jock next morning, and as aresult Sinclair got started on the following day. 

Smillie stayed overnight with Geordie. They were certainly somewhatcramped for room, though Geordie had just lately got another apartment"broken through, " which gave them a room and kitchen. 

The two men sat late into the night, discussing their hopes and plans, and the trade union movement generally. 

"It's a great work, Bob, you ha'e set yersel', an' it'll meanthenklessness an' opposition frae the very men you want maist to help, "said Sinclair as they talked. 

"Ay, it will, " was the reply, spoken in a half dreamy tone, as if thespeaker saw into the future. "I ken what it'll mean, but it must bedone. I have long had it in me to set myself this work, for noopposition ought to stand in the way of the uplifting of the workers. I... It's the system, Geordie!" he cried, as if bringing his mind back tothe present. "It is the system that is wrong. It is immoral and evil inits foundations, and it forces the employers to do the things they do. Competition compels them to do things they would not have to do if therewere a cooperative system of industry. Our people have to suffer for itall--they pay the price in hunger, misery and suffering. "

"Ay, " said Geordie, "that's true, Bob. But what a lang time it'll tak'afore the workers will realize what you are oot for. They'll look onyour work wi' suspicion, and a wheen o' them'll even oppose you. "

"Ay, " was the reply, "I know that. It will mean the slow building up ofour own county first, bit by bit, organizing, now here, now there, andfighting the other class interests all the time. It will divide ourenergies and retard our work, and the greatest fight will be to get ourown people to recognize what is wanted and how to get it. Then throughthe county we'll have to work to consolidate the whole of Scotland; fromthat to work in the English and Welsh miners, while at the same timeseeking to permeate other branches of industrial workers with our ideas. And then, when we have got that length, and raised the mental vision ofour people, and strengthened their moral outlook, we can appeal to theworkers of other lands to join us in bringing about the time when we'llbe able to regard each other, not as enemies, but as members of onegreat Humanity, working for each other's welfare as we work for ourown. "

"That's it, Bob, " agreed Geordie, completely carried away with Smillie'senthusiasm. "That's it, Bob. If we can only get them to see hoo' simpleand easy it a' is ... Oh, they maun be made to see it that way!" heburst out. "We'll work nicht an' day but in the end we'll get them tosee it that way yet. "

"Yes, but it won't be easy, Geordie, " he replied. "Our people's liveshave been stunted and warped so long, they've been held in bondage andpoverty to such an extent, that it will take years--generations, maybe--before they come to realize it. But we must go on, undeterred byopposition, rousing them from their apathy, and continually holdingbefore them the vision of the time we are working to establish. Ay, Geordie, "--and a quieter note came into his voice, "I hope I shall bestrong enough to go on, and never to give heed to the discouragements Ishall undoubtedly meet with in the work; but I've made up my mind, andI'll see it through or dee. "

The talk of the two men worked like magic upon the impressionable mindof young Robert, who sat listening. Long after all had retired for thenight he lay awake, his little mind away in the future, living in theearthly paradise which had been conjured up before him by the warm, inspiring sentences of this miners' leader, and joyful in thecontemplation of this paradise of happy humanity, he fell asleep. Couldhe have foreseen the terrible, heartbreaking ordeals through whichSmillie often had to pass, still clinging with tenacity to the gleamthat led him on, praying sometimes that strength would be given to keephim from turning back; of the strenuous battle he had, not only withthose he fought against, but of the greater and more bitter fights hetoo often had with those of his own class whom he was trying to save;and of the fights even with himself, it would have raised Smillie stillmore in the estimation of this sensitive-hearted collier laddie. 

CHAPTER VII

ON THE PIT-HEAD

"Hooray, mither, I've passed the examination, an' I can leave the schoolnoo!" cried Robert one day, breaking in upon his mother, as she wasbusily preparing the dinner. She stopped peeling the potatoes to look upand smile, as she replied: "Passed the fifth standard, Robin?" she said, lovingly. 

"Ay, " said the boy proudly, his face beaming with smiles. "It was quiteeasy. Oh, if you had just seen the sums we got; they were easy aswinking. I clinked them like onything. "

"My, ye maun hae been real clever, " said Mrs. Sinclair encouragingly. 

"Sammy Grierson failed, " broke in Robert again, too full of his successto contain himself. "He couldna' tell what was the capital ofSwitzerland! Then the inspector asked him what was the largest river inEurope, an' he said the Thames. He forgot that the Thames was just thebiggest in England. I was sittin' next him an' had to answer baithtimes, an' the inspector said I was a credit to the school. My, it wasgreat fun!" and he rattled on, full of importance at his success. 

"Ay, but maybe Sammy was just nervous, " said his mother, continuing heroperations upon the potatoes, and trying to let him see that there mighthave been a cause for the failure of the other boy to answer correctly. 

"Ach, but he's a dunce onyway, " said the boy. "He canna spell an easyword like 'examination, ' an' he had twenty-two mistakes in his dictationtest, " he went on, and she was quick to note the air of priggishimportance in his utterance. 

"Ay, an' you're left the school now, " said Mrs. Sinclair, after apause, during which her busy fingers handled the potatoes with greatskill. "Your faither will be gey pleased when he comes hame the day, "she said, giving the conversation a new turn. 

"Ay, I'll get leavin' the school when I like, an' gaun to the pit when Ilike. "

"Would ye no' raither gang to the school a while langer?" observed themother after a pause, and looking at him with searching eyes. 

"No, " was the decisive reply. "I'd raither gang to work. I'm ready forleaving the school and forby, all the other laddies are gaun to the pitto work. "

"But look at the things ye micht be if ye gaed to the school a whilelanger, Robin, " she went on. "The life of a miner's no' a very greatthing. There's naething but hard work, an' dangerous work at that, an'no' very muckle for it. " And there was an anxious desire in her voice, as if trying to convince him. 

"Ay, but I'd raither leave the school, " he answered, though with lessdecision this time. "Besides, it'll mean more money for you, " heconcluded. 

"Then, look how quick a miner turns auld, Rob. He's done at forty yearsauld, " she said, as if she did not wish to heed what he said, "butmeenisters an' schoolmaisters, an' folk o' that kin', leeve a gey langwhile. Look at the easy time they hae to what a collier has. They dinnaget up at five o'clock in the mornin' like your faither. They rise abooteight, an' start work at nine. Meenisters only work yae day a week, an'only aboot two hoors at that. They hae clean claes to wear, a fine whitecollar every day, an' sae mony claes that they can put on a differentrig-oot every day. Their work is no' hard, an' look at the pay they get;no' like your faither wi' his two or three shillin's a day. They hae thebest o' it, " she concluded, as she rested her elbows on her knees andagain searched his face keenly to see if her arguments had had anyeffect upon him. 

"Ay, but I'd raither work, " reiterated the boy stubbornly. 

"Then they hae plenty o' books, " continued the temptress, loth to giveup and keen to draw as rosy a picture as possible, "and a braw hoose, an' a piano in it. They get a lang holiday every year, and occasionaldays besides, an' their pay for it. But a collier gets nae pay when he'sidle. It's the same auld grind awa' at hard work, among damp, an' gas, an' bad air, an' aye the chance o' being killed wi' falls of stone orsomething else. It's no' a nice life. It's gey ill paid, an' forbynaebody ever respects them. "

"Ay, mither; but do you no' mind what Bob Smillie said?" chipped in theboy readily, glad that he could quote such an authority to back hisview. "It's because they dinna respect themselves. They just need to dothings richt, an' things wadna' be sae bad as they are, " and he felt asif he clinched his argument by quoting Smillie against her. 

"Ay, Robin, " she replied, "that's true; but for it a', you maun admitthat the schoolmaister an' the meenister hae the best o' it. " But shefelt that her counter was not very effective. 

"My faither says meenisters are nae guid to the world, butschoolmaisters are, " said the boy, with a grudging admission for theteaching profession. "But I dinna care. I'd raither gang to work. Idinna want to gang ony langer to the school. I'm tired o' it, an' I wantto leave it, " and there was more decision in his voice this time thanever. 

"A' richt, Robin, " said Mrs. Sinclair resignedly, as she emptied thepeeled potatoes into a pot and put them on the fire. 

There were now seven of a family, and she knew that Robert was needed toincrease the earnings, and that meant there was nothing but the pit forhim. 

"You maun hae been real clever, though, to pass, " she said again, aftera pause. "How many failed?"

"Four, mither, " he cried, again waxing enthusiastic over theexamination. "Mysie Maitland passed, too. She was first among thelasses, and I was first in the laddies. "

"Eh, man, Bob, learnin' is a gran' thing to hae, " she said wistfully, looking at him very tenderly. 

"Ay, but I'm gaun to the pit, " he said decisively, fearing that she wasagain going to enlarge upon the schoolmaster's life. 

"Very weel, " she said after a bit, "I suppose ye'll be lookin' for ajob. Your faither was saying last nicht that ye're too young to ganginto the pit. Ye maun be twelve years auld afore ye get doon the pitnoo, ye ken. So I suppose it'll be the pithead for ye for a while. "

She had often dreamed her dream, even though she knew it was animpossible one, that she would like to see her laddie go right onthrough the Secondary School in the county town to the University. Sheknew he had talents above the ordinary, and, besides, her soul rebelledat the thought of her boy having to endure the things that his fatherhad to go through with. She was an intelligent woman, and though she hadhad little education, she saw things differently from most of the womenof her class. She had character, and her influence was easily traced inher children, but more especially in Robert, who was always her favoritebairn. She was wise, too, and had fathomed some secrets of psychologywhich many women with a university training had never even glimpsed. 

She often maintained that her children's minds were molded before shegave them birth, and that it depended upon the state of mind she was inherself during those nine months, as to what kind of soul her childwould be born possessing. It may have been merely a whim on her part, but she held tenaciously to her belief, acted in accordance with it, andno one could dissuade her from it. Robert was her child of song, hersunny offspring, stung into revolt against tyranny of all kinds. Hissoul, strong and true as steel, she knew would stand whatever test wasput upon it. Incorruptible and sincere, nothing could break him. Generous and forgiving, he could never be bought. 

"I'll gang the nicht, mither, an' see if I can get a job. I micht getstarted the morn, " he said breaking in upon her thought. 

"A' richt, Robin, " she replied with a sigh of resignation. "I supposeit'll hae to be done. It'll be yer first start in life, an' I hopeye'll aye be found doin' what's richt; for guid never comes o' illthinkin' or ill doin. "

"If I get a job, mither, maybe I'll get one-an'-tippence a day like DickTamson. If I do it'll be a big help to you, mither. My! I'll soon mak' apoun' at that rate, " and he laughed enthusiastically at the thought ofit. A pound seemed to represent riches to his boyish mind. What mighthis mother not do with a pound? Ever so many things could be bought. Andthat was merely a start. His wages would soon increase with experience, and when he went down the pit, which would be soon, he'd earn more, andhis mother would maybe be able to buy new clothes for all the family. 

He wondered what it would be like to have a new suit of clothes--realnew ones out of a shop. Hitherto he had only enjoyed "make downs, " asthey were called--new ones made out of some one's cast-off clothing. Buta real new suit, such as he had seen the schoolmaster's boy sometimeswearing! That would be a great experience! And so, lost in contemplationof the things big wages might do, the day wore on, and he was happy inhis dreams. 

That same night Robert went to call on the "gaffer, " Black Jock, and ashe neared the door he met Mysie Maitland. 

"Where are ye goin', Rab?" she enquired shyly. 

"To look for a job, " he replied proudly, feeling that now he was leftschool, and about to start work, he could be patronizing to a girl. "Where are you gaun?" he asked, as Mysie joined him in the direction ofWalker's house. 

"I'm gaun to look for a job, too, " she replied. "I'm no' gaun back tothe school, an' my mither thinks I'll be as weel on the pit-head as atservice. An' forby, I'll be able to help my mither at nichts when I comehame, an' I couldna' do that if I gaed to service, " she finished by wayof explanation. As Mysie was the oldest of a family of six, her parentswould be glad to have even her small earnings, and so she, too, waslooking for a job. 

When Walker came to the door, Robert took the matter in hand, and becamespokesman for both himself and Mysie. 

"We've left the school the day, Mr. Walker, an' Mysie an' me want token if ye can gie us a job on the pitheid?" and Walker noted withamusement the manly swagger in the boy's voice and bearing. 

"We dinna' usually start lasses as wee as Mysie, " replied Walker, eyeingthe children with an amused smile, "but we need twa or three laddies tothe tables to help the women to pick stones. "

Mysie's face showed her keen disappointment. She knew that it was notcustomary for girls to be employed as young as she was; and Robert notedher disappointed look as well. 

"Could ye no' try Mysie, too?" he asked, breaking in anxiously. "She's aguid worker, an' she'll be able to pick as many stanes as the weemen. Willn't ye, Mysie?" And he turned to the girl for corroboration withassurance. 

As Mysie nodded, Walker saw a hint of tears in the girl's eyes, and thequivering of the tiny mouth; and as there is a soft spot in all men'shearts, even he had sympathy, for he understood what refusal meant. 

"Weel, I micht gie her a trial, " he said, "but she'll hae to work awfu'hard, " and he spoke as one conferring an especial concession upon thegirl. 

"Oh, she'll work hard enough, " said Robert. "Mysie's a guid worker, an'you'll see ... "

"Oh, then, " said Walker hurriedly breaking in upon Robert's outburst ofagreement, "ye can both come oot the morn, and I'll try and put ye bothup. "

"How muckle pay will we get?" asked Robert, who was now feeling hisimportance, and felt that this was after all the main point to beconsidered. 

"Well, we gie laddies one an' a penny, " replied Walker, still smilingamusedly at the boy's eagerness, "an' lasses are aye paid less thancallants. But it's all big lasses we hae, an' they get one an' tippence. I'll gie Mysie a shillin' to begin wi', " and he turned away as if thatsettled the matter, and was about to close the door. 

"But if she picks as many stanes as a laddie, will ye gie her the samepay as me?" interrupted Robert, not wishing the interview to end withouta definite promise of payment. 

"She's gey wee, " replied Walker, "an' she canna' expect as much as aladdie, " and he looked at Mysie, as if measuring her with a critical eyeto assess her value. 

"But if she does as muckle work, would ye gie her the same money?"eagerly questioned the boy, and Mysie felt that there was no one surelyso brave as Robert, nor so good, and she looked at him with gratitude inher eyes. 

"Very weel, " said Walker, not desiring to prolong the interview. "Comeoot the morn, an' I'll gie ye both one an' a penny. "

"Six an' sixpence a week, " said Mysie, as they tramped home. "My, that'sa lot o' money, Rab, isn't it?"

"Ay, it's a guid lot, Mysie, " he replied, "but we'll hae to work awfu'hard, or we'll no' get it. Guid nicht!" And so the children parted, feeling that the world was about to be good to them, and all theirthought of care was bounded by six and sixpence a week. 

Mysie was glad to tell the result of the whole interview to her parents. She was full of it, and could talk of nothing else as she worked aboutthe house that night. Her mother had been in delicate health for a longtime, and so Mysie had most of the housework to do. Matthew Maitland andhis wife, Jenny, were pleased at the result, and gave Robert due creditfor his part--a credit that Mysie was delighted to hear from them. 

The next morning the two children went to work, when children of theiryears ought to have been still in bed dreaming their little dreams. 

The great wheels at the pithead seemed terrible in their never-endingrevolutions, as they flew round to bring up the loads of coal. The bigyawning chasm, with the swinging steel rope, running away down into thegreat black hole, was awesome to look at, as the rope wriggled andswayed with its sinister movements; and the roar and whir of wheels, when the tables started, bewildered them. These crashed and roared andcrunched and groaned; they would squeal and shriek as if in pain, thenthey would moan a little, as if gathering strength to break out inindignant protest; and finally, roar out in rebellious anger, givingRobert the idea of an imprisoned monster of gigantic strength which hadbeen harnessed whilst it slept, but had wakened at last to find itselfimpotent against its Lilliputian captor--man. 

An old man instructed them in their duties. 

"You'll staun here, " he panted, indicating a little platform about twofeet broad, and running along the full length of the "scree. " "You'llwatch for every bit stane that comes doon, an' dinna' let any past. Pickthem oot as soon as you see them, an' fling them owre there, an' DickieTamson'll fill them into the hutch, an' get them taken to the dirtbing. "

"A' richt, " said Robert, as he looked at the narrow platform, with itsweak, inadequate railing, which could hardly prevent anyone from fallingdown on to the wagon track, some fifteen or twenty feet below on oneside, or on to the moving "scree" on the other. 

"Weel, mind an' no' let any stanes gang past, for there are ayecomplaints comin' in aboot dirty coals. If ye dinna work an' keep ootthe stanes, you'll get the sack, " and he said this as if he meant toconvey to them that he was the sole authority on the matter. 

He was an old man, and Robert, as he looked at him, wondered if he hadever laughed. "Auld Girnie" they called him, because of his habit ofalways finding fault with everything and everybody, for no one couldplease him. His mouth seemed to be one long slit extending across hisface, showing one or two stumps sticking in the otherwise toothlessgums, and giving him the appearance of always "grinning. "

The women workers' appearance jarred upon Robert. So far women to himhad always been beings of a higher order, because he had always thoughtof them as being like his mother. But here they were rough and untidy, dressed like goblins in dirty torn clothes, with an old dirty sackhanging from the waist for an overall. Instinctively Robert felt thatthis was no place for women. One of them, who worked on the oppositeside of the scree from Robert--a big, strong, heavily-built young womanof perhaps twenty-five--in moving forward tore her petticoat, whichcaught in the machinery, and made a rent right up above her knee. 

"Ach, to hell wi' it, " she cried in exasperation, as she turned up thetorn petticoat, displaying a leg all covered with coal grime, whichseemed never to have been washed. 

"Is that no' awfu'? Damn my soul, I'll hae to gang hame the nicht in mysark tail, " and she laughed loudly at her sally. 

"I'll put a pin in it, it'll do till I gang hame, " she added, and shestarted to pin the torn edges together. But all day the bare leg shonethrough the torn petticoat, and rough jokes were made by the men whoworked near by--jokes which she seemed to enjoy, for she would hold upthe torn garment and laugh with the others. 

The women and boys never seemed to heed the things that filled Robertand Mysie with so much amazement. The two children bent over theswinging tables as the coal passed before them. They eagerly grabbed atthe stones, flinging them to the side with a zeal that greatly amusedthe older hands. 

"Ye'll no' keep up that pace lang, " said one woman. "Ye'll soon tire, soye'd better take it easy. "

"Let them alone, " broke in the old man, who had a penny a day more foracting as a sort of gaffer. "Get on wi' yer own work, an' never mindthem. "

"Gang you to hell, auld wheezie bellows, " replied one woman coarsely, adding a rough jest at his breathlessness, whilst the others laughedloudly, adding, each one, another sally to torment the old man. 

But after a time Robert felt his back begin to ache, and a strange dizzyfeeling came into his head, as a result of his bent position and theswinging and crashing of the tables. He straightened himself and felt asif he were going to break in two. He glanced at Mysie, wondering how shefelt, and he thought she looked white and ill. 

"Take a wee rest, Mysie, " he said. "Are ye no' awfu' dizzy?"

Mysie heard, but "six and sixpence a week" was still ringing in herhead. Indeed, the monotonous swing of the tables ground out the refrainin their harsh clamor, as they swung backwards and forwards. "Six andsixpence a week, " with every leap forwards; "six and sixpence a week" asthey receded. "Six and sixpence" with every shake and roar, and witheach pulsing throb of the engine; and "six and sixpence a week" herlittle hands, already cut and bleeding, kept time with regular beat, asshe lifted the stones and flung them aside. She was part of therefrain--a note in the fortissimo of industry. The engines roared andcrashed and hissed to it. They beat the air regularly as the pistonsrose and fell back and forth, thump, thud, hiss, groan, up and down, outand in: "Six and sixpence a week!"

Mysie tried to straighten herself, as Robert had advised, andimmediately a pain shot through her back which seemed to snap it in two. The whole place seemed to be rushing round in a mad whirl, the roof ofthe shed coming down, and the floor rushing up, when with a staggerMysie fell full length upon a "bing" of stones, bruising her cheek, andcutting her little hands worse than ever. This was what usually happenedto all beginners at "pickin' sklits. "

One of the women raised Mysie up, gave her a drink from a flaskcontaining cold tea, and sat her aside to rest a short time. 

"Just sit there a wee, my dochter, " she said with rough kindness, "an'you'll soon be a' richt. They mostly a' feel that way when they firststart on the scree. "

Mysie was feeling sick, and already the thought was shaping in her mindthat she would never be able to continue. She had only worked an hour asyet, but it seemed to her a whole day. 

"Six and sixpence a week" sang the tables as they swung; "six andsixpence a week" whirred the engines; "six and sixpence a week" crashedthe screes; and her head began to throb with the roar of it all. "Sixand sixpence a week" as the coal tumbled down the chutes into thewagons; "six and sixpence" crunched the wheels, until it seemed as ifeverything about a pit were done to the tune of "six and sixpence aweek. "

It was thundered about her from one corner, it squealed at her fromanother, roared at her from behind, groaned at her in front; it wheezedfrom the roof, and the very shed in which they stood swayed and shiveredto its monotonous song. "Six and sixpence a week" was working into everyfiber of her being. She had been born to it, was living it, and itseemed that the very wheels of eternity were grinding out her destiny toits roar and its crash, and its terrible regular throb and swing. 

She grew still more sick, and vomited; so one of the women took her bythe hand and led her down the narrow rickety wooden stair out across thedirt "bing" into the pure air. In a quarter of an hour she brought herback almost well, except for the pain in her head. 

"Where the hell hae ye been, Mag?" wheezed the old gaffer, addressingthe woman with irritated authority. 

"Awa' an' boil yer can, auld belly-crawler, " was the elegant response, as she bent to her work, taking as little notice of him as if he were apiece of coal. 

"Ye're awa' faur owre much, " he returned. This was an allusion toclandestine meetings which were sometimes arranged between some of themen in authority--"penny gaffers, " as they were called--and some of thegirls who took their fancy. 

After all, gaffers had certain powers of advancement, and could increasewages to those who found favor in their eyes, to the extent of a pennyor twopence per day, and justified it by representing that these girlswere value for it, because they were better workers. Again, matters werealways easier to these girls of easy virtue, for they got better jobs, and could even flout the authority of lesser gaffers, if their relationswith the higher ones were as indicated. 

Mag replied with a coarse jest, and the others laughed roughly, andMysie and Robert, not understanding, wondered why the old man got angry. 

Thus the day wore on, men and women cursed while familiarities tookplace which were barely hidden from the children. Talk was coarse andobscenely suggestive, and the whole atmosphere was brutalizing. Long, however, before the day was ended, Robert and Mysie were feeling as ifevery bone in their little bodies would break. 

"Just take anither wee rest, Mysie, " said Robert. "I'll keep pickin' ashard as I can, an' ye'll no' be sae muckle missed. "

"Oh, I'll hae to keep on, too, " she replied, almost despairingly, with ahint of tears in her voice. "Ye mind I promised to work hard, an' yesaid I was a guid worker, too. If I dinna' keep on I micht only get ashillin' a day. "

"But I'll pick as much as the twa o' us can do, " pursued Robert, withpersuasive voice. "I'll gang harder, until ye can get a wee rest. "

So Mysie, in sheer exhaustion, stopped for a little, and the dizzyfeeling was soon gone again. Yet the horrible pain in the back troubledthem all day, and the dizziness returned frequently, but the othersassured them that they'd soon get used to it. Their hands were cut, bruised and dirty, and poor little Mysie felt often that she would liketo cry, but "six and sixpence a week" kept time in her heart to all hertroubles, and seemed to drive her onward with relentless force. 

With rough kindness the women encouraged the two children, and did muchto make their lot easier. But it was a trying day--a hard, heartbreakingday, a day of tears and pains and discouragement, a horrible Gethsemaneof sweat and agony, whose memory not even "six and sixpence a week"would ever eradicate from their minds, though it made the day bearable. 

The great wheels groaned and swished like the imprisoned monster ofRobert's imaginings, and at last came to a halt at the end of the shift;but in the pattern which they had that day woven into the web ofindustry, there were two bright threads--threads of great beauty andhigh worth--threads which the very gods seemed proud of seeing there, twisted and twined, and lending color of richest hue to the wholedesign--threads of glorious fiber and rare quality, which sparkled andshone like the neck of a pigeon in the sunshine. These threads in theweb of industry, which had shone that day for the first time, were thelives of two little children. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE MANTLE OF MANHOOD

Months passed, and Robert still worked on the pithead. Much of thenovelty had passed, and he was accustomed to the noise and clamor, though he never lost the feeling that he was working with, or, indeed, was part of, some giant monster, imprisoned and harnessed, it is true, but capable of titanic labors and fall of unexpectedness. It wasever-present, implacable and sinister, yet so long as its fetters held, easily controlled. 

The warm weather had come, and the lure of the moors called to him athis work. Away out over there--somewhere--there were strange wondersawaiting him. He watched the trains, long, fast, and soinevitable-looking, rushing across the moor about a mile and a half fromwhere he worked, and often, he thought that perhaps some day one ofthose flying monsters would bear him away from Lowwood across the moorsinto the Big City. What was a city like? And the sea? How big would itbe? It was a staggering thought to imagine a stretch of water that endedon the sky-line--no land to be seen on the other side! What a wonderfulworld it must be!

But a touch of bitterness was creeping into his character, and for thishis mother's teaching was responsible. Nellie was always jealous of thewelfare of the working class, and was ever vigilant as to its interests. She did not know how matters could be rectified, but she did know thatshe and her like suffered unnecessarily. 

"There's no reason, " she would say, "for decent folk bein' in poverty. Look at the conditions that puir folk live in!"

"Hoot ay! Nellie, but we canna' help it, " a neighbor would reply. "It'sno' for us to be better. "

"What way is it no'?" she would demand indignantly. "Do you think wecouldna' be better folk if we had no poverty?"

"Ay, but the like o' us ken no better, an' it wadna' do if we had mair. We micht waste it, " and the tone of resignation always maddened her togreater wrath. 

"There's mair wasted on fancy fal-lals among the gentry than wad keepmany a braw family goin'. Look at the hooses we live in; the gentrywadna' keep their dogs in them. The auld Earl has better stables for hishorses than the hooses puir folk live in!"

"That's maybe a' richt, Nellie, but you maun mind that we're no' gentry. We havena' been brocht up to anything else. Somebody has got to work, an' we canna' help it, " and the fatalistic resignation but added fuel toher anger. 

"Ay, we could help it fine, if we'd only try it. It's no' richt thatfolk should hae to slave a' their days, an' be always in hardships, while ither folk who work nane hae the best o' everything. I want adecent hoose to live in; I want to see my man hae some leisure, an' myweans hae a chance in life for something better than just work andtrouble, " and her voice quivering with anger at the wrongs inflictedupon her, she would rattle away on her favorite topic. 

"There you go again. You are aye herp, herpin' at the big folk, or abootthe union. I wonder you never turn tired, woman, " the reply would come, for sometimes these women were unable to understand her at all. 

"I'll never turn tired o' that, " she would reply. "If only the men wadkeep thegither an' no' be divided, they'd soon let the big folk see wha'was the maist importance to the country. Do you think onybody ever madea lot o' money by their ain work? My man an' your man hae wrocht hard a'their days. They've never wasted ony o' their hard-earned money, an' yetthey hae naething. "

"No, because it takes it a' to keep us, " would be the reply, as if thatwere a conclusive answer, difficult to counter. 

"Well, how do ye think other folk mak' a fortune? Do ye think they workharder than your man does? No! It's because our men work so hard thatother folk get it aff their labor. Do they live a better life than yourman or mine? They waste mair in yae day, whiles, than wad keep yourfamily or mine for a whole year. Is it because they are honester thanus? No. You ken fine your man or yoursel' wadna' hae the name o'stealin'. But they steal every day o' their lives, only they ca' itbusiness. That's the difference. It's business wi' them, but it wad bedishonest on oor pairt. Awa', woman! It's disgraceful to think aboot. Naebody should eat wha disna work, an' I dinna care wha hears me sayit, " and the flashing eyes and the indignant voice gave token of herrighteous wrath. 

"That's a' richt, Nellie, but it has aye been, an' I doot it'll aye be. We just canna help it, " would come the reply. 

"I tell you it's everybody's duty to work for better times. We've noricht to allow the things that gang on. There's nae guid in poverty anddisease an' ill-health, an' we should a' try to change it; and we couldif only you'd get some sense into your held, an' no' stand and speak asif you felt that God meant it. "

"Ay, Nellie, that's a' richt, but it's the Lord's will, an' we maun putup wi' it. "

At this juncture Mrs. Sinclair's patience would become exhausted, andshe would flare up, while the neighbor would suddenly break off thediscussion and go off home. 

Her children were taught that it was a disgrace not to resent a wrong, and Robert, though only a boy, was always sturdily standing up againstthe things he considered wrong at the pit-head. 

Robert dreamed and built his future castles. There was great work aheadto do. He never mentioned his longings and visions to anyone, yetMysie's sweet, shy face was creeping into them always, and already hewas conscious of something in her that thrilled him. He was awkward, andhis speech did not come readily, in her presence. Whole days he dreamed, only waking up to find it was "knocking-off" time. There was an hour'sbreak in the middle of the day, and then he wandered out on the moor. Its silence soothed him, and he would lie and dream among the roughyellow grass and the hard tough heather, bathing his soul in thebrooding quietness of it all. 

He was now twelve years of age, and longing to get at work down the pit. It was for him the advent of manhood, and represented the beginning ofhis real work. 

One night in the late summer, after the pit had knocked off and the"day-shift" was returning home, he and Mysie were walking as usualbehind the women. He had meant to tell her the great news all day, butsomehow she was so different now, and besides a man should always keepsomething to himself as long as possible. It showed strength, hethought. 

"I'm goin' doon the pit the morn, Mysie, " he said, now that he had cometo the point of telling her, and speaking as casually as he could. 

"Oh, are you?" said Mysie, and stopped, disappointingly, and remainedsilent. 

"Ay. I'm twelve now, you ken, an' I can get into the pit, " feeling a bitnettled that she was silent in the face of such a happening. 

"Oh!" and again Mysie stopped. 

"My faither has got a place a week syne that'll fit John an' him an' me. The three o' us are a' goin' to work thegither. If he could have gottenyin sooner, I'd hae been doon a month syne. But he's aye been waitin' toget a place that wad suit us a', " he said, volunteering this informationto see if it would loosen her tongue to express the regret he wanted herto speak. 

But again Mysie did not answer. She only hung her head and did not lookup with any interest in his news. 

"It's aboot time I was in the pit now, ye ken. You used to get doon thepit at ten. My faither was in it when he was nine, but you're no'allowed to gang doon now till you are twelve year auld. I'm going todraw aff my faither and John, " and he was feeling more and moreexasperated at her continued silence. 

Yet still Mysie did not speak, and merely nodded to this furtherenlightenment. 

"I've never telt onybody except yoursel', " he said, hurt at her seemingwant of interest, and feeling that what he was going to say was lessmanly than he intended it to be. Indeed he was aware that it wasdecidedly childish of him to say it, but, like many wiser and older, hecould not keep his dignity, and took pleasure in hurting her; for thereis a pleasure sometimes in hurting a loved one, because they are loved, and will not speak the things one wants them to say, which if said mightadd to one's vanity and sense of importance. "So ye'll just be byyoursel' the morn, unless they put Dicky Tamson owre aside you, " headded viciously. 

"I dinna want Dicky Tamson aside me, " she said with some heat, and ahint of anxiety in her voice, which pleased him a little. "He's animpudent thing, " and again she relapsed into silence, just when hethought his pleasure was going to be complete. 

"Oh, they'll maybe put Aggie Lowrieson on your side o' the table, " hevolunteered, glad that at last she had shown some feeling. 

"They can keep Aggie Lowrieson too, " she said shortly. "I dinna' wanther. I'll get on fine mysel', " and she said no more. 

He talked of his new venture all the way home, and he felt more and morehurt because she did not reply as eagerly and volubly as he wished. 

"It'll be great goin' doon the pit, " he said, again feeling that he wasgoing to be priggish. "Pickin' stanes is a' guid enough for a laddie fora wee while, an' for women, but you're the better to gang into the pitwhen you're the age. You get mair money for it. Of course, it's hardwork, but I'll be earnin' as much as twa shillin's a day in the pit, andthat'll be twelve shillin's a week. "

But Mysie could not be drawn to look at his rosy prospects, and stillkept silent, so that the last few hundred yards were covered in silence. At the end of the row where they always parted, he could not resistadding a thrust to his usual "good-night. "

"Guid nicht then, Mysie. I thocht may be ye'd be vexed, seem' thatDickie Tamson can torment you as muckle as he likes now. " And so hewent home feeling that Mysie didn't care much. 

But Mysie had a sore heart that night. She knew only too well that DickTamson would torment her, and would be egged on by the other women tokiss and tease her, and they would laugh at it all. Robert had alwaysbeen her champion, and kept Dick, who was a mischievous boy, at adistance. She was sorry that Robert was going down the pit, and itseemed to her that she'd rather go to service now. The harsh clamor andthe dirty disagreeable work were bearable before, but it would not bethe same with Robert away. She knew that she would miss him very much. She thought long of it when she lay down in her bed that night. He hadno right to think that she was not vexed, and she cried quietly beneaththe blankets. 

"Here's Mysie greetin', " cried her little brother, who lay beside her. "Mither, Mysie's greetin'. "

"What's wrang wi' her?" called the mother anxiously from the other bed. 

"I dinna' ken, " answered the boy, "she'll no' tell me. "

"What is't that's wrang with you, Mysie?" again called the mother moresharply. 

"I've a sore tooth, " she answered, glad to get any excuse, and lyingwith promptitude. 

"Well, hap the blankets owre your head, " the mother advised, "and it'llsoon be better. Dinna' greet, like a woman. "

But Mysie still continued to cry softly, choking back the sobs, andkeeping her face to the wall, so as not to disturb the other sleeperbeside her--cried for a long hour, until exhaustion overcame her, and atlast she fell asleep, her last thought being that Robert had no right tomisjudge her so. 

Robert, on the other hand, as is the prerogative of the man, soon forgotall about his disappointment at Mysie's seeming want of interest in hisaffairs, and was busy with his preparations for the next day. 

He had a lamp to buy, for Lowwood was an open-light pit, and was soonbusy on the instructions of his father learning the art of "putting in awick" to the exact thickness, testing his tea flask, and doing all thelittle things that count in preparing for the first descent into a coalmine. He was very much excited over it all, and babbled all the evening, asking questions regarding the work he would be called upon to do, andgenerally boring his father with his talk. 

But his father understood it all, and was patient with him, answeringhis enquiries and advising him on many things, until latterly he pleadedfor a "wink o' peace, " and told the boy "for any sake" to be quiet. 

Geordie Sinclair knew that this enthusiasm would soon evaporate. Onlytoo well he knew the stages of disappointment which the boy wouldexperience, and for this reason he was kindly with him. 

He was now looking forward with better prospects. Robert was the secondboy now started, and already matters were somewhat easier; but heshuddered to think of the lot of the man who was battling away unaided, with four or five children to support, and depending on a meager threeand sixpence or four shillings of a daily wage to keep the housetogether. For himself the prospect was now better, and in looking backhe realized what a terrible time it had been--especially for his wife;for hers was the more difficult task in laying out the scanty wages heearned. 

It never had seemed to strike him with such force before, even whenmatters were at their worst, what it had meant to her; and as he lookedat her, sitting knitting at the opposite side of the fire, he was filledwith compassion for her, and a new beauty seemed to be upon her linedface, and in the firm set of her mouth. 

Thus he sat reviewing all the terrible struggle, when she had slaved tokeep him and the children, during the time he was injured, and a pangshot through, as the conviction came to him, that perhaps he had notbeen as helpful as he might have been to her, when a little praise evenmight have made it easier for her. 

Impulsively he rose to his feet and crossed to where she sat, taking herin his arms and kissing her. 

"Losh, Geordie, what's wrong with you!" she enquired, looking up with apleased sparkle in her eyes, for he was usually very undemonstrative. 

"Oh, just this, Nellie, " he said with embarrassment in every feature ofhis face, "I've been thinking over things, and I feel that I havena'given you encouragement as I should have done, for all that you havedone for me and the bairns. "

"You fair took my breath away, " said Nellie with a pleased little laugh;then, as she looked at his glowing face, something came into her throat, and the tears started. 

"There now, lassie, " he said, again gathering her into his arms, andkissing her tenderly, "it's all past now, my lass, and you'll get iteasier from this time forth. God knows, Nellie, you are worth all that Ican ever do for you to help, " and the happy tears fell from her eyes, asshe patted his rough, hairy cheek, and fondled him again, as she haddone in their courting days. 

"I'll wash the floor for you, lass, " he said impulsively, almost besidehimself with happiness, as he realized that this little act of his hadmade them both so happy. "You've been in the washing tub all day, and Iken you'll be scrubbin' on the floor first thing in the morning, as soonas we are away to the pit. But I'll do it for you the nicht. The bairnsare all in bed, and I'll no' be long. You sit an' tak' a rest, " and hewas off for the pail and a scrubbing brush, and was back at the firesidepouring water from the kettle before his wife realized it. 

"Oh, never mind, Geordie, " she said remonstratingly, "I'll do it myselfin the morning. You've had your own work to do in the pit, an' you needall the rest you can get. "

"No, " he said decisively. "You sit doon, lass. I'll no' be lang. Justyou sing a bit sang to me, just as you used to sing, Nellie, an' I'llwash out the floor, " and he was soon on his knees, scrubbing away as ifit were a daily occurrence with him. And Nellie, pleased and happybeyond expression, sat in the big chair by the fireside and sang hisfavorite ballad, "Kirkconnel Lea. "

 Oh, that I were where Helen lies, For nicht and day on me she cries, Oh, that I were where Helen lies On fair Kirkconnel Lea. 

 Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare, I'll mak' a garland o' your hair Shall bind my heart for evermair Until the day I dee. 

And Nellie Sinclair never in all her life sang that song so well as shedid that night; and she never sang it again. Robert, who was lying inthe room, heard her glorious voice, and marveled at the complete masteryshe showed over the plaintive old tune. It was as if her very soulreveled in it, as the notes rose and fell; and it stirred the boy intotremendous emotional excitement, as the tragedy was unfolded in thebeautiful words and the sadness of the old tune. 

It was a memorable night of quiet happiness for all, and there was somuch of tragedy lying behind it unseen and unknown. But so often are thesweetest moments of life followed by its sadness and its sorrow. 

CHAPTER IX

THE ACCIDENT

Next morning at five o'clock Robert leapt from his bed, full ofimportance at the prospect of going down the pit. Stripping off hissleeping shirt, he chattered as he donned the pit clothes. The blueplaid working-shirt which his mother had bought for him felt rough tohis tender skin, but unpleasant as it was, he donned it with a sense ofbigness. Then the rough moleskin trousers were put on and fastened witha belt round the waist, and a pair of leg-strings at the knees. Thebundles of clothes, separately arranged the night before, had got mixedsomewhat in Robert's eagerness to dress, with the result that when hisbrother John rose, with eyes half shut, and reached for his stockings, he found those of Robert instead lying upon his bundle. 

"Gie's my socks, " he ordered grumpily, flinging Robert's socks into thefar corner of the kitchen. "You've on the wrong drawers too. Can ye no'look what you're doin'?" and the drawers followed the socks, whileRobert looked at his mother with eyes of wonderment. 

"Tak' aff his socks, Rob, " she said, "he's a thrawn, ill-natured cat, that, in the mornin'. "

"Well, he should look what he's doin' an' no' put on other folk'sclaes, " and immediately the others burst out laughing, for this advocateof "watchin' what he was doin'" had in his half sleepy condition failedto see that he had lifted his jacket and had rammed his leg down thesleeve in his hurry and anger. 

"Noo, that'll do, " said Geordie, as John flung the jacket at Robert, because he laughed. "That'll do noo, or I'll come alang yer jaw, " andthus admonished John was at once silent. 

Robert soon had his toilet completed, however, even to the old cap onhis head, upon which sat the little oil-lamp, which he handled andcleaned and wiped with his fingers to keep it bright and shiny, whilstall the time he kept chattering. 

"For ony sake, laddie, hand your tongue, " said Geordie at last, as hedrew in his chair to the table to start upon the frugal breakfast ofbread and butter and tea. "Your tongue's never lain since you got up. "

Robert, thereupon, sat down in silence at the table, though there were ahundred different things he wanted to ask about the pit. He could notunderstand why everyone felt and looked so sleepy, nor divine the causeof the irritable look upon each face, which in the dim light of theparaffin lamp gave a forbidding atmosphere to the home at this time ofthe day. 

At last, however, the meal was over, and when Geordie had lit his pitlamp and stuck his pipe in his mouth, all three started off with a curt"Good morning" to Mrs. Sinclair, who looked after her boys with a smilewhich chased away the previous irritability from her face. 

Arrived at the pit-head, they found a number of miners there squattingon their "hunkers, " waiting the time for descending the shaft. As eachnewcomer came forward, the man who arrived immediately before him calledout: "I'm last. " By this means--"crying the benns, "--as it wascalled--the order of descent was regulated on the principle of "Firstcome, first served. " Much chaffing was leveled at little Robert by someof the younger men regarding his work and the things which would have tobe done by and to him that day. 

At last came the all important moment, and Robert, his father and twomen stepped on to the cage. After the signal was given, it seemed to theboy as if heaven and earth were passing away in the sudden sheer drop, as the cage plunged down into the yawning hole, out of which came evilsmells and shadows cast from the flickering lamps upon the heads of theminers. The rattling of the cage sent a shiver of fear through Robert, and with that first sudden plunge he felt as if his heart were going toleap out of his mouth. But by the time he reached the "bottom, " he hadconsoled and encouraged himself with the thought that these things wereall in the first day's experience of all miners. 

That morning Robert Sinclair was initiated into the art of "drawing" byhis brother John. The road was fairly level, to push the loaded "tubs, "thus leaving his father to be helped with the pick at the coal "face. "After an hour or two, Robert, though getting fairly well acquainted withthe work, was feeling tired. The strange damp smell, which had greetedhis nostrils when the cage began to descend with him that morning, wasstill strong, though not so overpowering as it had been at first. Thesubtle shifting shadows cast from his little lamp were becomingfamiliar, and his nervousness was not now so pronounced, though he wasstill easily startled if anything unusual took place. The sound of thefirst shot in the pit nearly frightened him out of his wits, and helistened nervously to every dull report with a strange uneasiness. Aboutone o'clock his father called to him. 

"Dinna tak' that hutch oot the noo, Robert. Just let it staun', an' sitdoon an' tak' yir piece. Ye'll be hungry, an' John an' me will be outthe noo if we had this shot stemmed. "

"A' richt, " cheerfully replied the boy, withdrawing down to the end ofthe road, where his clothes hung upon a tree, and taking his bread fromone of his pockets, he sat down tired and hungry to await his father andJohn. 

Geordie's "place" was being worked over the old workings of another minewhich had exhausted most of the coal of a lower seam many yearspreviously, except for the "stoops" or pillars, which had been left in. This was supposed to be the barrier beyond which Rundell's lease did notgo. It would be too dangerous to work the upper seam with the groundhollow underneath, so the "places" had all been stopped as they came up, with the exception of Geordie Sinclair's. Sinclair was puzzled at this, and he often wondered why his place had not been stopped with theothers. He was more uneasy, too, when he began to find large cracks orfissures in the metals, and spoke of this to Andrew Marshall a fewnights before; but he did not like to seem to make too much of it, andthe matter was passed over, till the day before, when Walker visited theplace for a few minutes, when Geordie accosted him. 

"What way is my place going on?" he asked, and was told that it was acorner in the barrier, which extended for one hundred yards and must goon for that distance, and that there was really no danger, as the groundbelow was solid. 

So, busily working away, and finding still more rents in the floor androof, Sinclair thought it must just be as he had seen it in other placesof a like kind, the weight of the upper metals which were breaking overthe solid ground by reason of the hollow beneath between the stoops, though in this case it did not amount to much as yet. 

The coal was easy to get; he had one boy "forrit to the pick, " withRobert as "drawer, " and his prospects seemed good, he thought, as he wasbusily preparing a shot, ramming in the powder, and "stemming" up thehole. He was busy ramming the powder in the prepared hole, while theelder boy prepared clay, with which to stem or seal it up after thepowder had been pressed back, leaving only the fuse protruding. 

"Here's a tree cracking, " said the boy, drawing his father's attentionto a breaking prop; but as this is a common occurrence in all mineswhere there is extra weight after development, Geordie thought nothingof it at the time, intending merely, before he lighted his shot, to putin a fresh prop. 

"Bring in another prop, sonny, " he said to the boy, "and I'll put it inwhen I have stemmed this hole, " and the boy turned to obey his order. 

But suddenly a low crackling sound, caused by the breaking of moreprops, was heard, then a roar and a crash as of thunder, followed by along rumbling noise, which left not a moment for the two trapped humanbeings to stir even a limb or utter a cry. The immensity of the fallcreated a wind, which put out little Robert's lamp; the great rumblingnoise filled him with a dreadful fear, and he sprang involuntarily tohis feet. 

"Faither! Faither!" he called, terror in his voice and anxiety in hislittle heart, but there was no reassuring answer. He felt his breathinggetting difficult; the air was thick with dust and heavy with the smellof rotting wood and damp decaying matter. 

"Faither! Faither!" he called again louder in his agony, dartingforward, thinking to go to their assistance, and knocking his headagainst a boulder. 

"John! Faither! I'm feart, " and he began to cry. Afraid to move, unableto see, he staggered from one side to another, bruising his face andarms against the jagged sides, the blood already streaming from hisbruises, and his heart frantic with fear. 

"Oh, faither! faither! Where are ye?" and he began to crawl up theincline, in desperate fear, while still the rumbling and crashing wenton in long rolling thunder. "Oh! oh!" he moaned, now almost mad withterror. "Faither! John! Where are ye! Oh! oh!" and he fell back stunnedby striking his head against a low part of the roof. 

Again he scrambled to his feet, certain now that some disaster hadhappened, since there was no response to his appeals, and again he wasknocked to the ground by striking his head against the side of theroadway. But always he rose again, frantically dashing from side toside, as a caged lark, when first caught, dashes itself against the barsof its prison; until finally, stunned beyond recovery, he lay in asemi-conscious condition, helpless and inert, his bruises smarting butunfelt, and the blood oozing from his nose and mouth. 

Andrew Marshall, working about fifty yards away, heard the roar and thecrash, and the boy's cries, and at once ran to Geordie's place. In hishaste and anxiety he nearly stumbled over the prostrate boy, who layunconscious in the roadway. 

"Good God! What has happened?" he exclaimed, anxiously bending over theboy and raising him up, then dashing some cold tea from Robert's flaskupon him, and forcing some between his lips. Then, when the boy showedsigns of recovery, he plied him with anxious questions. 

"Where's yir faither? What's wrang?" But the boy only clung to him inwild terror, and nothing connected could be got from him. 

Andrew lighted the boy's lamp and tore up the brae, leaving Robertshrieking in nervous fright. 

"Great Christ! It has fa'en in!" he cried, when he had got as far as hecould go. "Geordie! Geordie! Are ye in there?" and as no answer came, hebegan tearing at the great blocks of stone, flinging them like pebblesin his desperation, until another warning rumble drove him back. Immediately he realized how helpless he was alone, so he went back tothe boy and hurried him down the brae and out to where some other menwere at work. A few hasty words, and Robert was passed on, and Andrewwent back with the men, only to find how hopeless it all was; foroccasionally huge falls continued to come away, and it seemed useless toattempt anything till more help was procured. 

Andrew hurried off to the bottom and overtook Robert, sending backothers to help, and he ascended the shaft and was off to break the newsto Mrs. Sinclair; after which he returned to the pit, determined to getout all that remained of Geordie and the boy John. 

CHAPTER X

HEROES OF THE UNDERWORLD

Matters were now much easier and more comfortable for Geordie Sinclairand his wife. They had long since added another apartment to theirhouse, and the "room" was the special pride of Nellie, who was gradually"getting a bit thing for it" just as her means permitted. They had twobeds in each apartment, and the room was furnished. Mrs. Sinclair hadlong set her mind upon a "chest of drawers, " and now that thatparticular piece of furniture stood proudly in her room, much of her daywas given to polishing it and the half-dozen stuffed bottomed chairs, which were the envy of every housewife in the village. A large ovalmirror stood upon the top of the drawers, and was draped with a piece ofcheap curtain cloth, bleached to the whiteness of new fallen snow. 

This mirror was a much-prized possession, for no other like it had everbeen known in the village. The floor was covered with oilcloth, and asheepskin rug lay upon the hearthstone, while white starched curtainsdraped the window. The getting of the waxcloth had been a wonderfulevent, and dozens of women had come from all over the village to standin gaping admiration of its beauty. This was always where Mrs. Sinclairfelt a thrill of great pride. 

"Ye see, " she would explain, "it's awfu' easy to wash, and a bit wipeowre wi' soap an' watter is a' it needs. "

"My, how weel aff ye are!" one woman would exclaim, "I'm telt that yemaunna use a scrubbin' brush on't, or the pattern will rub off. "

"Oh, ay, " Nellie would laugh with a hint of superior wisdom in it. "Ye'll soon waste it gin ye took a scrubber to it. An' ye maunna useowre hot water to it either, " she would add. 

"Oh my!" would come in genuine surprise. "Do you tell me that. Eh, butyou're the weel-aff woman now, to hae a room like that, an' ralewaxcloth on the floor!"

"I thocht it was a fine, cheerie bit thing, " Nellie would say. "It mak'sthe hoose ever so much mair heartsome. "

"So it is, " would come the reply. "It's a fine, but cheerie thing. You're a rale weel-aff woman, I can tell ye, " and the woman would gohome to dream of one day having a room like Mrs. Sinclair's, and to tellher neighbors of the great "grandeur" that the Sinclair's possessed, whilst Nellie would set to, and rub and polish those drawers and thatmirror, and the stuff-bottomed chairs till they shone like the sun upona moorland tarn, and she herself felt like dropping from sheerexhaustion. 

She even took to telling the neighbors sometimes, when they came onthose visits that "working folk should a' hae coal-houses, for coal keptablow the beds makes an awfu' mess o' the ticks. "

"Oh, weel, " would be the reply, made with the usual sigh of resignation, "I hae had a house a gey lang while now, an' I dinna think I've everwanted ony sic newfangled things as that. "

"That's what's wrang, " Mrs. Sinclair would reply. "We dinna want them. If we did, we'd soon get them. What way would the gentry hae a' thaethings, an' us hae nane?"

"That's a' richt, Nellie, " would be the reply. "We wadna ken what to dowi' what the gentry has got. They're rich an' can afford it, an' forbythey need them an' we don't. I think I'm fine as I am. "

"Fine as ye are!" with bitter scorn in her tones. "Ye'll never be finewi' a mind like that. "

"Wheesht, woman Nellie! You're no feart. Dinna talk like that. We michta' be strucken doon dead!"

This usually ended the discussion, for Scots people generally--and theworkers especially--are always on very intimate terms with the Deity, and know the pains and penalties of too intimate allusions to His power. 

Yet, with all her discontent, Mrs. Sinclair found life very much easierthan it had been, for now that she had some of the boys started to work, she had made her house "respectable, " and added many little comforts, besides having a "bit pound or twa lyin' in the store. " So she lookedahead with more hope and a more serene heart. Her children were well-fedand clothed, and the old days of hunger and struggling were over, shethought. Geordie was now taking a day off in the middle of the week torest, as there was no need for him to slave and toil every day as he haddone in the past. After all it would only be a very few years till hewould no longer be able to work at all. 

Rosy looked the future then, as Mrs. Sinclair, on the day on which youngRobert went down the pit, showed off her room "grandeur" to an admiringneighbor. 

"My, what braw paper ye hae, Nellie. Wha put it on for ye? Was ityirsel'?" asked the visitor with breath bated in admiration. 

"Ay, it was that. I just got the chance o' the bargain, an' I thocht I'dtak' it, " she replied, with subdued pride. 

"Oh, my! it's awful braw, an' sae weel matched too! I never saw anythingsae well done. You're rale weel-off, do ye ken. "

"My God! What's wrang?" cried Nellie suddenly, gazing from the windowwith blanched cheeks. 

"I doot there's been an accident. I heard the bell gang for men threetows a' rinnin', an' I see a lot o' men comin' up the brae. I doot thepit's lowsed. "

Both of them hurried to the door, and found that already a crowd ofwomen had flocked to the end of the row, and were standing waitinganxiously on the men, in order to learn what had happened. They did nottalk, but gazed down the hill, each heart anxious to know if theunfortunate one belonged to her. The sickening fear which grips theheart of every miner's wife, when she sees that procession from the pitbefore the proper quitting hour, lay heavy upon each one. The whitedrawn faces, the set firm lips, and the deep troubled breathing told howmuch the women were moved. 

Wives and mothers, sweethearts and sisters, oh, what a hell of torturethey suffered in those few tense moments whilst waiting for the news, which, though to a great extent it may relieve many, must break at leastone heart. No man, having once seen this, ever wants to witness itagain. Concentrated hell and torture with every moment, stabbing andpulling at each heart and then--then the sad, mournful face of AndrewMarshall as he steps forward slowly past Mag Robertson, past JeanFleming, past Jenny Maitland, past them all, and at last putting akindly hand on the shoulder of Nellie Sinclair, he says, with a catch inhis voice that would break a heart of granite: "Come awa' hame, Nellie. Come awa' hame. Ye'll need to bear up. "

Then it is whispered round: "It's Geordie Sinclair killed wi' a fa'. "And hope has died, and dreams have fled, and the world will never againlook bonnie and fresh and sweet and full of happiness, nor the blooddance so joyously, nor the eyes ever again sparkle with the same softloving glance. 

No more happy evenings, such as the night before had been, when theglamor and romance of courtship days had come back, and they had found anew beauty of love and the glory of life, in the easier circumstancesand rosy hopes ahead. 

Misery and suffering, and the long keen pain, the sad cheerlessprospect, and over all the empty life and the broken heart. 

Lowwood was plunged into gloom when the news of the accident was known, and every heart went out in sympathy to Nellie Sinclair and her youngfamily. It was indeed a terrible blow to lose at one and the same timeher husband and her eldest boy. 

It was two days later, and the bodies had not yet been recovered. Mentoiled night and day, working as only miners fighting for life can work, risking life among the continually falling débris to recover all thatremained of their comrades. 

"It couldna ha'e been worse, " said Jenny Maitland sorrowfully to hernext door neighbor. "It's an awfu' blow. "

"Ay, " rejoined her neighbor, applying the corner of her apron to hereyes. "It mak's it worse them no' bein' gotten yet. I think I'd gaewrang in the mind if that happened to our yin, " and then, completelyovercome, she sat down on the doorstep and sobbed in real sorrow. 

"I suppose it's an awfu' big fall. He had been workin' on the top o'some auld workin's, an' I suppose they wadna ken, an' it fell in. Itmaun hae been an awfu' trial for wee Rob, poor wee man. His first day inthe pit, an' his father an' brither killed afore his een!"

"Hoo has Nellie taken it, Jenny?" enquired the neighbor, after a little, when her sobs had subsided. 

"Ye'd break yir heart if ye could see her, " replied Jenny sorrowfully. "I gaed owre when oor yin gaed out wi' the pieces--he cam' hame at fowero'clock to get mair pieces, for they're goin' to work on to ten thenicht--an' I never saw onything sae sad-lookin' as her face. She hasnever cried the least thing yet. Never a tear has come frae her, butshe'd be better if she could greet. "

"Do ye tell me that! Puir Nellie! It's an awfu' hand fu' she is leftwi', too, " commented the neighbor. 

"Ay, she jist looks at ye sae sad-like wi' her big black een; never aword nor a tear, but just stares, an' she's that thin an' white lookin'. I look for her breakin' doon a'thegither, an' when she does I wadna liketo see her. The bits o' weans gang aboot the hoose wonderin' at her, andshe looks to them too, but ye'd think she'd nae interest in onything. She jist looks out o' the window an' doon the brae to the pit. It'sawesome to look at her. "

"Oh, puir body!" and again the kindly neighbor was overcome, and Jennyjoined her tears too in silent sympathy. 

"The minister was owre last nicht, " said Jenny after a little, "but Idinna think she ever spoke to him. He cam' in just when I was comin'oot, an' I dinna like to leave her. He talked away a wee while an' thenput up a prayer; but there was nae consolation in't for onybody. I thinkthe sicht o' her face maun hae been too muckle for him. He didna stayvery lang, and gaed awa' saying he'd come back again. Nellie haseverything ready--the bed a' made, wi' clean sheets an' blankets onthem--an' there she stan's always at that window, lookin' doon the brae. It would break yer heart to see her, Leezie, she's that vexed lookin'. "So they wept and sorrowed together. 

 * * * * *

Down in the pit, Andrew Marshall, Matthew Maitland, Peter Pegg, and anumber of others toiled like giants possessed. Their naked bodiesstreamed with sweat and glistened in the light of their lamps. Timberwas placed in position, and driven tight with desperation in every blowfrom their hammers; blocks of rock were tossed aside, and smashed intofragments, ere being filled into the tubs which were ever waiting readyto convey the débris to the pit-head. Few words were spoken, except whena warning shout was given, when some loose rubble poured down from thegreat gaping cavern in the roof, and then men jumped and sprang tosafety with the agility of desperation, to wait till the rumbling hadceased, only to leap back again into the yawning hell, tearing at thestones, and trying to work their way into the place where they knewGeordie and the boy were lying. It seemed impossible that human effortswould ever be able to clear that mountain away. 

"Wait a minute, callans, " said Andrew, almost dropping with exhaustion, and drawing his hands across his eyes to wipe the sweat from them, whilst he "hunkered" down, his back against a broken tree which stoodjutting out from the building, supporting a broken "baton" (cross-tree), which bent down in the center, making the roadway low and unsafe. "Letus tak a minute's thocht, and see if we can get a way o' chokin' up thatstuff fear fallin' doon. We'll never get it redd up goin' like this. "

So they sat down, tired but still desperate, to listen to each onesuggesting a way of stopping the débris from continuing to fall. Baffledand at their wits' end, they could think of nothing. 

At last in came a number of other men to relieve them--men equallyanxious and desperate as they, burning with the desire to get to gripswith this calamity which had come upon two of their comrades. 

"I'm no' goin' hame, " said Andrew decisively, "till I see Geordie out. "He was almost dropping with exhaustion, but he could not think ofleaving his dead friend in there. So at last it was agreed that heshould stay, and at least give the benefit of his advice. The others, more tired than ever they had been before in all their experience of themines, where hard work is the rule, trudged wearily home, to be met bythe waiting groups of women and children, who at all times stood at thecorners of the village eagerly asking for news, "If they'd been gottenyet. "

After a few minutes' deliberation a plan was decided on by Andrew andhis comrades of trying to choke up the hole in the roof with timber, andthe work went on desperately, silently, heroically. Time and again theirefforts were baffled by new falls, but always the same persistent eagerspirit drove them back to their toil. So they worked, risking and daringthings of which no man who never saw a like calamity has any conception, and which would have appalled themselves at any other time. 

"Look out, boys, " called Tam Donaldson, springing back to the road asthe warning noise again began, and great masses of rock came hurtlingdown, filling the place with dust and noise. 

A cry of pain and horror broke upon them as they ran, and brought themback while the crumbling mass was still falling. 

"Great God! It's wee Jamie Allan, " roared one man above the din. "He'scatched by the leg! Here, boys, hurry up! Try an' get this block brokenafore ony mair comes doon. God Almichty! Are we a' goin' to be buriedthegither? This bit, boys! Quick!" And they tore at the great masses ofstone, the sweat streaming from every pore of their bodies, cursingtheir impotence as they smashed with big hammers the rock which lay uponJamie's leg. 

"Mind yersel's, laddies!" warned Jamie, as again the trickling noisebegan, heralding another fall. "Leave me, for God's sake, an' get back!"But not one heeded. Desperate and strong with the strength of giants, they toiled on, the sight of suffering so manifest in Jamie's eyes, ashe strove not to cry out, spurring them onward. 

"Ye'll never lift that bit, Tam, " said Jamie, as four of them tore atthe block which lay upon his leg. "It's faur too big. Take an ax an'hack the leg off. I doot it'll be wasted anyway. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"And unable longer to endure the pain, he roared aloud in agony, and toreat the stone himself with his fingers, like an imprisoned beast in atrap. 

"Here, boys, quick!" cried Andrew, getting his long pinch in below thestone, upon a fine leverage. "Put yir weight on this, Tam, an' Jock an'Sanny'll try an' pull Jamie out. Hurry up, for she's working for anithercollapse. A'thegither!" and so they tugged and tore, and strained andpulled, while the roars of the imprisoned man were deafening. 

"A'thegither again, laddies!" encouraged Andrew. "This time!" and with atremendous effort the stone gave way, and Jamie was pulled clear, hisleg a crushed mass of pulpy blood and shattered bones. They dragged himback clear of any further falls, and improvised a stretcher on which tocarry home his now unconscious body. 

"That was a hell o' a narrow shave, " quietly observed Tam Donaldson, asthey panted together, and tried to collect themselves. "His leg'swasted, I doot, an' will need to come off. " When they had theirstretcher ready, the wounded man was tenderly placed upon it, carefullycovered up with the jackets of the others; whilst half-a-dozen of themcarried him to the pit bottom, and finally bore him home, where thedoctor was ready waiting to attend to him. 

Andrew and a few others worked away, and at last managed to get therunning sore in the roof choked up with long bars of timber, and eventhough it continued to rumble away above them, the heavy blocks of woodheld, and so allowed them to work away in comparative safety. 

Peter Pegg and Matthew Maitland returned at six o'clock next morning, bringing with them another band of workers to relieve those who hadworked all night, but still Andrew Marshall would not leave the scene ofthe disaster. He worked and rested by turns, advising and guiding theyounger men, who never spared themselves. They performed mighty epics ofwork down there in the darkness amid the rumbling, falling roof. It wasa great task they were set, but they never shirked the consequences. They never turned back. Risks were taken and accepted without a thought;tasks were eagerly jumped to, and the whole job accepted as if it werejust what ordinarily they were asked to do. 

Crash went the hammers; thump went the great blocks of material into thetubs, and the men quietly got away the tubs as they were filled. Nightand day the great work went on, never ceasing, persistent, relentless. If one man dropped out a minute to breathe and rest when exhausted, another sprang into his place, and toiled and strove like an engine. 

There was something great and inspiring even to look on at those mightyefforts--something exhilarating and elevating in the play of muscleslike great long shooting serpents under the glistening skins of the men. Arms shot out, tugged and tore, jerked and wrenched, then doubled up andthe muscles became knots, bulging out as if they would break through theskin, as the great blocks were lifted; and then the blocks were castinto the tub, the knots untied themselves, and slipped elastically backinto their places, and the serpents were momentarily at rest until thebody bent again to another block. Out and in they flew, supple andsilent, quick as lightning playing in the heavens; they zig-zagged andshot this way and that, tying and untying themselves, darting out anddoubling back, advancing and retiring in rhythmic action, graceful andeasy, powerful and inevitable. Bending and rising, the swaying bodiesgleamed and glistened with greasy dust and sweat, catching the gleamsfrom the lamps and reflecting them in every streaming pore. Strainingand tearing, the muscles, at every slightest wish, seemed to exudeenergy and health, glowing strength and power. 

It was all so natural and apparently easy--an epic in moleskin and humanflesh, with only the little glimmer of oil-lamps, which darted from sideto side in a mad mazurka of toil, crossing and recrossing, swinging andhalting, the flames flattening out with every heave of their owners'bodies, then abruptly being brought to the steady again. Looked at fromthe road-foot, it was like a carnival of fireflies engaged in trying howquickly they could dart from side to side, and cross each other's path, without coming into collision. 

Who shall sing in lyrical language the exhilaration of such splendidmen's work? Who shall catch that glow of strength and health, and workit into deathless song? The ring of the hammers on the stone, the dullregular thud upon the timber, the crash of breaking rock, and thestrong, warm-blooded, generous-hearted men; the passionate glowingbodies, and above all, the great big heroic souls, fighting, working, striving in a hell of hunger and death, toiling till one felt they weregods instead of humans--gods of succor and power, gods of helpfulnessand strength. 

So the work went on hour after hour, and now their efforts werebeginning to tell. No more came the rumbling, treacherous falls; butperceptibly, irresistibly was the passage gradually cleared, and the wayopened up, until it seemed as if these men were literally eating theirway into that rock-filled passage. 

"Can ye tell me where Black Jock is a' this time?" enquired Andrew, asPeter and Matthew and he sat back the road, resting while the othersworked. "Rundell has been here twa or three times, for hours at a time, but I hae never seen Walker yet. "

"I hae never seen him either, an' I was hearin' that he was badly, "returned Peter, and his big eye seemed to turn as if it were looking forand expecting some one to slip up behind him. 

"Ay, " broke in Matthew, "badly! I wadna say, but it micht be that he'sbadly; but maybe he's not. "

"Do ye ken, boys, " said Andrew quietly, taking his pipe out of hismouth, and speaking with slow deliberation, "I'm beginnin' to thinkBlack Jock is guilty o' Geordie's death. Geordie, as we a' ken, had aysomething against Walker. There was something he kent aboot the blackbrute that lately kept him gey quiet; for, if ye noticed, wheneverGeordie went to him about anybody's complaint, the men aye won. I kenWalker hated him, an' I'm inclined to think that he has deliberatelyput Geordie into this place, kennin' that the lower seam had beenworked out lang, lang syne. His plans wad tell him as muckle about theworkin's, and I ken, at least, he's never been in Geordie's place sinceit was started, an' there's nae ither places drivin' up sae far as this. They're a' stoppit afore they come this length; an' forby, frae whatRundell has let drap the day, he never kent that the coal was beingworked as far up as this. By ----! Peter, gin I could prove what Isuspect, I'd murder the dirty brute this nicht! I would that!"

"Would Nellie no' ken, think ye, what it was that Geordie had againstBlack Jock that kept him sae quiet?" enquired Peter. 

"I couldna' say, " answered Andrew, "but some day when I get the chanceI'll maybe ask her, an' if it is as I think, then there'll be rows. "

"Let me ken, Andrew, " broke in Matthew. "Let me ken if ever ye discoveronything; an' ye can count on me sharin' the penalties o' hell alang wi'ye for the murder o' the big black brute. "

"I heard, " said Peter, "that he was boozin' wi' Mag Robertson and Sanny. But we'll no' be long in kennin', for ill-doin' canna hide. "

 * * * * *

After three frantic days of fighting against calamity, during whichAndrew never left the fight except for that brief journey to tell Nelliethe news, at last they came upon the crushed mass of bloody pulp andrags, smashed together so that the one could not be told from theother--father and son, a heap of broken bones and flesh and blood.... And no pen can describe accurately the scene. 

The light had gone out from one woman's heart, the hope had been crushedfrom her life. The rainbow which had promised so much vanished. The lustand urge had gone out of eager life. Never again would the world seemfair and beautiful. Instead, all the weary fight and desperate battlewith poverty and privation over again; the dull misery and the drabgray existence, and always the pain--the heavy, dragging pain of abroken life. With a woman's "Oh! my God!" the world for one heart stoodstill, and the blind fate of things triumphed, crushing a woman's soulin the process. 

CHAPTER XI

THE STRIKE

A week had passed, and Geordie Sinclair and his boy, or at least allthat could be gathered up of them, had been laid to rest. 

Nellie was very ill, and was now in bed. The reaction had been too muchfor her. But, as Jenny Maitland had said: "She's never cried yet, an' itwould hae been better gin she had. She jist looked at ye wi' her bigblack e'en sae vexed-like and faraway lookin', an' never spoke hardly. When they carried out the coffins, she sprang up gin she wad followthem, but was putten back to bed again. It was heart-vexin' to look ather. "

Robert suffered, too. The sympathy of everyone went out to him. At nightwhen he went to bed the whole scene was reënacted before him in all itshorror. Those tense moments of tragedy had so powerfully impressed hisboyish mind that he could never forget them. 

At the end of the week Andrew Marshall visited them to talk overmatters. A collection had been made at the pay-office by the menemployed at the pit, and a beautiful wreath purchased and placed uponthe grave. A substantial balance had been handed over to Mrs. Sinclair, and this defrayed the expenses of the funeral. After Andrew had spokenof various things, he broke on to the object of his errand that night. 

"I hae been thinkin', Nellie, " he began nervously, "that I could tak'Rob in wi' me. Ye see, I ha'e no callans o' my ain, and I ha'e aye toget yin to draw off me. So, gin ye're agreeable, I could tak' Rob, an'I'll be guid to him. He can come an' be my neighbor, an' as he'll hae toget work in ony case, he micht as weel work wi' me as wi' ony itherbody. Forby I'll maybe be able to pay him mair than plenty ithers couldpay him, an' that is efter a' the point to be maist considered. What doye think?"

But Mrs. Sinclair could not think; she merely indicated to him that hemight please himself and make his own arrangements with the boy, whichAndrew did, and Robert went to work with him the following week. He wasa mass of nerves and was horribly afraid--indeed, this fear never lefthim for years--but, young as he was, he recognized his responsibility, to his mother and the rest of the family. He was now its head, and hadto shoulder the burden of providing for it, and so his will drove him towork in the pit, when his soul revolted at the very thought of it. Always the horror of the tragedy was with him, down to its smallestdetail; and sometimes, even at work, when his mind wandered for a momentfrom his immediate task, he would start up in terror, almost crying outagain as he had done on the day of the accident. 

Andrew kept his word and was good to the boy now in his care. Indeed, hetook, as some said, more care of the boy than if Robert had been hisown, for he tried to save him from every little detail that might remindhim of the accident. 

"That's yours, Robin, " he said, when pay-day came, as he handed to theboy the half of the pay earned. 

"Na, I canna' tak' that, Andrew, " replied Robert, looking up into thebroad, kindly, honest face of the man. "My mither wouldna' let me. "

"Would she no'?" replied Andrew. "But you are the heid o' the hoose, Robin, sae just tak' it hame, an' lay it down on the dresser-head. Weare doin' gey weel the noo, an' forby, ye're workin' for it. Noo runawa' hame wi't, an' dinna say ocht to yir mither, but just put it doonon the dresser-head. " And so the partnership began which was to last formany years. 

About this time there happened one of those tremendous upheavals, longremembered in the industrial world, the great Scottish Miners' Strike of1894. The trade union movement was growing and fighting, and everytendency pointed to the fact that a clash of forces was inevitable. Theprevious year had seen the English miners beaten after a protractedstruggle. They had come out for an increase in wages, and whilst it wasrecognized that they had been beaten and forced to go back to worksuffering wholesale reductions, yet a newer perspective was beginning toappear to the miners of Scotland. 

"We'll never be able to beat the maisters, " said Tam Donaldson, when thecloud first appeared upon the industrial horizon. "The English strikegied us a lesson we shouldna forget. "

"How's that?" enquired Peter Pegg, as he sat down on his hunkers onenight at the end of the row, while they discussed the prospects of thecoming fight. 

"Weel, ye saw how the Englishmen fought unitedly, an' yet they werebeaten, an' had to gang back on a reduction. We'll very likely be thesame, for the maisters are a' weel organized. What we should do is toha'e England an' Scotland coming out together, an' let the pits stan'then till the grass was growin' owre the whorles. That would be my wayo' it, and I think it would soon bring the country to see what was inthe wind. "

"That's richt, Tam. It would soon bring the hale country to its senses;for nae matter what oor fight is, we are aye in the wrang wi' some folk;so the shock o' the hale country comin' out would mak' them tak' notice, an' would work the cure. "

So they talked of newer plans, while Smillie toiled like a giant toeducate and organize the miners. He had taken hold of them as crudematerial, and was slowly shaping them into something like unity. A fewmore years and he would win; but the forces against him knew it, too, and so followed the great fight which lasted for seventeen weeks. 

Singularly enough, while there was undoubtedly much privation, there wasnot very much real misery, as the strike had started early in a warm, dry summer. 

Communal kitchens were at once established throughout the country. Everybody did his best, and the womenfolk especially toiled early andlate. A committee was appointed in each village to gather in materials. Beef at a reasonable price was supplied by a local butcher. A horse andcart were borrowed, which went round the district gathering a cabbage ortwo here; a few carrots or turnips there, parsley at another, and soon, returning at night invariably laden with vegetables for the nextday's dinner. Sometimes a farmer would give a sheep, and the localcooperative society provided the bread at half the cost of production. Those farmers who were hostile gave nothing, but it would have paid thembetter had they concealed their hostility, for sometimes, even in asingle night, large portions of a field of potatoes would disappear asby magic. 

Robert worked in this fight like a man. He helped to cut down trees andsaw them into logs, to cook the food at the soup kitchen. Everything andanything he tried, running errands, and even going with the van tosolicit material for the following day's meals. 

All were cheerful, and no one seemed to take the fight bitterly. Sportswere organized. Quoiting tournaments were got up, football matchesarranged, games at rounders and hand-ball--every conceivable game wasindulged in, with sometimes a few coppers as prizes but more often a fewounces of tobacco or tea or a packet of sugar. Dances in the eveningswere started at the corner of the row to the strains of a melodeon, andwere carried on to the early hours of the morning. It was from thesegatherings that the young lads generally raided the fields and hen runsof the hostile farmers, returning with eggs, butter, potatoes, and evencheese--everything on which they could lay their hands. 

At one of these gatherings Robert related his experience with "auldHairyfithill. " Robert had been round with the van that day, and callingat Wilson's, or Hairyfithill Farm, to ask if they had any cabbage togive, he heard the old man calling to the servant lass: "Mag! Mag! Whereare ye? Rin an' bring in the hens' meat; there's thae colliers coming. "

Nothing daunted, Robert had gone into the kitchen to ask if they hadanything to give the strikers. 

"Get awa' back to yer work, ye lazy loons, ye!" was the reply from oldMr. Wilson. "Gie ye something for your soup kitchen! Na, na! Ye can gangan' work, an' pay for your meat. Gang awa' oot owre, and leave the town, an' dinna come back again. " And so they had drawn blank atHairyfithill. 

"It wad serve him richt, if every tattie in his fields was ta'en awa', "said Matthew Maitland, after the story had been told and laughed over. 

"It wad that, " agreed a score of voices; but nothing was done noranything further said, so the dancing proceeded. 

About two o'clock in the morning while the dancing was still going onand a fire had been kindled at the corner in which some of the strikerswere roasting potatoes and onions a great commotion was suddenly caused, when Dickie Tamson and two other boys drove in among them oldHairyfithill's sow which he was fattening for the market. Some proposedthat the pig be killed at once. 

"Oh no, dinna kill it, " said Matthew Maitland, with real alarm in hisvoice. "Ye'd get into a row for that. Ye'd better tak' it back, or theremay be fun. "

"Kill the damn'd thing, " said Tam Donaldson callously, "an' it'll maybea lesson to the auld sot. Him an' his hens' meat! I'd let him ken thatit's no' hens' meat the collier eats--at least no' so lang as he can getpork. "

"That's jist what I think, too, Tam, " put in another voice. "I'd mak'sure work that the collier ate pork for yince. Come on, boys, an' mum'sthe word, " and he proceeded to drive the pig further along the village, followed by a few enthusiastic backers. They drove it into GrannyFleming's hen-house in the middle of the square, put out the hens, whoprotested loudly against this rude and incomprehensible interruption oftheir slumbers, and then they proceeded to slaughter the pig. 

It was a horrible orgy, and the pig made a valiant protest, butencountered by hammers and picks, knives and such-like weapons, the pooranimal was soon vanquished, and the men proceeded to cut up its carcass. It was a long and trying ordeal for men who had no experience of thework; yet they made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in science, and byfive o'clock the pig was cut up and distributed through a score ofhomes. Every trace of the slaughter was removed, and the refuse buriedin the village midden, and pork was the principal article on thebreakfast table that morning in Lowwood. 

"I hear that auld Hairyfithill has offered five pound reward forinformation about his pig, " said Tam Donaldson a few mornings later. 

"Ay, an' it's a gran' price for onybody wha kens aboot it, " said auldJamie Lauder. "Pork maun hae risen in price this last twa-three days, for I'm telt it was gaun cheap enough then. "

"That is true, " said Tam, "but it was a damn'd shame to tak' the auldman's pig awa', whaever did it. But I hear them saying that the polismanis gaun to the farm the nicht to watch, so that the tatties 'll no' bestolen, " he went on, as some of the younger men joined them, "an' Isuppose that the puir polisman hasna' a bit o' coal left in hiscoal-house. It's no' richt, ye ken, laddies, that a polisman, who is therepresentative o' law and order in this place, should sit without afire. He has a wife an' weans to worry aboot, an' they need a fire tomak' meat. Maybe if he had a fire an' plenty o' coal it wad mak' himcomfortable, an' then he'd no' be sae ready to leave the hoose at nichtan' lie in a tattie pit to watch thievin' colliers. If a man hasna'peace in his mind it'll mak' him nasty, an' we canna' allow sic a thingas a nasty polisman in this district!"

"That's richt, Tam, " said one of the younger men. "It would be a shameto see a woman an' twa-three weans sittin' withoot a fire an' a greatbig bing o' coal lyin' doon there at the pit. We maun try an' keep thepolisman comfortable. "

That night the policeman without in any way trying to conceal hispurpose walked down through the village and across the strip of moor andtook up his position at the end of Hairyfithill's potato field. At oncea group of young men led by Tam Donaldson set off with bags under theirarms after it was dark for the pit at the other end of the village andwere soon engaged in carrying coal as if their lives depended on it. 

"Noo, lads, the first bag gangs to the polisman, mind, " said Tam, shouldering his load and walking off. 

"A' richt, Tam. If we a' gang wi' the first bag to him that'll be ninebags, then we can get two or three bags for hame. Dinna hurry; we ha'ea' nicht to carry, an' we can get in a fine lot afore daylicht breaks. "

"That's richt, " said Tam, "but mind an' no' tire yersels too much, forye've a nicht at the tatties the morn. The polis'll be at the bing themorn's nicht efter this carry-on, an' when he is busy watchin' for coalthieves, we maun see that we get in a denner or twa o' tatties. I heardhim sayin' he could not be everywhere at yince, an' couldna' both watchcoal thieves an' tattie stealin' at yin an' the same time. "

 * * * * *

All this time matters went very smoothly. The men were very firm, havinggreat trust in Smillie. After about six weeks, however, from variouscauses a suspicious atmosphere began to be created. Hints had beenappearing from time to time in the newspapers that matters were notaltogether as the miners thought they were. Then vague rumors got afloatin many districts and spread with great rapidity, and these began toundermine the confidence of the strikers. 

"What think ye o' the fecht noo, Tam?" enquired Matthew Maitland onenight as they sat among the others at the "Lazy Corner, " as the villageforum was called. 

"I dinna ken what to think o' it, " replied Tam glumly. "Do ye thinkthere's any truth in that story aboot Smillie havin' sell't us?"

"It wad be hard to ken, " replied Matthew Maitland, taking his pipe outof his mouth and spitting savagely upon the ground. "But I heard it fora fact, and that a guid wheen o' men doon the country hae gaen back totheir work through it. An' yet, mind ye, Smillie seemed to me to be astraight-forret man an' yin that was sincere. Still, ye can never tell;an' twa-three hunner pound's a big temptation to a man. "

"Ay, " said Tam dryly, "we hae been diddled sae often wi' bigmoothed menon the make, that it mak's a body ay suspicious when yin hears thaestories. I heard Wiston, the coal-maister, had gien him five hunnerpounds on the quiet. "

"I heard that too, " replied Matthew, "but, like you, I'm loth to thinkit o' Smillie. I'd believe it quicker aboot yon ither chiel, CharlieRogerson. He comes oot to speak to us ay dressed in a black dress-suit, wi' white cuffs doon to his finger nebs, his gold ring, his lum hat, an'a' his fal-de-lals. "

"Weel, I dinna believe a word o' this story aboot Bob, " said Robertquietly, who had "hunkered" down beside the two men who sat so earnestlydiscussing matters while the others went on with their games anddancing. 

"Do ye no', Rob?" said Tam. 

"No, I do not, " was the firm reply, "for nae matter what happens in afight, it's ay the opeenion o' some folk that the men ha'e been sell't. "

Robert, though young, took a keen interest in the fight. While otherlads of his age looked upon it as a fine holiday, the heavyresponsibilities he had to face gave him a different outlook, and so themen seemed to recognize that he was different from the other boys, andmore sober in his view-point. 

"This story is set aboot for the purpose o' breakin' oup the men, " hecontinued. "We hear o' Smillie haein hale rows o' cottages bought, an' alot ither rubbish, but I wouldna believe it. It's a' to get the men togang back to their work; an' if they do that, it'll no' only break thestrike, but it'll break up the union, an' that's what's wanted mair thananything else. I've heard Smillie an' my faither talkin' aboot a' thaethings lang syne, an' Smillie says that's what the stories are set abootfor. We should ha'e sense enough no' to heed them, for I dinna thinkSmillie has sell't us at a'. "

There was a fine, firm ring in the boy's voice as he spoke which movedthe two older men, and made them feel a little ashamed that they hadbeen so ready to doubt. 

"Ah, weel, Rob, " said Tam, "maybe you are richt, but a lot o' men ha'egaen back to their work already, an' it'll break up the strike if itspreads. But we'll ha'e to get some tatties in the nicht; the polisman'sgoin' to be watchin' auld Burnfoot's hen-hoose, sae it'll be a grandchance for some tatties, " and the talk drifted on to another subject. 

About the eighth week of the strike the news went round the villagethat Sanny Robertson and Peter Fleming were "oot at the pit. "

"I wad smash every bone in their dirty bodies if I had my way o' it. Iwould, " said Matthew Maitland, with emphasis. Matthew was alwaysemphatic in all he said, though seldom so in what he did. 

"But we'll ha'e to watch hoo we act, " said Andrew Marshall morecautiously. "It's agin the law, ye ken, to use force. "

"I wadna' gi'e a damn, " said Peter Pegg, his big eye making franticefforts to wink. "I wad see that they blacklegged nae mair. "

"Sae wad I, " promptly exclaimed half a dozen of the younger men. 

"We maun see that they don't do it ony mair. "

"Ay, an' I hope we'll mak' sure work that they sleep in for twa-threemornin's. "

"I'll tell ye what, " said old Lauder, "let us get a few weemin' andweans thegither, an' we'll gang doon to the pit an' wait on them comin'up frae their shift. The bairns can get tin cans an' a stane for adrumstick, an' we'll ha'e a loonie band. We can sing twa or three o'thae blackleg sangs o' Tam Donaldson's, an' play them hame. "

"That's the plan, Jamie, " replied Tam, who had suddenly seen himselfimmortalized through his parodies of certain popular songs. "Let us getas mony women an' callans as possible, and we can mak' a damn'd guidturnout. We'll sing like linties, an' drum like thunder, an' theblacklegs'll feel as if they were goin' through Purgatory to the tuneo':"

 Tattie Wullie, Tattie Wullie, Tattie Wullie Shaw, Where's the sense o' workin', Wullie?-- Faith, ye're lookin' braw. 

or

 Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming, Peter, man, I say, Ye've been workin', ye've been workin', Ye've been workin' the day. 

 Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming, If ye work ony mair, Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming, Your heart will be sair. 

With little difficulty a band of men, women and children was organizedand proceeded to the pit to await the coming up of the culprits. Hourafter hour they waited patiently, determined not to miss them, and thetime was spent in light jesting and singing ribald songs. 

"I wadna' like if my faither was a blackleg, " observed Mysie Maitland tothe girl next her. 

"No, nor me, either!" quickly agreed the other. "It wad be awfu' to hearfolk cryin' 'Blackleg' after yir faither, wadna' it, Mysie?"

"Ay, " was the reply. "I wadna' like it. "

"They should a' be hunted oot o' the place, " put in Robert, who wasstanding near. "They are just sellin' the rest o' the men, an' helpin'to break up the strike. So ye mind, Mysie, hoo Tam Graham's lass ayeclashed on the rest o' us on the pit-head? She's just like her faither, ay ready to do onything agin the rest, if it would gi'e her a wee bitfavor. "

"Ay, fine I mind o' it, Rob, " Mysie replied eagerly. "Do ye mind the dayshe was goin' to tell aboot you takin' hame the bit auld stick forfirewood? When I telt her if she did, I'd tell on her stealin' thetallow frae the engine-house an' the paraffin ile ay when she got thechance. She didna say she'd tell then. "

"Ay, Mysie. Maybe I'd ha'e gotten the sack if she had telt. But she wasaye a clashbag. But here they come!" he shouted animatedly, as the bellsignaled for the cage to rise, and presently the wheels began torevolve, as the cage ascended. 

"May the tow break, an' land the dirty scums in hell, " prayed one man. 

"Ay, an' may the coals they howkit the day roast them forever, " addedanother. Though they prayed thus, yet once again they found that the"prayer of the wicked availeth naught. " Buckets of water, however, andeven bits of stone and scrap iron were surreptitiously flung down theshaft; and when the blacklegs did appear, they were nearly frightenedout of their senses. It would have gone hard with them as they left thecage, but someone whispered, "Here's the polis!" and so the crowd had tobe content with beating their tin cans; and keeping time to the songsimprovised by Tam Donaldson, they escorted the blacklegs to their homes. 

Next morning a large number of the strikers gathered at the Lazy Corner, enjoying themselves greatly. 

"They tell me, " said Tam Donaldson, "that our fren's ha'e slept in thismorning. "

A laugh greeted this sally, which seemed to indicate that most of themknew about the sleeping-in and the reason for it. 

"Ay, they'd be tired oot efter their hard day's work yesterday, " repliedanother. 

"Ay, an' they dinna seem to be up yet, " said a third, "for I see thedoors are still shut, an' the bairns are no' awa' to the school. Theymaun ha'e been awfu' tired to ha'e slept sae lang. "

"Let's gang doon and gi'e them a bit sang to help to keep their dreamspleasant, " suggested Tam Donaldson, as they moved off down the row andstopped before Jock Graham's door. Tam, clearing his throat, led of:

 Hey, Johnnie Graham, are ye wauken yet, Or is yer fire no' ken'lt yet? If you're no wauken we will wait, An' tak' ye to the pit in the mornin'. 

 Black Jock sent a message in the dark, Sayin': Johnny Graham, come to your wark, For tho' ye've been locked in for a lark, Ye maun come to the pit in the mornin'. 

 You an' Fleeming, an' Robertson tae, Had better a' gang doon the brae, An' you'll get your pay for ilka day That ye gang to your work in the mornin'. 

Then, leading off on to another, Tam, with great gusto, swung into asong that carried the others along uproariously:

 O' a' the airts the win' can blaw, It canna blaw me free, For I am high an' dry in bed, When workin' I should be; But ropes are stronger faur than is Desire for work wi' me, An' sae I lie, baith high an' dry-- I'll hae to bide a wee. 

 I canna say on whatna day I'll gang again to work, For sticks an' stanes may break my banes, As sure's my name's McGurk. Gie me the best place in the pit, Then happy I shall be, Just wi' yae wife to licht oor life, Big dirty Jock an' me!

After a round or two of applause and some shouts from the children, Tambroke out in a new air:

 This is no' my ain lassie, Kin' though the lassie be, There's a man ca'd Black Jock Walker, Shares this bonnie lass wi' me. She's sweet, she's kin', her ways are fine, An' whiles she gies her love to me. She's ta'en my name, but, oh, the shame, That Walker shares the lass wi' me. 

 This is no' my ain lassie, She is changefu' as the sea, Whiles I get a' her sweet kisses, Whiles Black Jock shares them wi' me. She's fat and fair, she's het and rare, She's no' that trig, but ay she's free, It pays us baith, as sure as daith, That Walker shares the lass wi' me. 

This sent the crowd wild with delight, and cries of "Good auld Tam!"were raised. "Damn'd guid, Tam! Ye're as guid as Burns. " All of whichmade Tam feel that at last his genius was being recognized. Theexplanation of the joke was to be found in the fact, as one song hadhinted, that the strikers had securely fastened the doors of all theblacklegs' houses with ropes, and jammed the windows with sticks, sothat the inmates could not get out. Even the children could not get outto go to school. It was late in the afternoon before the police heard ofit, and came and cut the ropes, and so relieved the imprisoned inmates. 

This happened for a morning or two, and then the practice stopped, forthe police watched the doors throughout the whole night. Thispreoccupation of the police was taken advantage of to raid again oldHairyfithill's potato field, and also to pay a visit to the bing forcoal, and a very profitable time was thus spent by the strikers, eventhough the blacklegs were at their work in a few days. 

What was happening in Lowwood was typical of almost all other miningvillages throughout the country. Everywhere high spirits andcheerfulness prevailed among the men. As for the leaders, the situationproved too big for some of them to cope with it, the responsibility wastoo great; and so they failed at the critical moment. The demand of anincrease of a shilling a day, for which the men had struck, had beenconceded by some of the owners, whilst others had offered sixpence. Someof the leaders were in favor of accepting these concessions, andallowing the men at the collieries concerned to resume work, and so beable to contribute considerably to help keep out those whose demands hadnot been met. Others of the leaders refused to agree to this, andinsisted that as all had struck together, they should fight together tothe end, until the increase was conceded to all. This difference ofopinion was readily perceived and welcomed by the coalmasters, andstiffened their resolution, for they saw that disagreement and divisionswould soon weaken the morale of the men, and such proved to be the case. 

No one can imagine what Smillie suffered at this time, as he saw hissplendid effort going to pieces; but being a big man, he knew that itwas impossible to turn back. His plans might for the moment miscarry;but that was merely a necessary, yet passing, phase in the greatevolution of Industrialism, and his ideals must yet triumph. 

As the result of the differences among the leaders, the strikecollapsed at the end of seventeen weeks. The men were forced to returnto work on the old terms. In some cases a reduction was imposed, makingtheir condition worse than at the start. The masters sought to drivehome their victory in order to break the union. In many parts of thecountry they succeeded, while in others the spirit of the men resistedit. Generally it ended in compromise; but, so far as the Union wasconcerned, it was a broken organization; branches went down, and it wasmany years afterwards before it was again reestablished in some of thedistricts. 

Though at the time it might have seemed all loss, yet it had itsadvantages, and especially demonstrated the fact that there was a finediscipline and the necessary unity among the rank and file. The nextgreat work was to find out how that unity could be guided and thatdiscipline perfected--how to find a common ideal for the men. This wasRobert Smillie's task, and who shall say, looking at the rank and fileto-day, that he has failed?

CHAPTER XII

THE RIVALS

Eight years passed, and Robert grew into young manhood. One of hisyounger brothers had joined him and Andrew Marshall in the partnership. It had been a long, stiff struggle, and his mother knew all the hardnessand cruelty of it. In after years Robert loved his mother more for thefight she put up, though it never seemed to him that he himself had doneanything extraordinary. He was always thoughtful, and planned to saveher worry. On "pay-nights, " once a fortnight, when other boys of his agewere getting a sixpence, or perhaps even a shilling, as pocket-money, sothat they could spend a few coppers on the things that delight a boy'sheart, Robert resolutely refused to take a penny. For years he continuedthus, always solacing himself with the thought that it was a "shilling'sworth less of worry" his mother would have. 

Yet, riches were his in that the enchantment of literature held himcaptive, and his imagination gained for him treasures incomparablygreater than the solid wealth prized by worldly minds. His father hadpossessed about a dozen good books, among others such familiar Scottishhousehold favorites as "Wilson's Tales of the Borders, " "Mansie Waugh, "by "Delta, " "Scots Worthies, " Allan Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd, " Scott's"Rob Roy" and "Old Mortality, " and the well-thumbed and dog-eared copyof Robert Burns' Poems. 

"Gae awa', man Robin, " his mother would say sometimes to him, as he satdevouring Wilson's "Tales" or weeping over the tragic end of Wallace'swife Marion as recounted in Jean Porter's entrancing "Scottish Chiefs. "

"Gang awa' oot an' tak' a walk. Ither laddies are a' oot playin' atsomething, an' forby it's no' healthy to sit too long aye readin'. "

"Ach. I canna' be bothered, " he would answer. "I'd raither read. "

"What is't you're readin' noo?" she would enquire. "Oh, it's the'Scottish Chiefs, ' an' I'm jist at the bit aboot Wallace's wife beingmurdered by Hazelrig. My! It's awfu' vexin'. "

"Ay, it's a fine book, Robin. Ye might read that bit oot to me. "

"A' richt, " and he would start to read while Nellie sat down to listen. Soon both were engrossed in the sad story, so powerfully told, and thetears would be running from the mother's eyes as her fancy pictured thesorrows of Wallace, while Robert's voice would break, and a sob comeinto his throat, as he proceeded. When finally the passage was reachedwhere the brutal blow was struck, the book would have to be put down, while mother and son both cried as if the grief depicted were their own. 

"It's an awfu' gran' book, Rob, " she would say after a time, while shestrove to subdue the sobs in her breast. "Puir Wallace! It maun ha'ebeen an awfu' blow to him, when he heard that Marion was killed. But youmaun read on a bit far'er, for I'm no' gaun tae work ony mair till I seethat dirty beast Hazelrig get his deserts. He has wrocht for it, saejist gang on noo till you feenish the bit aboot him gettin' killed wi'Wallace. He deserves it for killin' a woman. "

Thus Robert would have to go on, until the incident in question had beenreached in the story, and as it unfolded itself his voice would growfirmer and stronger as he became infected with the narrative, while hismother's eyes would glow, and her body be tense with interest, and anexpectant expression would creep over her face, betraying herexcitement. In the interview between Wallace and Hazelrig in the housein the Wellgate in Lanark, when Wallace dramatically draws his sword inanswer to the supplication for mercy, and says: "Ay, the same mercy asyou showed my Marion, " Robert's voice would thunder forth the words withterrible sternness, while Nellie would gasp and catch her breath in aquick little sob of excitement, as the feeling of satisfied justicefilled her heart. And when the blow fell that laid the English governorlow, she would burst out: "Serves him richt, the dirty tyrant. He's gotwhat he deserved, an' it serves him right!"

On another occasion Robert would suddenly burst out laughing, whenreading Delta's chronicle of the adventures of Mansie Waugh, theScottish "Handy Andy. "

"What are you laughing at, Robin?" Nellie would enquire, a smilebreaking over her face also. 

"Oh, it's Mansie Waugh, mither. Oh, but it's a gran' bit. Listen tothis, " and he would begin to read the passage, where Mansie, simple soulthat he was, was described as going into the byre in the morning tolearn if the cow had calved during the night, and finding, on openingthe door, the donkey of a traveling tinker, he turned and ran into thehouse, crying: "Mither! Mither! The coo has calved, an' it's a cuddy!"

Whenever he reached this part of the story, his mother would go off intoa fit of uncontrollable laughter which left her helpless and crumpled upin a heap upon the nearest chair. Her laugh was very infectious; itbegan with a low, mirthful ripple, well down in the throat, and rose inrapid leaps of musical joy till it had traveled a whole octave ofbubbling happy sounds, when it culminated in a peal of double forteshakes and trills, that made it a joy to hear, and finally it died outin an "Oh, dear me! What a callan Mansie was!"

As Robert approached manhood, he took more and more to the moors, wandering alone among the haunts of the whaup and other moor birds, wrestling with problems to which older heads never gave a thought, trying to understand life and to build from his heart and experiencesomething that would be satisfying. Silent, thoughtful, "strange" to theneighbors, a problem to everyone, but a bigger one to himself, lifestaggered him and appalled his soul. 

Earnestly he worked and tested his thought against the thought ofothers, sturdily refusing everything which did not ring true and meethis standard. Old religious conceptions, the orthodoxy of his kith andkin, were fast tested in the crucible of his mind and flung aside asworthless. The idea of Hell and the old Morrisonian notion of theHereafter appeared crude and barbarous. His father's fate and thecondition of the family left to welter in poverty, the cruelty of lifeas it presented itself to the great mass of the working class, could notbe reconciled with the Church's teaching of an all-loving and omniscientFather. 

With the audacity of youth, he felt that he could easily haveconstructed a better universe. He felt that Hell could have no terrorsfor people condemned to such hardship and suffering as he saw aroundhim. Life was colorless for them; stinted of pleasure and beauty, withmerely the joys of the "gill-stoup" on a Saturday night at the local"store" to look forward to, there was in it no real satisfaction eitherfor the body or the mind. Would he, indeed, have to wait till afterdeath before knowing anything of real happiness or comfort? His mindrefused to accept this doctrine so frequently expounded to working classcongregations by ministers, who were themselves comparatively wellendowed with "treasures upon earth. "

Life was good, life was glorious if only it could be made as he dreamedit. This fair earth need be no vale of tears. There were the blue skies, the white tapestry of cloudland ever varying; there was the wind uponhis face and the sweet rain; there was the purl of mountain brook, thegraceful sweep of the river, the smile of the flowers, the songs of thebirds; the golden splendor of the day and the silver radiance of thenight. 

But above and beyond all there was an ever-increasing love of hisfellows, there were noble women like his mother to reverence, and therewere sweet children to cherish. Surely life was good, and never wasmeant to be the mean, sordid thing that too often was the lot of peoplelike himself. Heaven could and should be realized here and now. Attwenty, he finished by accepting Humanity as it is, to be understood andloved, to be served, and, if necessary, to die for it. 

Though thus naturally reserved and meditative, yet he was not unloved. There was no more popular lad in the village. Everyone in a tight cornercame to him for help and advice. He was private secretary to half thevillage and father confessor to the other half. He served everyone, andin return all loved him more or less. In the course of time he came tooccupy the place his father had held before him as president of thelocal branch of the Union, which had been recently revived. His dutiesas a Union official forced him more and more into mixing with others, and into taking a larger interest in the affairs of the locality. 

Gradually with the activities of public life his moodiness gave place toa healthy cheerfulness, and his enthusiasm soon led him into taking partin nearly every form of sport which gave life more zest. His interestbeing roused, he was wholehearted in his application, whether as amember of the executive of any local sports association, or as aparticipant in the game itself. He was elected to the committeeresponsible for organizing the Lowwood Annual Games, but resignedbecause having taken up racing as his pet pastime for the time being, hewanted to compete in some of the items. 

At last the "Sports" day arrived. The pits were idle, for this was oneof the recognized holidays. Everyone looked forward eagerly to this day, and prepared for it, each in his or her own way. For weeks before it thechildren practiced racing, and trained themselves in jumping, football, quoiting and such sports. Young men stole away to secret places in themoor to train and harden themselves, timing their performances andconcentrating on the strenuous day ahead when they would compete withone another in fair tests of speed, strength, skill and endurance. 

One event was always a special attraction, even to professional racersall over the country. This was known as the "Red Hose Race, " about whichmany legends were told. The most popular of these was to the effect thatthe stockings were knitted each year by the Laird's wife, and if no oneentered for the race, the Laird must run it himself, or forfeit hisextensive estate to the Crown. In addition to the Red Hose, there was asubstantial money prize. To win the race was looked upon as the greatestachievement of the year, for it was one of the oldest sporting eventsand had been run for so many years that its origin seemed lost in themists of antiquity. Robert made up his mind to win the Red Hose in thisparticular year. Mrs. Graydon, of Graydon House, had intimated that sheherself would be present and would hand over the stockings to the proudwinner in person, but it was not by any means on this account thatRobert was so keen to win. It was the older lure that brought every yearathletes of fame to run in the historic race. 

"So you are going to run in the Red Hose, " said a voice behind Robertwhile the people were all gathering to watch the preliminary races ofthe boys and girls. Robert turned from the group of young men who hadbeen discussing the event with him, and met the smiling face of PeterRundell, dressed in immaculate style and looking as fresh and fine aspecimen of young manhood as anyone could wish to see. 

"Yes, " he said with a smile, "and I intend to win it. "

"Do you?" returned Peter light-heartedly. "I have also entered for it, though I had no intention of doing so when I came over; but Mr. Walker, who, as you know, is on the committee, pressed me to go in, and so Iconsented. "

"Oh!" said Robert, in surprise, "I thought after last year's success youwere not going to run again. " Then, in a bantering tone, and with asmile upon his lips, "I suppose we'll be rivals in this, then; but Igi'e you fair warning that I'm gaun to lift the Red Hose if I get adecent chance at all. "

"Well, I have set my mind on winning it, too, " replied Peter. "I'd liketo lift it, just to be able to say in after years that I had done so. "

"That's just hoo I feel aboot the matter too, " lightly answered Robert. "I'd like jist to be able to say that I had won the Red Hose. I feel ingood form for it, so you'd better be on your mettle. "

"Well, I shall give you the race of your life for it, " said Peter, entering into the same light spirited boasting. "I hear Mair and Toddand Semple are also entered, but with a decent handicap I won't mindthese, even with their international reputation. "

"All right, " said Robert. "I suppose I shall have the greater pleasurein romping home before you all. Are the handicaps out yet?"

"Yes, I saw the list just before I spoke to you. Semple and Mair arescratch, with Todd at five yards. You start at twenty-five, and I getoff at the limit forty. '

"Oh!" said Robert, a note of surprise in his voice. "Walker has surelyforgotten who are the runners! Why, last year you won nearly all theconfined events, and you were second in the Red Hose with twenty-fiveyards. He means you to romp home this year!" and there was heat inRobert's voice as he finished. 

"Well, I daresay it is a decent handicap, " said Peter, "and even thoughSemple is among the crowd, I should manage, I think, to pull it off withanything like luck. "

"I should think so, " said Robert. "Walker has just made you a present ofthe race. But I suppose it can't be helped, though it isn't fair. Anyhow, I'll give you a chase for it. "

"All right. Half an hour and we shall be on, " and Peter went on roundthe field, exchanging greetings with most of the villagers. 

He was finishing his education at a Technical College in Edinburgh, andat present was home on holidays. He was a well set up young man, andthough popular with most people, yet he brought with him an air ofanother world among the villagers, which made them feel uncomfortable. They recognized that his life was very different from their own, andwhile they talked to him when he spoke to them, and were agreeableenough to him, they felt awed and could not break down the naturalreserve they always had towards people of another station of life. Hewas perhaps a little too thoughtless and impulsive, thoughgenerous-hearted enough. He drifted into things, rather than shaped themto his own ideas, and was often not sufficiently careful of thepositions in which he found himself as a consequence of thoughtlessacts. 

The week before he had caught and kissed Mysie Maitland, who was nowserving at Rundell House, merely because he was taken with her prettyface. From that Peter already believed himself in love with her, because she had not resented his action. He had even walked over withher from the village, when she had been home visiting her parents onenight, and had felt more and more the witchery of her pretty face andthe lure of her fine little figure. 

Up to this time Mysie had always believed herself in love withRobert--Robert who was always so strange from the rest of young men. Hehad always been her hero, her protector; but there was something abouthim for which she could not account and which she could not havedefined. Such was her admiration that she believed it was in his powerto do anything he cared to attempt; it was just possible that it wasthis strange sense of unknown power which fascinated her. They had neverbeen lovers in the accepted sense of the word. They had never "walkedout" as young people in their social station usually do, but yet hadalways felt that they were meant for one another. 

Only once had Robert kissed her, and that moment ever lived with her aglowing memory. She had been home and was returning through a moorlandpass, when she came across him lying upon the rough heather, histhoughts doubtless full of her, for he had seen her in the village, andknew she must return that way. 

"Oh, Rob!" she cried, her face flushing with excitement as she saw him. "Ye nearly frichted me oot o' my wits the noo. "

"Did I, Mysie?" he answered, springing to his feet. "I didna mean to daethat. Ye'll be getting back, I suppose. "

"Ay, " she returned simply, and a silence fell upon them, in which bothseemed to lose the power of speaking. 

Robert looked at her as she stood there, her full, curved breasts risingand falling with the excitement of the unexpected meeting, the longlashes of her eyes sweeping her flushed cheeks, as she stood withdowncast eyes before him. The last rays of the setting sun falling uponher brown hair touched it with a rare strange beauty. Her red lips likedew-drenched roses--luscious, pure, alluring, were parted a little in ahalf smile. But it was the fascinating movement of the breast, full, round and sensuous, that stirred and made an overpowering appeal toevery pulse within him. It seemed so soft, so tender, so wonderfullyalluring. At the moment he could not understand himself or her. Therewas a strange, surging impetus raging through him that he feltabsolutely powerless to subdue, and he swayed a little as he stood. 

"Oh, Mysie!" he cried, leaping forward and clasping her in his strong, young arms, and crushing her against him, holding her there, gasping, powerless but happy. 

"You are mine, Mysie. Mine!" and he kissed her budded lips in an ecstasyof passion and warm-blooded feeling, while a thousand fevers seemed tocourse through him as he felt the contact of her body and her warm, eager lips on his. Blinded and delirious, he kissed her again and againin an impassioned burst of fervor, passion scorching his blood andfilling his whole heart with the enjoyment of possession. She closed hereyes, and her head touched his shoulder, while the faint scent of herhair and its soft caressing touch upon his cheek maddened him to a furyof love. 

"Say you are mine, Mysie! Say you are mine!" he cried, and his voice wasstrange and hoarse and dry with the desire within him. He felt her bodyyielding as it relaxed in his arms, as if in answer to some unspokendemand, and in a moment he realized himself and started back, hot shamesurging over his face and conquering the passion in his blood. In thatstrange mad moment he had felt capable of anything--powerful, overmastering, relentless in his desires; and now--weak, shame-strickenand helpless. Ere he could say anything, Mysie had come to herself witha shock, and started away over the moor as if possessed by somethingthat was mysterious and terrible. 

That had happened a year ago, and though Robert sought to learn when shewas in the village, and often watched her from a safe place where he wasnot seen, delighting his eyes with the sight of her figure, and feelingagain the same hot shame come over him, as he had known that day on themoor, yet he had never met her near enough to speak to her, but hadworshiped her at a distance and grown to love and desire her more andmore with every day that passed. 

He dreamed dreams around her, but was afraid to encounter her again. This strange mad love burned in his blood, until at times he was almostsick with desire and love. Every moor-bird called her name; every flowerheld the shyness of her face; the clouds of peaceful sunsets showed theglory of her hair, and the quiet, steadfast stars possessed the wonderof her eyes. The madness of the passionate moment of possession on themoor was at once his most treasured memory and his intensest shame. 

As for Mysie, since she had not heard any more from Robert nor even seenhim for almost a year, she felt quite flattered by the attentions ofPeter Rundell. It was not that she was in love with either of the youngmen. Her nature was of the kind that is in love with love itself, andwas not perhaps capable of a great love, such as had frightened her, when Robert, taken off his guard, had let her glimpse a strong, overmastering passion and a soul capable of great things. Already shedreamed of a grand house of which she would be mistress as Peter's wife, as she stood in the silence of her own room, pirouetting and smirking, and drawing pictures of herself in fine garments and stately carriage, playing the Lady Bountiful of the district. 

CHAPTER XIII

THE RED HOSE RACE

"All competitors for the Red Hose, get ready!" called the bell-man, whoannounced the events at the sports, and immediately all was stir andbustle and excitement. 

"Wha's gaun to win the day, Andrew?" enquired Matthew Maitland, as theystood waiting for the runners to emerge from the dressing tent. 

"I dinna ken, " answered Andrew Marshall. "That's a damn'd unfairhandicap anyway. My neighbor is no' meant to lift it seemingly. Look atthe start they've gi'en him, an' young Rundell starts at the limit. "

"Ay!" said Matthew. "It's no' fair. It's some o' Black Jock's doings. He's meanin' young Rundell to wun it. "

"Ay, it looks like it; but it's fashious kennin' what may happen. Rab'sa braw runner, " and Andrew spoke as one who knew, for he was the onlyperson who had seen Robert train. 

"Weel, it's harder for him to be a rinner than for young Rundell, a manwha never wrocht a day's work in a' his life, while Rab's had to slavehard and sair a' his days.... Though Rundell can rin too, " he added, with ungrudged admiration. 

"Ay, he ran weel last year, but they tell me he'd like to get the RedHose to his credit, though for my pairt they'd been far better to ha'epresented it to him, than to gi'e him it that way. Man, he's a dirtybrute o' a man, Black Jock!" and there was disgust in his voice. "Jistlook at Mag Robertson there, flittering aboot quite shameless, andgecking and smirking at him, an' naebody daur say a word to her. She's afair scunner!"

"If she belonged to me, I'd let her ken a different way o't. "

"Ay, Andra, " was the reply. "But ye maun mind that Mag mak's mair moneythan Sanny does. Jist look at her, the glaikit tinkler that she is. Black Jock's no' ill to please when that pleases him. "

Mag Robertson, the subject of their talk, was quite oblivious, apparently, of the many remarks that were being passed about her, andshe continued to follow Walker, who as a committee member, was busilyarranging matters for the race. 

"She's gie weel smeekit, Andra!" observed Matthew in a whisper, as Magpassed close by. "Did ye fin the smell o" her breath?"

"Ay!" replied Andrew. "She can haud a guid lot before ye see it on her. She's--" but a shout from the crowd cut his further revelations short. 

"Here they come!" cried Matthew excitedly, as the tent opened, and youngRundell came out with confident bearing, leading the other half-dozenathletes to the starting place. "Let's gae roon' to the wunnin' post soas to see the feenish. "

The competitors lined up, each on his separate mark, ready for thesignal to start. Rundell, in a bright-colored costume of fine texture, showed well beside the other racer who started along with him at fortyyards. Peter was slimly built, but there were energy and activity in hisevery movement; his legs especially, being finely developed, showed nosuperfluous flesh; his chest alone indicated any weakness, but withal helooked a likely winner. 

Robert, on the other hand, while not carrying a great amount of flesh, was well built. The chest was broad and deep, the shoulders square andthe head held well up, his nose being finely adapted for goodrespiration. The legs, by reason of heavy work in early life, were alittle bent at the brawn, but were as hard as nails; they showedwonderfully developed muscles, and gave the impression of strengthrather than speed. 

They presented a fine picture of eager, determined young manhood, cleanand healthy, and full of life and mettle. Each face betrayed how themind was concentrated on, the work ahead, every thought directed withgreat intensity towards the goal, as they bent their bodies inpreparation for the start. 

The pistol cracked and rang out upon the midday air with startlingsuddenness, and immediately they were off on a fine start to theaccompaniment of the cheering of the crowd which lined the whole trackin a great circle. The first round ended with the runners much as theyhad started, the interval between each being fairly equally maintained. Semple, however, dropped out, not caring to overstrain himself as he hadsome heavy racing next day at another gathering, where a much highermoney prize was the allurement. 

Round the others went, the excitement growing among the crowd, who keptshouting encouraging remarks to the racers as they passed. 

"Keep it up, Robin!" cried Andrew Marshall. "Keep it up, my lad. Ye'redaein' fine. "

"Come away, Rundell, the race is yer ain, " shouted an enthusiasticsupporter of Peter. 

"Nae wonner!" answered Matthew Maitland, heatedly. "They've gi'en himthe race in a present. Look at the handikep!"

"An' what aboot it?" enquired the other, not knowing what to answer. 

"Plenty aboot it, " replied Matthew. "If it hadna' been he was PeterRundell, he wadna' ha'e gotten sic a start. Black Jock means him to getthe race, an' it's no' fair. I wadna' ha'e the damn'd thing in that way, an' if he does win it he'll hae nae honor in it. "

"But Rab's runnin' weel, " Matthew continued, as he followed the runnerswith eager eyes, and stuck the head of his pipe in his mouth in hisexcitement, burning his lips in the process. "Dammit, I've burned mymooth, " he ejaculated, spluttering, spitting and wiping his mouth. "Butthe laddie can rin. He's a fair dandie o' a rinner. "

"He couldna' rin to catch the cauld, " broke in Rundell's admirer, gladto get in a word. "Look at him. Dammit, ye could wheel a barrow ootthrough his legs. He jist rummles alang like a chained tameearthquake. "

"What's that?" asked Matthew, somewhat nettled at this manner ofdescribing Robert's slightly bent legs. "He canna rin, ye say! Weel, ifhe couldna' rin better than Peter Rundell, he should never try it. Lookat Rundell!" he went on scathingly, "doubled up like a fancy canary, anda hump on his back like a greyhound licking a pot. Rinnin'! He's mairlike an exhibition o' a rin-a-way toy rainbow. He's aboot as souple as astookie Christ on a Christmas tree!" And Matthew glared at the other, asif he would devour him at a gulp. 

"Look at him noo, " he cried, as Robert began to overtake the young minerwho had started equal with Rundell. "He's passed young Paterson noo, an'ye'll soon see him get on level terms wi' Rundell. Go on, Rob!" heyelled in delight, as Robert shot past. "Go on, my lad, you're daein'fine!"

Excitement was rousing the crowd to a great pitch, and yells and shoutsof encouragement went up, and cheers rang out as the favored one wentpast the various groups of supporters. 

All during the race as the competitors circled the course, excitementgrew, until the last round was reached, when every one seemed to go mad. Only three remained to compete now for the prize, the others havinggiven up. 

But the shouts and cheers of the crowd seemed strangely far away to theracers, as each rounded the last corner for the final stretch of aboutone hundred yards. They were both spent, but will power kept them at it. They were not breathing, they were tearing their lungs out in greatgulping efforts, and their hearts as well. Tense, determined, inevitability seemed to rest upon them. 

Louder roared the crowd, hoarser and deeper the cheers, closer andcloser the multitude surged to the winning post, yelling, shouting, crying and gesticulating incoherently as the two men sprinted along withgreat leaping strides, panting and almost breaking down under theterrible strain of the mile race. 

Nearer and nearer they came, still running level, with hardly an inch totell the difference; but in a pace like this Robert's greater strengthand hard training were bound to tell. Fifty yards to go, and they cameon like streaks of color, fleeting images of some fevered brain, and onegirl's smile each knew was waiting there at the far end. 

The prize for which both were now striving was that for which men at alltimes strive, which keeps the world young and sends the zest of creationwandering through the blood--a pair of dancing eyes, lit by the happysmile of love; for Mysie Maitland had smiled to them, each claiming thesmile for himself, just before the race started. 

And now the last ounce of energy was called up, but the mine-owner's sonfailed to respond. Dazed and stupid, his mind in a mad whirl, his legsalmost doubling under him, he found his powers weaken and his strengthdesert him, and he staggered just as Robert was about to shoot past him;but in staggering he planted his spiked shoe right upon Robert's foot, and both men went down completely exhausted, Rundell unable to rise forwant of strength and Sinclair powerless because of his lacerated foot. 

"Guid God! He's spiked him!" roared Andrew in a terrible rage. "Thedirty lump that he is--spiked him just when he was gaun to win, too!"

A howl of execration went up from Sinclair's supporters as he lay andwrithed in agony, while Rundell lay still except for the heaving of hischest. For one tense moment they lay and the crowd was silent, whilsteach man's heart was almost thumping itself out of place in his body, stretched upon the rough cinder track. 

Then a low murmur broke from the crowd as they saw young Paterson cominground the track, almost staggering under the strain, but keenly intenton finishing now that his two formidable opponents were lying helpless. He had kept running during the last round merely to take the thirdprize. Now here was his chance of the coveted Red Hose, and he sprintedand tore along as fast as he was able, calling up every particle ofeffort he could muster, and intent on getting past before the two mencould gather strength to rise. 

"Come on, Rob!" roared Andrew Marshall, "get up an' feenish, my weecock! Paterson's comin' along, an' he'll win. Get up an' try an' feenishit!"

Stirred by the warning, Robert tried to rise. He raised himself to hisknees, but the pain in his injured foot was too great, and he fellforward on his face unconscious, and the race ended with Paterson aswinner. It was an ironical situation, and soon the crowd were over theropes, and the two opponents were carried to the dressing tent, whererestoratives were applied under which they soon came round. 

It was a poor ending to such a fine exhibition. A terrible angersmoldered in Robert's breast against the mine-owner's son for hisunconscious action, an action which Robert, blinded by anger at losing, was now firmly convinced was deliberate, and he felt he would just liketo smash Rundell's face for it. 

Robert went home to have his injured foot attended to. He was toodisgusted to feel any more interest in the games that day, and so heremained in the house, nursing his foot for the rest of the day, whichpassed as such days usually do. Everyone talked about his misfortune andregretted in a casual way the accident which had deprived him of thecoveted honor. 

It was in late June, and that night Peter Rundell, as he was returningfrom the games after every event had been decided, overtook Mysie on herway to Rundell House, after having spent the evening at her parents'home. 

"It's a lovely evening, Mysie, " he said, as he walked along by her side. "What did you think of the games to-day?"

"Oh, no' bad, " replied Mysie, not knowing what else to say. "It was agran' day, an' kept up fine, " she continued, alluding to the weather. 

"Yes. Didn't I make a horrible mess of things in the Red Hose?" heasked. Then, without waiting, he went on: "I was sorry for Sinclair. He's a fine chap, and ought to have won. It was purely an accident, andI couldn't help myself. I was beaten and done for, and it was hard linesfor him to be knocked out in the way he was, just as he was on the pointof winning, too. "

"Oh, but ye couldna' help it, " Mysie returned. "It was an accident. "

"Yes; and I would rather Sinclair had got in, though. It was a goodrace, and Sinclair ought to have got the prize. It was rotten luck. I'msorry, and I hope the poor beggar does not blame me. We seem always tobe fated to be rivals, " he continued, his voice dropping intoreminiscent tones. "Do you remember how we used to fight at school? I'veliked Sinclair always since for the way he stood up for the things hethought were right. I believe you were the cause of our hardest battle, and that also was an accident. "

"Yes, " replied Mysie, her face flushing slightly as she remembered theincident, and how Peter had been chosen, when her heart told her tochoose Robert. 

"Oh, well, " said Peter, "I suppose we can't help these things. Fatewills it. Let's forget all about such unpleasant things. It's a lovelynight. We might go round by the wood. It's not so late yet, " and puttingMysie's arm in his, he turned off into the little pathway that skirtedthe wood, and she, caught by the glamor of the gloaming, as well asflattered by his attentions, acquiesced. 

Plaintive and eerie the moor-birds protested against this invasion oftheir haunts. The moon came slowly up over the eastern end of the moor, flinging a silver radiance abroad, and softening the shadows cast by thehills. A strange, dank smell rose from the mossy ground--the scent ofrotting heather and withered grass, mixed with the beautiful perfumefrom beds of wild thyme. 

A low call came from a brooding curlew, a faint sigh from a plover, andthe wild rasping cry of a lapwing greeted them overhead. Yet there was asilence, a silence broken for a moment by the cries of the birds, but asilence thick and heavy. Between the calls of the birds Mysie couldalmost hear her heart's quickened beat. Blood found an eager response, and the magic of the moonlight and the beauty of the night soon wroughtupon the excited minds of the pair. Mysie looked in Peter's eyes moredesirable than ever. The moonlight on her face, the soft light withinher eyes, her shy, downcast look, and the touch of her arm on hischarmed him. 

"There are some things, Mysie, more desirable than the winning of theRed Hose, " he said after a time, looking sideways at her, and placinghis hand upon hers, which had been resting upon his arm. "Don't youthink so?"

"I dinna ken, " she answered simply, a strange little quiver runningthrough her as she spoke. 

"Isn't this better than anything else, just to be happy with everythingso peaceful? Just you and I together, happy in each other's company. "

"Ay, " she answered again, a faint little catch in her voice, her hearta-tremble, and her eyes moist and shining. Then silence again, whilethey slowly strayed through the heather towards the little wooded copse, and Mysie felt that every thump of her heart must be heard at thefarthest ends of the earth. Chased by the winds of passion raging withinhim, discretion was fast departing from Peter, leaving him more and morea prey to impulse and the unwearying persistence of the fever of lovethat was consuming him. 

"Listen, Mysie, I read a song yesterday. It's the sort of thing I'd havewritten about you:

 "In the passionate heart of the rose, Which from life its deep ardor is feeing. And lifts its proud head to disclose Its immaculate beauty and being. I can see your fine soul in repose, With an eye lit with love and all-seeing, In the passionate heart of the rose, All athrob with its beauty of being. "

He quoted, and Mysie's pulse leapt with every word, as the low soothingwooing of his voice came in soft tones like a gentle breeze among clumpsof briars. 

"Isn't it a beautiful song, Mysie?" he said. "The man who wrote thatmust have been thinking of someone very like you, " and as he said this, he gave her hand a tender squeeze. Mysie thrilled to his touch and herheart leapt and fluttered like a bird in a snare, her breath coming inshort little gasps, which were at once a pain and a joy. 

"Dinna say that, " she said, a note of alarm in her voice as she tried towithdraw her hand. 

But he only held it closer, and bent his lips over it, his manner gentlebut firm. 

"Ay, it is true, Mysie; but I am so stupid I can't do anything of thatkind. I'm merely an ordinary sort of chap. "

Mysie did not answer, and once again silence fell between them, brokenonly occasionally by the cry of the birds or the bleating of a sheep. 

"I believe I'm in love with you, Mysie, " he said at last. "You've grownvery beautiful. Could you care for me, Mysie?" he asked, looking at herin the soft moonlight, a smile on his lips, his voice keeping itsseductive wooing tone, and his eyes kindling. 

Mysie's experience of life had been gleaned from the love stories ofearls and lords marrying governesses and ladies' maids after a swift andvery eventful courtship. Already she saw herself Peter's wife, hercarriage coming at her order, everyone serving her and she the queen ofall the district. Illiterate but romantic, she was swept off her feet atthe first touch of passion, and the flattery of being recognized!

She did not answer. She did not know what to say; and Peter stole hisarm about her waist, so tempting, so sweet to touch, and they passedbeneath the shadow of the trees as they entered the little wooded copse. The moonlight filtered down through the trees, working silvery patternsupon the pathway. The silence, heavy and scented, was broken only by thefar-away wheepling of a wakeful whaup and the grumbling of the burn nearby, which bickered and hurried to be out in the open again on its way tothe river. 

Mysie heard the sounds, felt the fragrance of young briars and hawthornmingled with the smell of last year's decaying leaves which carpeted thepathway. She noted the beauty of the foliage against the moon, heard theswift scurry of a frightened rabbit and the faint snort of a hedge-hogon the prowl for food. 

"What have you to say to me, Mysie?" Peter persisted, his hot breathagainst her cheek, his blood coursing through his veins in red-hotpassion. "Could you care for me, Mysie? I want you to be mine!"

"I dinna ken what to say, " she at last answered, distress in her voice, yet pleased to be wooed by this young man. "Wad it no' be wrang to ha'eonything to dae wi' me? I'm only your mither's servant. " She felt it washer duty to put it this way. 

"No, you are my sweetheart, " he cried, discretion all gone now in hiseager furtherance of his pleading. "I want you--only you, Mysie, " and hecaught her in his arms in a strong burst of desire for her. "Mine, Mysie, mine!" he cried, his lips upon hers and hers responding now, hishot eyes greedily devouring her as he held her there in his strong youngarms. "Say, Mysie, that you are mine, that I am yours, body and soulbelonging to each other, " and so he raved on in eager burning language, which was the sweetest music in Mysie's ears. 

His arms about her, he made her sit down, she still unresisting andflattered by his words, he fondling and kissing her, his hands caressingher face, her ears, her hair, her neck, his head sometimes resting uponher breast. 

Maddened and scorched by the passion raging within him, lured by themagic of the night, and impelled by the invitation of the sweet dewylips that seemed to cry for kisses, he strained her to his breast. 

He praised her eyes, her hair, her voice, whilst he poured kisses uponher, his fire kindling her whole being into response. 

Then a thick cloud came over the face of the moon, darkening the dell, blotting out the silvery patterns on the ground, chasing the lightshadows into dark corners; and a far-off protest of a whaup shouting tothe hills was heard in a shriller and more anxious note that hadsomething of alarm in it; the burn seemed to bicker more loudly in itsanxiety to hurry on out into the open moor; and the scents and perfumesof the wood sank into pale ghosts of far-off memories. 

When passion, red-eyed and fierce for conquest, had driven innocencefrom the throne of virtue the guardian angels wept; and all theirtears, however bitter, could not obliterate the stains which marked theprogress of destruction. 

At the end of the copse, when Mysie and Peter emerged, they neitherspoke nor laughed. There was shame in their downcast faces, and theirfeet dragged heavily. His arm no longer encircled her waist, he did notnow praise her eyes, her hair, her figure. Lonely each felt, afraid tolook up, as if something walked between them. And far away the whaupwheepled in protest, the burn still grumbled, and the perfumes, and thesounds of the glen and all its beauty were as if they had never existed, and the thick cloud grew blacker over the face of the moon. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE AWAKENING

Night after night for a week afterwards, Mysie lay awake till far oninto the morning. She seemed to be face to face with life's realities atlast. The silly, shallow love stories held no fascination for her. Thelove affairs of "Jean the Mill Girl" could not rouse her interest. Oftenshe cried for hours, till exhaustion brought sleep, troubled andunrefreshing. 

She grew silent and avoided company. She sang no more at her work, andshe avoided Peter, and kept out of his way. She often compared Robertwith him now, and loved to let her mind linger on that one mad moment ofdelirious joy a year ago, when he had crushed her to his breast, andcried to her to be his. Thus womanhood dawned for her, and its greatresponsibilities frightened her. 

Robert, on the other hand, spent a week nursing his injured foot, butapart from the week's idle time, he suffered very little. He felt soreat losing the race, but was able now to look upon it as an unfortunateaccident. But that smile which he had seen on the face of Mysie made himstrangely happy, and it helped him to get over his disappointment. Hewas impatient to be out upon the moor again. He would wait for Mysiesome night, he concluded, and tell her calmly that he wanted her tomarry him. 

His mother's prospects were fairly good now. The youngest boy would soonbe working; besides, two other brothers were at work, while Jennie, hiseldest sister, was in service, and Annie, the younger one, was helpingin the house. He waited, night after night, after his injured foot wasbetter--lingering on the moor by the path which Mysie must travel. Helay among the heather and read books, or dreamed of a rosy future, withher the center of his dreams; but no Mysie came along, and he began togrow anxious. 

He wanted to make enquiries about her, but feared to arouse suspicion ofhaving too keen an interest in her. By various ways he soughtinformation, but never heard anything definite. 

"I see Matthew Maitland's ither lassie has started on the pit-head, " hesaid to his mother, as one night they sat by the fire before retiring. 

"Ay, " answered Mrs. Sinclair. "Matthew has the worst o' it by noo. Wi'his twa bits o' laddies workin', an' Mysie in service, an' Mary gaun tothe pit-head, it should mak' his burden a wee easier. "

"I dinna like the idea o' lasses gaun to work on the pithead, " he saidsimply. "I aye mind of the time that Mysie an' me wrocht on it. It's no'a very nice place for lasses or women. "

"No, " his mother said. "I dinna like it either. Nae guid ever comes o'lasses gaun there. They lose a' sense o' modesty an' decency, after awhile, an' are no' like women at a' when they grow aulder. Besides, itmak's them awfu' coorse. "

"I wad hardly say that aboot them a', " he ventured cautiously. "Mysie'sno' coorse, an' she worked on the pithead. "

"No, Mysie's no' coorse, " admitted his mother; "but Mysie didna workvery lang on the pit-head. An' forby, we dinna ken but what Mysie michthae been better if she had never been near it, or worse if she hadstayed langer. Just look at Susan Morton, an' that Mag Lindsay. What arethey but shameless lumps who dinna ken what modesty is?" and there was aspark of the old scorn in her voice as she finished. 

"Oh, but I wadna gang as faur as you, mither, " he said, "wi' yourcondemnations. I ken that baith Susan Morton an' Mag Lindsay areguid-hearted women. They may be coarse in their talk, an' a' that sorto' thing; but they are as kind-hearted as onybody else, an' kinder thansome. "

"Oh; I hae nae doot, " she answered relentingly. "I didna mean that ata'; but the pit-head doesna make them ony better, an' it's no' wark forthem at a'. "

"I mind, " said Robert reminiscently, "when Mysie an' me started on thepit-head, Mag Lindsay was awfu' guid to Mysie; an' I've kent her oftensharin' her piece wi' wee Dicky Tamson, whiles when he had nane, if hismother happened to be on the fuddle for a day or twa. There's no akinderhearted woman in Lowwood, mither, than Mag Lindsay. She'd swear atDicky a' the time she was stappin' her piece into him. It was jist herwye, an' I think she couldna help it. "

"Oh, ay, Mag's bark is waur then her bite. I ken that, " was the reply. "An' wi' a' her fauts a body canna help likin' her. "

"Speakin' of Mysie, " said Robert with caution, "I hinna seen her owrefor a while surely. Wull there be onything wrang?" and then, to hide theagitation he felt, "she used to come owre hame aboot twice a week, an' Ihinna seen her for a while. "

"Oh, there canna be onything wrang, " replied Nellie, "or we wad haeheard tell o' it. But t' is time we were awa' to oor beds, or we'll no'be able to rise in time the morn, " and rising as she spoke, she began tomake preparations for retiring, and he withdrew to his room also. 

Still, day after day, he hung about the moorland path, but no Mysie, sofar as he knew, ever came past. She had visited her parents only oncesince the games and her mother was struck by her subdued and thoughtfuldemeanor. But nothing was said at the time. 

Robert grew impatient, and began to roam nearer to Rundell House, in thehope of seeing her. Always his thoughts were full of Mysie and theraging passion in his blood for her gave him no rest. He loved to traceher name linked with his own, and then to obliterate it again, in caseanyone would see it. All day his thoughts were of her; and her sweet, shy smile that day of the games was nursed in memory till it grew to bea solace to his heart and its hunger. 

He saw likenesses to her in everything, and even the call of themoor-birds awakened some memory of an incident of childhood, when Mysieand he had, with other children, played together on the moors. Even thevery words which she had spoken, or the way she had acted, or how shehad looked, in cheap cotton frock and pinafore, were recalled by afamiliar cry, or by the sudden discovery of a bog-flower in bloom. 

It was a glorious afternoon in late July. The hum of insect life seemedto flood the whole moor; the scent of mown hay and wild thyme, and latehawthorn blossom from the trees on the edge of the moor, was heavy inthe air, and the sun was very hot, and still high in the heavens. Thehills that bordered the moor drowsed and brooded, like ancient gods, clothed in a lordly radiance that was slowly consuming them as theymeditated upon their coming oblivion. 

The heather gave promise, in the tiny purple buds that sprouted from thestrong, rough stems, of the blaze of purple glory that would carpet themoors with magic in the coming days of autumn. Yet there was a vaguehint, in the too deep silence, and in the great clouds that were slowlydrifting along the sky, of pent-up force merely awaiting the time to beset free to gallop across the moor in anger and destruction. The clouds, too, were deeply red, with orange touches here and there, trailing intodark inky ragged edges. 

Far away, at the foot of the hills a crofter's cow lowed lazily, callingforth a summons to be taken in and relieved of its burden of milk. Thesheep came nearer to the "bughts, " and the lambs burrowed fornourishment, with tails wagging, as they drew their sustenance, proddingand punching the patient mothers in the operation of feeding. Robert, noting all, with leisured enjoyment strolled lazily into the littlecopse, and lay down beneath the cool, grateful shelter of the trees. 

Drugged by the sweetness and the solitude, he fell asleep, and the sunwas low on the horizon when he awoke, the whole copse ringing with theevening songs of merle and mavis, and other less musical birds, and, ashe looked down the glade, he saw, out on the moorland path, comingstraight for the grove, the form of Mysie--the form of which he haddreamed, and for which he had longed so much. 

The hot blood mounted to his face and raced through his frame, whilehis heart thumped at the thought that now, in the quietness of the dell, he would meet her and speak to her. He would speak calmly, and notfrighten her, as he had done on that former occasion; and he bracedhimself to meet her. 

Impatiently he waited, and then, as he saw her about to enter the grove, he rose as unconcernedly as he could, trying hard to assume the air ofone who had met her by accident, and stepped on to the path when Mysiewas within ten yards or so of him. 

The color left her face, and her limbs felt weak beneath her, as sherecognized him, and he was quick to note the change in her wholeappearance. 

She was paler, he thought, and thinner, and the bloom of a few weeks agowas gone. Her eyes were listless, and the soft, shy look had beenreplaced by an averted shame-stricken one. She was plainly flurried bythe meeting, and looking about trying to find if there were not, evenyet, a way of evading it. 

"It's a fine nicht, Mysie, " he began, stammering and halting before her, "though I think it is gaun to work to rain. "

"Ay, " she responded hurriedly, her agitation growing, as she was forcedto halt before him. 

"I've come oot on the muir a wheen o' nichts noo, to try an' meet you, "he began, getting into the business right away, "an' I had begun tothink you had stopped comin' owre. "

But Mysie answered never a word. Her face grew paler, and her agitationbecame more evident. 

"Mysie, " he began, now fully braced for the important matter in view, "Iwant you to marry me. I want you to be my wife. You've kenned me a' mylife. We gaed to the school together, and we gaed to work together, an'I hae aye looked on you as my lass. I canna keep it ony langer noo. Ihae wanted to tell you a lang time aboot it, an' to ask you to be mywife. My place at hame is easier noo. My mother has the rest o' thefamily comin' on to take my place, and her battle is gey weel owre, an'I can see prospects o' settin' up a hoose o' my ain, if you'll agree toshare it with me. I haven't muckle to offer you, but I think you'll kenby this time that I'll be guid to you. Mysie, I want you. Will youcome?"

For answer, Mysie burst into tears, her shoulders heaving with the sobsof her grief, her breast surging and falling, while her little handscovered her eyes, as she stood with bent head, a pitiable little figure. 

"What is it, Mysie?" he enquired, his hands at once going tenderly overher bent head, and caressing it as he spoke, "What is it, Mysie? Tellme. Hae I vexed you by speakin' like that? Dinna greet, Mysie, " he wenton soothingly, his voice soft and tender, and vibrant with sympathy andlove. "Dinna greet. But tell me what's wrang. I'm sorry if it's me thathas done it, Mysie. Maybe I hae frightened you; but, there now, dinnagreet. I didna mean ony harm!" and he stroked and caressed her hairsoftly with his hands, or patted her shoulders at every word, as amother does with a fretful child. 

"There noo, Mysie, dinna greet, " he said again, the soft, soothing noteof vexation in his voice growing more tender and husky with emotion. "Look up, Mysie, for I dinna like to see you greetin'. It maun besomething gey bad, surely, to mak' you greet like this, " and his handsseemed to stab her with every tender touch, and his soft words but addedmore pain to her grief. 

But still Mysie never answered. Her tears instead flowed faster, and hersobs grew heavier, until finally she moaned like a stricken animal inpain. 

"Mysie! Mysie! my dochter, what is it?" unable to control himselflonger. "Surely you can tell me what ails you? What is it, Mysie? Lookup, my dear! Look up an' tell me what ails you!"

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" moaned Mysie, the floodgates of her grief nowwide, and her soul in torture. 

"Mysie, " he cried, taking her head between his hands and raising it up, "what is it that's wrang with you? Is it me that is the cause o' youbeing vexed?"

"Oh, no, no, " she moaned, trying to avert her face. "Oh, dinna, Rob!"she pleaded, and the old familiar name smote him and thrilled him as ofold. 

"Tell me what is the matter, " he said, a stronger note in his voice, theold masterful spirit asserting itself again. "What is wrang wi' you? Ican't understand it, an' I wish to try an' help you. "

But still she sobbed and there was no answer. 

"Look here, " he said. "Tell me plainly if I have been the cause ofthis. "

"No; oh, no, " she sobbed, again hiding her eyes with her hands. 

"Very weel, then, " he went on. "Will you no' tell me what is wrong? Icanna understand it unless you tell me. Are you in ony trouble o' onykind? Speak, Mysie. " Then, his voice becoming more pleading in itstones, "Wad you be feart to be my wife, Mysie? I aye thocht you caredfor me. I hae loved you a' my days. You maun ken that, I think. Speakup, Mysie, an' tell me if you care for me. I want you, an' I maun kenwhat you think o' it. Come, Mysie, tell me!"

"Oh, dinna ask me, Rob, " she pleaded. "Dinna ask me!"

"What is the matter then?" he cried. "There's something wrong, an'you'll no' tell me. Very well, tell me what you mean to do. I hae askedyou a fair question. Are you going to marry me? I want yes or no tothat, " and there was a touch of impatience creeping into his voice. 

"Come on, " he urged, after a short silence, broken only by Mysie's sobs, "gie me an answer. Or, if you wad raither wait a wee while, till thistrouble has blawn by that is bothering you, I'm quite agreeable towait. "

"It'll never blaw by, Rob, " she sobbed. "Oh, dinna ask me ony mair. Icanna be your wife noo, an' I jist want to be left alane!"

The pain and despair in her voice alarmed him. It was so keen andpoignant, and went to his heart like a knife. 

"Oh!" he gasped in surprise, as he strove to call his pride to hisassistance. It was so unlike what he had anticipated that it amazed himto have such a disappointing reply. Then, recovering somewhat:--"Verywell!" with great deliberation, while his voice sounded unnaturallystrained. Then the effort failing, and his pride breaking down: "Oh, Mysie, Mysie, " he burst out in poignant agony again relapsing into thepleading wooing tones that were so difficult to withstand, "How I haeloved you! I thocht you cared for me. I hae built mysel' up in you, an'I'll never, never be able to forget you! Oh, think what it is! You haebeen life itsel' to me, Mysie, an' I canna think that you dinna care!Oh, Mysie!"

He turned away, his heart sore and his soul wounded, and strode from thecopse out on to the moor, a thousand thoughts driving him on, a thousandregrets pursuing, and a load of pain in his heart that was bearing hisspirit down. 

"Oh, dear God!" moaned Mysie, kneeling down, her legs unable to supporther longer, "Oh, dear God, my heart'll break!" and a wild burst ofsobbing shook her frame, and her grief overpowering flowed through thetears--a picture of utter despair and terrible hopelessness. 

Robert tore away from the dell, his whole calculation of things upset. To think that Mysie could not love him had never entered his head. Whatwas wrong with her? What was the nature of her terrible grief?

He kicked savagely at a thistle which grew upon the edge of the pathway, his pride wounded, but now in possession of the citadel of his heart;and on he strode, still driven by the terrible passion raging withinhim; resolving already, as many have done under like circumstances, thathis life was finished. Hope had gone, dreams were unreal and vanishingas the mist that crawled along the bog-pools at night. 

At the crest of the little hill, just where it sloped down to thevillage, he stood and looked back. 

Good God! Was he seeing aright! The figure of a man, who in the graygloaming looked well-dressed, was approaching Mysie, and she was slowlymoving to meet him. A few steps more, and the man had the girl, hethought, in his arms, and was kissing her where they stood. 

Was he dreaming? What was the meaning of all this? "Oh, Christ!" hegroaned. "What does it all mean?" and he rubbed his eyes and lookedagain, then sat down, all his pride and anger raging within him as hewatched, kindling the jungle instinct within him into a raging fire, tofight for his mate--his by right of class and association. He doubledback, as the two figures turned in the direction of the copse--theresolve in his mind to go back and forcibly tear Mysie from this unknownstranger. He would fight for her. She was his, and he was prepared toassert his right of possession before all the world. 

In a mad fury he started forward, a raging anger in his heart, stridingalong in quick, determined, relentless steps, his blood jumping and hisenergy roused, and all the madness of a strong nature coursing throughhim; but after a few yards he hesitated, stopped, and then turned back. 

After all, Mysie must have made an appointment with this man. Sheevidently wanted him, and that was her reason for asking to be leftalone. 

"Oh, God!" he groaned again, sitting down. "This is hellish!" and hebegan to turn over the whole business in his mind once more. 

Long he sat, and the darkness fell over the moor, matching the darknessthat brooded over his heart and mind. He heard the moor-birds crying inrestlessness, and saw the clouds piling themselves up, and come creepingdarkly over the higher ground, bringing a threat of rain in their wake. The moan in the wind became louder, presaging a storm; but still he sator lay upon the rough, withered grass, fighting out his battle, meetingthe demons of despair and gloom, and the legions of pain and misery, ingreater armies than ever he had met them before. 

Again he groaned, as his ear caught the plaintive note of a widowedpartridge, which sat behind him upon a grassy knoll of turf, crying outon the night air, an ache in every cry, the grief and sorrow of hiswounded, breaking heart. 

It seemed to Robert that there was a strange sort of kinship between himand the bird--a kinship and understanding which touched a chord of readyfeeling in his heart. The ominous hoot of an owl in the wood startledhim, and he rose to his feet. He could not sit still. Idleness woulddrive him mad. He strode off on to the moor, away from the track, hiswhole being burning in torture, and his mind a mass of unconnectedfancies and pains. 

Over the bogs and through the marshes, the madness of despair withinhim, he heeded not the deep ditches and the bog-pools. They were thepits of darkness, the sty-pools, which his soul must either cross, or inwhich he must perish. He tore up the hills into the mists and the risingstorm, the thick clouds, full of rain, enveloping him, and matching theterrible fury of his breast. 

On, ever on, in the darkness and the mire, through clumps of whin andstray bushes of wild briar. On, always on, driven and lashed into actionby the resistless desire to get away from himself. He knew not thedirection he had taken. He had lost his bearings on the moor; thedarkness had completely hidden the landmarks, and even had he beenconscious of his actions, he could not have told in which part of themoor he was. 

"Oh, God!" he groaned again, almost falling over a bush of broom; andsitting down, he buried his face in his hands, and, forgetful of thewind and the rain, which now drove down in torrents, sat and brooded andthought, his mind seeking to understand the chaos of despair. 

What was the meaning of life? What was beyond it after death? Wouldimmortality, if such there were, be worth having? Men in countless, unthinkable millions, had lived, and loved, and lost, and passed on. Didimmortality carry with it pain and suffering for them? If not, did itcarry happiness and balm? To hell with religions and philosophies, hethought; they were all a parcel of fairy tales to drug men's minds andkeep them tame; and he glared impotently at the pitiless heavens, as ifhe would defy gods, and devils, and men. He would be free--free in mind, in thought, and unhampered by unrealities!

No. Men had the shaping of their own lives. Pride would be his ally. Hewould lock up this episode in his heart, and at the end of time for him, there would be an end of the pain and the regret, when he was laid amongthe myriad millions of men of all the countless ages since man hadbeing. 

This was immortality; to be forever robed in the dreamless draperies ofeternal oblivion, rather than have eternal life, with all itstorments--mingling with the legions of the past, and with motherearth--the dust of success and happiness indistinguishable from the dustof failure and despair. Time alone would be his relief--the greatphysician that healed all wounds. 

The wind blew stronger and the rain fell heavier, the one chasing, theother in raging gusts, and both tearing round and lashing the form ofthe man who sat motionless and unaware of all this fury. The wind godtried to shake him up by rushing and roaring at him; but still there wasno response. Then, gathering re-inforcements, he came on in a madcharge, driving a cloud of rain in front of him as a sort of spear-headto break the defense of fearlessness and unconcern of this unhappymortal. Yet the figure moved not. 

Baffled and still more angry, the wind god retired behind the hillsagain to rest; then, driving a larger rain-cloud before him, with a roarand a crash he tore down the slope, raging and tearing in a wild tumultof anger, straight against the lonely figure which sat there nevermoving, his head sunk upon his breast. 

Beaten and sullen, the god again retired to re-collect his strength. Hemoaned and growled as he retired, frightening the moor-birds and thehares, which lay closer to earth, their little hearts quivering withfear. Young birds were tucked safely under the parent wing, as terrorstrode across the moor, striking dread into every fluttering littleheart and shivering body. Low growled the wind, as he ran around hisbroken forces, gathering again new forces in greater and greatermultitudes. 

Just then, with an oath, the figure rose and faced the storm, stridingagain up the slope, as if determined to carry the war into the camp ofthe enemy. 

A low growl came rumbling from the hills, as the wind god rushed along, encouraging his legions, threatening, coaxing, pleading, commandingthem to fight, and so to overcome this figure who now boldly faced hisgreat army. 

The advance guard of the storm broke upon him in wild desperation, rushing and thundering, howling and yelling, sputtering and hissing, spitting and hitting at him, and then the main body struck him full inthe face, all the bulk and the force of it hurled upon him with terribleimpetuous abandon, and Robert's foot striking a tuft at the moment, hewent down, down into a bog-pool among the slush and moss, and decayingheather-roots, down before the mad rush of the wind-god's army, whoroared and shouted in glee, with a voice that shook the hills and calledupon the elements to laugh and rejoice. 

And the widowed partridge out upon the moor, creeping closer to the leeside of his tuft of moss, cried out in his pain, not because of the furyof the blast, but because of the heart that was breaking under thelittle shivering body for the dead mate, who had meant so much of lifeand happiness to him--cried with an ache in every cry, and the heart ofthe man responded in his great, overpowering grief. 

CHAPTER XV

PETER MAKES A DECISION

Peter Rundell often wondered what had become of Mysie. For a day or twoafter the evening of the day of the games, he had shunned thepossibility of meeting her, because of the shame that filled his heart. 

His face burned when his thoughts went back to the evening in the groveon the moor. He wondered how it had all happened. He had not meantanything wrong when he suggested the walk. He could not account for whathad occurred, and so he pondered and his shame rankled. 

Then an uneasy feeling took possession of him and he felt he would liketo see Mysie. 

A week slipped away and he tried to find a way of coming in contact withher, but no real chance ever presented itself. 

A fortnight passed and he grew still more uneasy. He grew anxious andthere was a hot fear pricking at his heart. Then at last, one day hecaught a glimpse of her, and his heart was smitten with dread. 

She was changed. Her appearance was altered. She was thinner, muchthinner and very white and listless. The old air of gayety and bubblingspirits was gone. Her step seemed to drag, instead of the bright patterher feet used to make; and his anxiety increased and finally he decidedthat he must talk with her. 

There was something wrong and he wanted to know what it was. He tried tomake an excuse for seeing her alone but no chance presented itself, andanother week went past and he grew desperate. Then luck almost threw herinto his arms one day in the hall. 

"Mysie, " he whispered, "there is something I want to discuss with you. Meet me in the grove to-night about ten. I must see you. Will you come?"

She nodded and passed on, not daring to raise her eyes, her face flamingsuddenly into shame, and the color leaving it again, gave her a deeperpallor; and so he had to be content with that. 

All day he was fidgety and ill at ease, torn by a thousand dreads, andconsumed by anxiety, waiting impatiently for the evening, and puzzlingover what could be the matter. He felt that for one moment of madindiscretion, when allowing himself to be cast adrift upon the sea ofpassion, the frail bark of his life had set out upon an adventure fromwhich he could not now turn back. He was out upon the great oceancurrent of circumstances, where everything was unknown and uncharted, sofar as he was concerned. What rocks lay in his track, he did not know;but his heart guessed, and sought in many ways of finding a course thatwould bring his voyage to an end in the haven of comfort andrespectability. Respectability was his god, as he knew it was the god ofhis parents. Money might save him; but there was something repugnant inthe thought of leaving the whole burden of disgrace upon Mysie. For, after all, the fault was wholly his, and it was his duty to face theconsequences. Still if a way could be found of getting over it in aneasy way it would be better. But he would leave that till the eveningwhen he had learned from Mysie, whether his fears were correct or not, and then a way might be found out of the difficulty. 

But the day seemed long in passing, and by the time the clock chimednine he was in a fever of excitement, and pained and ill with dread. 

Yet he was late when it came the hour, and Mysie was there first and hadalready met Robert before he reached the grove. 

When Robert had gone away, and she sat crying upon the moor, she feltindeed as if the whole world was slipping from her and that her life wasfinished. Only ruin, black, unutterable, stared her in the face. Oh, ifonly Robert had spoken sooner, she thought. If only that terriblebeautiful night with its moonlight witchery had not been lived as it hadbeen! If only something had intervened to prevent what had happened!And she sobbed in her despair, knowing what was before her and learningall too late, that Robert was the man she loved and wanted. 

Then when her passionate grief had spent itself, she rose as she sawPeter coming hurriedly to meet her. 

"What is the matter, Mysie?" he asked with real concern in his voice, noting the tear-stained face and her over-wrought condition. "What isit, Mysie?"

But Mysie did not answer just then, and they both turned and passed intothe grove, walking separately, as if afraid of each other's touch, andsomething repellent keeping them apart. 

They sat down, carefully avoiding the place where they had sat on thatother fateful occasion, nearly a month before, and a long silenceelapsed before words were again spoken. 

"Now, Mysie, " said Peter at last breaking the silence, and bracinghimself to hear unpleasant news, "I want to know what is wrong. What isthe matter?" and he feared to hear her tell her trouble. 

But again only tears--tears and sobs, terrible in their intensity as ifthe frail little body would break completely under the strain of hergrief. 

"Mysie, " he said, and his voice had a note of tender anxiety in it, "what is it, dear? Tell me. "

"You shouldn't need to ask, " she replied between her sobs. "Youshouldn't need to ask when you should ken. "

Again a long silence, and Peter felt he had got a heavy blow. Asickening feeling of shame smote his heart at the knowledge hinted at--aknowledge he had feared to learn. 

"Is it--is it--am I the cause of it, Mysie? Is--is it--?" and his voicewas hoarse and dry and pained. 

She nodded, and Peter knew beyond all doubt that he was the cause of themisery. 

Again a long silence fell between them, in which both seemed to live aneternity of silence and pain. Then clearing his throat, Peter spoke. 

"Mysie, " he said, "there is only one thing to be done then, " and therewas decision in his voice and a desire which meant that he was going torise to a height to which neither he nor Mysie ever expected he wouldrise. "We must get married. "

She looked at him, with eyes still wet, but searching his face keenly. 

"Ay. It's a' richt sayin' that now, efter the thing's done, " she saidbitterly. 

"But it is the only thing, Mysie, that can be done, " he replied quickly. "I can't think of anything else. "

"You should hae thought aboot that afore. It's nae use now, " she saidbluntly. 

"Why, Mysie, " he asked in surprise. "Why is it no use? Wouldn't you liketo marry me?"

"No, " she replied firmly. "I would not! Do you think I have no thoughto' mysel'? If nothing had happened, you would never hae thought aboot mefor your wife. But now that you've done something you canna get oot o'you'd like to mak' me believe you want to help me bear the disgrace, while a' the time you don't want to. But it's no' my disgrace, " andthere was heat creeping into her voice. "It is yours, an' you should haethocht aboot a' that afore, " and her voice was very angry as shefinished. 

"You are wrong, Mysie, " he replied mollifyingly. "I love, you and I toldyou that before it happened, and I also hinted that I wanted to marryyou. "

"Ay, but that was just at the time. Maybe if nothing had happened, an' Ihad never been in your company again, you'd soon hae forgotten. "

"No, Mysie, you are wrong. I love you, and I've brought you to this, forwhich I am sorry, so we must be married, " he said decisively. 

"Why?" she asked, and her eyes met his honestly and fairly. 

"Because it is the right thing to do, " he replied quietly. 

"Is that a'?" she asked. 

"Is it not enough? What else is there to do?" Mysie was silent, andafter a while Peter went on;--"It is a duty, dear, but I am going toface it, and shoulder the responsibility. It is the right thing to do, and it must be done. "

"Ay, an' you are gaun to dae it, just as a bairn tak's medicine; becauseyou are forced. I asked if that was a', and it seems to be. But what ifI don't have onything mair to dae with you?"

"You would not do that, Mysie, " he said hurriedly, and incredulously. Ithad never entered his mind that she would refuse to marry him, and helooked upon his offer as a great service which he was doing her. "Why, what could you do otherwise?" he asked looking blankly at her. 

"I could work as I hae always done, " she said sharply. "You surely thinkyou are a catch. Man, efter what has happened I feel that I wudna carethan I never saw you again. You hae little o' rale manliness in you. Youthocht it was gran' to carry on wi' a workin' lassie, maybe, " and therewas bitter scorn in her voice, "an' now when you hae landed yourselfinto a mess you are grinning like a bear with the branks an' wantin' todae what is richt as you call it, " and Mysie was now really in a temper. 

"Mysie, you must not speak like that, " he broke in, in earnest tones. "You know I love you, and loving you as I do, I want to shield you asmuch--"

"Ay, but you want to shield yourself first, " she said. 

"No, dear, it is only of you I am thinking. I love you very much andwant to do what is right. Even although this had not happened, I wasgoing to ask you to be my wife. Will you marry me, Mysie?"

"What'll your folks say?" she asked bluntly. "You ken that I'm no' thewife you would have gotten nor the yin your folk would like you to get, "she said, searching his face with a keen look. "I'm no' born in yourclass. I'm ignorant an' have not the fine manners your wife should have, an' I doot neither your faither nor your mither wad consent to such athing. "

"But I won't ask them, " he replied. "I am a man for myself, and do notsee why they should be asked to approve my actions in this. "

"Ay, that's a' richt; but what aboot your ain feelings in the matter?Am I the lass you wad hae ta'en, Peter, if this hadna happened?" andthere was a world of hungry appeal in her voice as she finished. It wasas if she wanted to be assured that it was for herself alone that hereally wanted to marry her. 

"Why should you not?" he enquired. 

"That's no' the question, " she said, noting the evasion. "You ken asweel as I dae that it wad be an ill match for you. You've been broughtup differently. You've had eddication, an' an easy life. You've beentrained faur differently, an' you canna say that you'd no' tire o' me. Ihave not as muckle learning as wad make me spell my ain name, an' Icould never fill the position o' your wife with the folk I'd have to mixwith. "

"That's all right, Mysie, " he said, ready to counter her argument. "Youhave not been educated, that is true, but it is only a question ofhaving you trained. If one woman can be educated and trained so cananother. This is what I propose to do: I go back to Edinburgh in afortnight to finish my last year. My father has put the colliery into acompany, and he has a large part of the management on his shoulders. Heexpects when I come home next year to gradually retire. I shall be thecontrolling power then, and he will slip out of the business and end hisdays in leisure. "

"Ay, but you are thinking a' the time aboot the disgrace, " she said. "Your whole thought is about your position, an' you hae never a realthought aboot me. " She was somewhat mollified; but there was still ahard note in her voice, and not a little distrust too. "Are you sure youare no' proposin' this just because o' the trouble? I don't want peety!I am pairtly to blame too, " this with a softer note creeping into hervoice, and making it more resigned. "If it's no' oot o' peety for me, Icould bear it better. But I'll no' hae peety. I can look after mysel'an' face the whole thing, even though I ken it'll break my mither'sheart. "

"I know what it is for you, Mysie, " he said. "I am trying to look at thewhole thing from your point of view. That's why I have planned to giveyou some sort of a training, and make it as easy for you as possible. Itis for your position I am worrying and when I come into my father'splace I will be able to put all things right for you, and make youreally happy. "

"But you have not faced the main bit yet, " she said as he ceasedspeaking. "Where do I come in? You hae got this to face now, an' it'llno' wait a' that time. "

"Yes, I know, " he replied, "I'm just coming to that. At first it won'tperhaps look too nice to you, but remember, Mysie, I want to face thematter honestly and you'll have to help me. Very well, " he went on. "AsI said, I go back to Edinburgh in three weeks at most--I'll try and goin a fortnight, and you must go with me--not traveling together. We mustkeep all our affairs to ourselves, and not even your parents or minemust know. When I go away you'll come the day after. You can travel overthe moor to Greyrigg station, take the 4:30 train from there and I canmeet you at Edinburgh. I'll get a house next week when I go to arrangefor my term. I shall tell no one. You can live in the house I get and Ican continue perhaps in lodgings, and I shall come and visit you asoften as I can. "

He stopped for a little and then resumed:--"I shall buy books for youand come and teach you the things you'll need to learn, or I can getsomeone to do it, if you'd like that better. Then when you arethoroughly trained, I can bring you home to Rundell House and all willbe well. "

"An' what aboot--what aboot--" she paused, averting her face. "Are youno' forgettin' that it'll tak' a lang time for me to learn a' I'll need;for I'm gey ill to learn. "

"No, Mysie, " he replied reassuringly. "When you arrive in Edinburgh, wecan go next day to be married before the Sheriff. It's all right, Mysiedear, " he assured her as he saw the questioning look in her eyes. "Don'tthink I'm trying to trap you. I want to make what amends I can for whathas happened. You'll be my wife just as surely as if the ministermarried us. If you are not content with that we can easily get marriedwith a minister after we decide to come back here. "

"But wad that be a true marriage?" she asked, scarcely able to creditwhat he told her. "Wad I get marriage lines?"

"Oh, yes. It would be legal, and you'd get marriage lines. Now what doyou say?"

"I dinna like the thocht o' no' tellin' my mither. Will I hae to gangaway, an' no' tell her?"

"Oh, you must not tell anyone, " he replied quickly. "No one must know orall our plans will go crash, and we'll both be left to face the shame ofthe whole thing. So you must not tell. "

"Mither will break her heart, " she broke in again with a hint of a sob. "She'll wonder where I am, an' worry aboot me, wi' nae word o' me! Am Ijust to disappear oot o' everybody's kennin' altogether? Oh, dear! It'llbreak my mither's heart, " and she cried again at the thought of the painand anxiety which her parents would experience. 

So they sat and talked, he trying to soothe and allay her anxiety andshe, at first openly skeptical, and then by and by allowing herself tobe persuaded. 

All this time they had been too engrossed in their own affairs to noticehow the wind had risen and that a storm was already breaking over themoor. Then suddenly realizing it, they started for home. 

It was nearing midnight, and the clouds being thick and low made themossy ground very dark. The rain was coming down heavily and everythingpointed to a wild night. 

"I'm sorry I did not bring a coat with me, " said Peter, taking thewindward side of Mysie, so as to break the storm for her. "I had no ideathat it was going so rain when I came away, " and they plowed their waythrough the long rough grass, plashing through the little pools theywere unable to see, while the wind raged and tore across the moor in ahigh gale. 

He had a key in his pocket and when they arrived at Rundell House henoiselessly opened the door, and they entered, slipping along likeburglars. 

When Mysie reached her room, she sat down to think matters over forherself, forgetful of the fact that she was wet. She sat a long timepondering in her slow untrained way over the arrangements which had beencome to, her mind trying to get accustomed to the thought that she wasgoing to be Peter's wife and to leave Lowwood. 

But somehow the thought of being his wife did not appeal to her now, asit had done when she had pictured herself the lady of the district withher dreams of everything she desired, and fancying herself the envy ofevery woman who knew her. 

The secrecy of the business she did not like; but she told herself itwould all come right; that it was necessary under the circumstances andthat afterwards when she had been taught and trained in the ways of hispeople she would come back and all would be well. 

Then in the midst of all this looking into the future with its doubtsand promises, came the thought of Robert, and her pulses thrilled andher blood quickened; but it had come too late. 

Would she rather be at Rundell House as Peter's wife or sitting in aone-roomed apartment sewing pit clothes perhaps, or washing andscrubbing in the slavery in which the women folk of her class generallylived? Ah, yes, as Robert's wife that would have been happiness. But itwas all too late now. She had turned aside--and she must pay the penaltyof it all. 

Long she sat, and cried, and at last realizing that she was cold andshivering, she took off her clothes and crawled off to bed, her lastthought of Robert as he had left her, the pain in his eyes and the awfulagony in his voice: "Oh, Mysie, how I hae loved you! An' I thocht youcared for me!" rang in her ears as she lay and tossed in sleeplessmisery. 

In the morning she was in a high fever and unable to rise out of herbed. She had a headache and felt wretched and ill. In her exhaustedstate, weakened by worry and her resistance gone, the drenching, thechill and the long sitting in her lonely room had overmastered hercompletely. 

She raved about Robert, crying to him in her fevered excitement, and he, all unconscious, was at that time at his work, tired also and exhaustedby his terrible night upon the moor. 

When he stumbled and fell into the mossy pool, his mind became morecollected and, scrambling out, he stood to consider where he was, tryingto find his bearings in the thick darkness. 

The low whinnying of a horse near by gave him a clew and he started inthe direction of the cry, concluding that it was some of the horsessheltering behind a dyke which ran across the moor from the end of thevillage. 

He crawled and scrambled along, and after going about twenty yards hecame to the dyke, at the other side of which stood the cowering horses. 

"Whoa, Bob, " he said soothingly, and one of them whinnied back inresponse as if glad to know that a human being was near. He moved nearerto them, and began to stroke their manes and clap their necks, to whichthey responded by rubbing their faces against him and cuddling anaffectionate return for the sympathy in his voice. 

"Puir Bob, " he said, tenderly, as he patted the neck of the animal whichrubbed its soft nose against his arm. It seemed so glad of thecompanionship and reached nearer as Robert put out his other hand tostroke sympathetically the nose of the other horse, as he also drewnear. 

"Puir Rosy, " he said. "Was you feart for the wind and the rain? Poorlass! It's an awfu' nicht to be oot in!" and they rubbed themselvesagainst him and whinnied with a low pleased gurgle, grateful for hiskindness and company as he patted and stroked the soft velvet skins, andthey rubbed themselves against him as if each were jealous lest hisattentions be not equally divided. 

He stood for a short time, thus fondling and patting them, then keepingto the dyke, he made his way along it and he thus came out right at theend of the village, and knowing his way now with confidence, he was soonat the door of his home. Cautiously opening it, afraid he would awakenthe inmates, whom he concluded must all be asleep, he slipped inquietly, bolting the door behind him, and reached the fire. 

"Dear me, Rob, " said his mother. "Where in the name o' goodness hae youbeen the nicht! I sat up till after midnight aye expectin' you'd be in, sae I gaed awa' to my bed to lie wauken till you should come in. You areawfu' late. "

He did not answer but stooped to take off his boots, and Mrs. Sinclairwas soon out of bed and upon the floor. 

"Michty me, laddie! You are wringin' wet! Where have you been? Rain andglaur to the e'en holes! Get thae wet claes off you at yince, an' I'llget dry shirts for you, an' then awa' till your bed!" she rattled on, running to the chest in the room and coming back with dry clothes in herarms. "My, I never kent you oot o' the hoose as late as this in a' yourlife! Have you been oot in a' that rain?"

"Ay, " he answered, but venturing nothing more, as he went on changing. 

"It's been an awfu' nicht o' wind and rain, " she again observed, glancing at his dripping clothes, and conveying a hint that explanationswere desirable. 

"I canna understand at a' what way you hae bidden oot in a' that rain, Lod's sake? It's enough to gie you your daeth o' cauld. You are wet tothe skin, an' there's no a dry steek on you? Hae you been oot in it a'?"and her curiosity she felt was too crudely put to be answered. 

Robert knew that she was bent on having an explanation, and that if hegave her any encouragement at all she'd soon have the whole story out ofhim. 

"Yes, " he said curtly, "but I'm no' gaun to talk ony the nicht. I'm gaunto my bed for an oor before risin' time. "

"You'll never gaun till your work the day, " she said in warm concern. "You'll never be able. You'd better tak' a rest, my laddie. A day willno' mak' muckle difference noo. We're no sae ill aff, an' I wadna liketo hae onything gaun wrang. Gang away till your bed, an' dinna botheraboot your work. A guid rest'll maybe keep you frae getting the cauld. "

"I'm a' richt, mither, " he replied as airily as he could. "Dinna worry;an' be sure an' wauken me for my work. I'm na gaun to bide in when thereis naething wrang. You gang awa' to your bed, " and she knowing that wasthe last word, did not speak further, and as he withdrew to his room, she went back to bed wondering more and more at the mystery of it all. 

But he did not sleep. Torn by worry and in spite of his earlierresolution to think no more about it he lay and thought and wonderedabout Mysie, and the man he saw, joining her at the end of the grove;and when Nellie opened the door to call him that it was "rising time, "Robert answered to the first cry, and his mother was more amazed thanever; for he generally took a good many cries, being a heavy sleeper. But being sensible she kept her wonder to herself, knowing if it wereanything which she had a right to know he'd tell her in his own goodtime. 

CHAPTER XVI

A STIR IN LOWWOOD

"My! Div you ken what has happened?" asked Mrs. Johnstone, bursting inupon Mrs. Sinclair one day about two weeks later. "My, it's awfu'!" shecontinued in breathless excitement, her head wagging and nodding withevery word, as if to emphasize it, her eyes almost jumping out withexcitement, and her whole appearance showing that she had got hold of apiece of information which was of the first importance. "My, it'sawfu', " she repeated again lifting her hands up to a level with herbreast, and then letting them fall again, "Mysie Maitland has ran awayfrae her place, an' naebidy kens where she has gane to. An' Mrs. Rundell, mind you, has been that guid to her too, givin' her her capsan' aprons, an' whiles buyin' her a bit dress length forby, an' shegi'ed her boots and slippers, an' a whole lot o' ither things to tak'hame for the bairns--things that were owre wee for the weans at RundellHoose but were quite guid to wear. My, it's awfu'! Isn't it?"

"Mysie Maitland!" exclaimed Mrs. Sinclair in astonishment. "When didthis happen? Where has she gane? Are you sure you hinna made a mistake?"and Mrs. Sinclair was all excitement, hanging in breathless anxiety uponthe tidings her neighbor brought. 

"I hae made nae mistake, Nellie Sinclair, " returned Leezie, "for it washer ain mother wha telt me the noo. I was at the store, an' when I wascomin' hame I met Jenny hersel' gaun awa' tae Rundell Hoose. She wasgreetin' an' I couldna' get oot o' spierin' at her what was wrang, an'she telt me her ain self. "

"You dinna mean tae tell me that Mysie Maitland has disappeared? In thename o' a' that's guid, what has happened to bring aboot sic news?"

"Aye, it's true, Nellie, " replied Mrs. Johnstone, feeling very importantnow that she knew Mrs. Sinclair had not heard the news. 

"When did this happen?" asked the latter, still incredulous. "Are yousure that's true? Dear me! I dinna ken what the world's comin' to ata'!"

"Ay, it's awfu'! But it's true. You never ken what thae quate kin' o'modest folk will dae. They look that bashfu' that butter wadna' melt intheir mouths; an' a' the time they are just as like to gang wrang asither folk. "

"But wha said Mysie Maitland has gang wrang?" enquired Mrs. Sinclair, flaring up in Mysie's defense. "I wadna' believe it, though you wentdown on your bended knees to tell me. A modester, weel-doin' lassienever lived in this place!"

"Weel, I dinna ken whether she has gane wrang or not; but she has ranawa', an' it is gey suspeecious conduct that for ony lassie that isweel-doin'. She is jist like the rest of folk. "

"It canna' be true, " said Mrs. Sinclair, still unable to believe thenews. "I canna' take it in. "

"Ay, but it is true, " persisted her neighbor with assurance. "For I tellyou, it was her ain mother what telt me hersel'. It seems she has beenmissing since the day afore yesterday. She gaed awa' in the afternoon tosee her mither, an' as she hadna been keepin' very weel for a day or twoan' no comin' back that night, Mrs. Rundell jist thought that Jenny hadkeepit her at home for a holiday. But she didna turn up yesterday, an'thinkin' maybe that the lassie had turned worse, Mrs. Rundell sent owreword jist the noo, to ask how she was keepin'; an' Jenny was fairthunder-struck when the man came to the door to ask. Puir body! Jenny'sawfu' puttin' aboot owre the matter. I hope, " she added, with the firstshow of sympathy, "that naething has happened to the lassie. That wad beawfu'!"

"Dear keep us!" exclaimed Nellie. "I hope nothing has happened to her. "

"God knows!" replied Mrs. Johnstone piously, for want of something elseto say. "It's awfu'!"

"Do they ken naething at a' aboot her at Rundells'?" again enquired Mrs. Sinclair. 

"No' a thing they ken, ony mair than you or me. She left her bits o'claes, jist as if she meant to come back. Her new frock was in herdrawer jist as she had put it by efter tryin' it on. An' a braw frock itis. She has nothing except what she was wearin' at the time she gaedoot. Her guid boots jist yince on her feet are in her room, a' cleanedjist as she took them off the last time she had them on. I canna'believe it yet. My! it's awfu'! It'll be a sair, sair heart herfaither'll hae when he hears about it. He had aye an' awfu' wark wi'Mysie, an' thought the world o' her. If he got Mysie richt he ay seemedto think that a' else was richt. I hope nae harm has come to her. Idinna ken what the world's comin' to at a', I'm sure? My, it's awfu', isn't it?" and Mrs. Johnstone went out to spread the news, leaving Mrs. Sinclair more mystified and astonished than ever she had been in herlife. 

Mysie missing! She could not understand it, and always she tried tocrush back the suggestion which was plainly evident in Leezie'sstatement that Mysie had "gang wrang. " It could not be that, for Mysiewas never known to have dealings with anyone likely to betray her likethat. It was a hopeless puzzle altogether, and she could not account forit. 

It was nearing "lousing time" and Mrs. Sinclair was busy getting thedinner ready, and water boiled to wash the men coming in from the pit, and she wondered how Robert would take the news. 

She knew, having guessed, as most mothers do guess, that Mysie held asacred corner in Robert's heart; though noticing the silence during thelast two weeks, and his renewed attention to books and study, shewondered if anything had come between Mysie and himself. Had he at lastspoken to her and been discouraged? She could hardly harbor thatthought, for she felt also that Mysie's heart enshrined but one man, andthat was Robert. Yet what could be the meaning of all this mystery?

It was true Mysie and Robert had never walked out as young men andwomen of their class do; but she knew in their hearts each regarded theother with very warm affection, and thinking thus she worked about thehouse preparing things and running occasionally over to Maitland'shouse, to see that the dinner was cooking all right, and giving littleattentions wherever they were needed, in Mrs. Maitland's absence. 

She did not mention the news to Robert when he came in, but she watchedhim furtively as she worked about the house getting the water into thetub for him to wash, before placing the dinner on the table; but sheguessed from his face that he must have already heard of it on his wayhome. 

He was silent as he pulled off his rough blue flannel shirt and stoopingover the well-filled tub of hot water, he began to lave the water overhis arms, and the upper part of his body. 

At last, Mrs. Sinclair could hold herself in no longer, and lookingkeenly at the half-naked young man as he straightened himself, havingwashed the coal-dust from his hands and arms, he began to rub his breastand as much of his back as he could reach, she said, "Did you hear abootMysie, Rob?"

"Ay, " he returned simply, trying to hide his agitation and his blanchingface. "I heard that she had disappeared frae her place, an' that naenews o' her could be got. Is it true, mither?"

"Ay, it's true, Rob, " she replied. "But I hinna got ony richt waye o' ityet. Jenny's awa' owre to Rundell Hoose, an' we'll no' ken onything tillshe comes back. It's an awfu' business, an' will pit her faither an'mither a guid lot aboot. I wonder what'll hae ta'en her. "

"It's hard to ken, " he replied in a non-committal voice. "Hae you onyidea, mither, as to what has brought this aboot?"

"No, Rob, I canna' say; but folks' tongues will soon be busy, I hae naedoot, an' there will be a lot o' clip-clash, an' everybody kennin'nothing, will ken the right way o't, an' every yin will hae a differentstory to tell. "

"Ay, I hae nae doot, " he said, again stooping over the tub flinging somewater over his head, and beginning to rub the soap into a fine latherupon his hair. "Everybody will ken the right wye o' it, and will claverand gossip, when they wad 'a be better to mind their ain affairs, an'let ither folk alane. "

His mother did not speak for a little, but went on with her work. Therewas something on her mind about which she wanted to speak, and shebustled about and washed, and clattered the dishes; and every plate andspoon, as they were laid dripping from the basin of warm water, plainlyindicated that something troubled her. 

Finally, when the last steaming dish had been laid upon the table, andshe had begun to wipe them dry, she cleared her throat, and in asomewhat strained sort of voice asked, "Dae you ken, Rob, onything abootMysie?"

"No, mither, " he replied at once, as he ceased rubbing the white foaminglather on his hair, and again straightened himself up to look at her, asshe spoke; his head looking as if a three inch fall of snow had settledupon it, giving the black dirty face and the clean eyes shining throughthe dust, a weird strange appearance. "What makes you ask that?"

"Oh, I dinna ken, Rob, but jist thought you micht hae kent something, "she answered evasively. 

"No, I dinna ken onything at all aboot her, mither, " he said. "If I hadkent onything, dae you think I'd hae kept quiet?"

"Oh, I dinna mean that, Rob, " she replied with relief in her voice, "butI thought that you might hae heard something. That Leezie Johnstone wasin here the day, an' you ken hoo she talks. She was makin' oot thatMysie had gane wrang, and had ran awa' tae hide it. "

"Leezie Johnstone had little to do sayin' onything o' the kind, " he saidwith some heat in his voice. "There never was a dirty coo in the byrebut it liket a neighbor. I suppose she'll be thinkin' that a' lasseswere like her. These kind of folk hae dam'd strange ideas aboot things. They get it into their heads it is wrang to do certain things when folkare no married, but the cloak of marriage flung aboot them mak's thesame things richt. They hinna the brains o' a sewer rat in theirnoddles, the dam'd hypocrites that they are!"

"Dinna swear, Rob!" said Mrs. Sinclair, interrupting him. "Do you ken, "she went on, her astonishment plainly evident in her face and voice, "that is the first time I ever heard you swear in a' my life!"

"Well, mither, I am sorry; but I couldna' help it. Folk like that get mytemper up gey quick; because they get it into their heids that marriagemakes them virtuous, even though they may be guilty o' greater excessesafter than they were before marriage. "

"Ay, that's true, Rob!" she agreed. "But it is a sad business a'thegether. I wonder what has come owre the bit lassie. God knows whereshe may be?"

But Robert was silent, and no matter how much she tried to get him tospeak, he would not be drawn into conversation, but answered merely inshort grunts; but she could see that he was very much disturbed at whathad happened. After a few days the sensation seemed to pass from theminds of most of the villagers, who soon found something new to occupythem, in connection with their own affairs. 

About this time much interest was being manifested in mining circles. The labor movement was beginning to shape itself into solidarity towardspolitical as well as industrial activity. Robert Smillie and the late J. Keir Hardie, and many other tireless spirits, had succeeded in moldingtogether the newly created labor party, infecting it with an idealismwhich had hitherto not been so apparent, and this work was making a deepimpression upon the minds of the workers, especially among the youngermen. 

The Miners' Union had been linked up into national organizations; and aconsolidating influence was at work molding the workers generally, andthe miners particularly, imbuing them with a newer hope, a greaterenthusiasm and a wider vision. 

About a fortnight after the news of Mysie's disappearance, Keir Hardiepaid a visit to Lowwood, and a large crowd gathered to hear him in thevillage hall. Smillie also was advertised to speak, and great interestwas manifested, and much criticism passed by the miners. 

"I don't give in wi' this dam'd political business, " said Tam Donaldson, who was frankly critical. "I've aye stood up for Smillie, but I dinna'like being dragged intae this Socialist movement. A dam'd fine nest o'robbers an' work-shy vermin. Trade Union officials should attend taeTrade Union affairs. That's what we pay them for. But it looks to me asif they were a' that dam'd busy trying to get intae Parliament, thetthey hinna time to look after oor affairs. "

"I'm kind o' suspeecious aboot it mysel', Tam, " said Robert quietly, asthey made their way to the hall that night. "I'm no' sure jist yet as towhat this Socialism is, it looks frae the papers to be a rotten kind o'thing an' I'm no' on wi' it. But I'll wait an' hear what Hardie an'Smillie say aboot it, afore a' make up my mind. "

"To hell wi' them an' their Socialism, " said Tam with some heat. "I wanta shillin' or twa on my day. It's a' yin damn to me hoo mony wives theygie me. I canna' keep the yin I hae. What the hell wad a workin' man daewi' three wives? An' they tell me they're goin' to abolish religion too. Not that I'm a religious man mysel', but I'm damn'd if I'd let theminterfere wi' it. If I want religion I've a guid richt to hae it; an'forby, if they abolish religion, hoo wad folk do wi' the funerals? I cansee hoo they'll do wi' marriages, for there's to be nane. You've to getyour wife changed every two-three years, an' the weans brought up by theState as they call it. But the puirhouse is a dam'd cauld step-mother, an' I'd be up against that. "

Thus discussing the subject, they reached the hall to find it packed, everyone being keen to see and hear this man, who was making such anuproar in the country with his advocacy of Socialism. 

Robert was chairman, and had labored hard to prepare a few remarks withwhich to open the meeting. He wanted to be non-committal, and hisreading and self-teaching had been of immense service to him. Hismother's influence in the molding of his character, unconsciously tohimself, had made his mind just the sort of soil for the quick rootingof the seed to be sown that night. 

It was certainly a great occasion. Robert thought as he looked at thisman, that he had never seen anyone who so typefied the spirit ofindependence in his bearing. His figure was straight, the eyes fearless, yet kindly and gentle; but the proud erect head, the straight stiff backwhich seemed to say "I bend to no one" impressed Robert more thananything else in all his make up. 

Yet there was nothing aggressive about him with it all; but on thecontrary, an atmosphere of kindliness exuded from him, creating awonderful effect upon those with whom he came in contact. The wildstories of this turbulent agitator, which everyone seemed to hear, andbe acquainted with, made the audience hostile to begin with. It was nota demonstrable hostility; but one felt it was there, ready to break out, and overwhelm this stormy petrel of the political world. 

Yet they patiently waited for Hardie to begin, tolerating Smillie, andeven applauding his ringing denunciations of the wrongs they suffered, but critically waiting on his attempts to switch them on to Socialism. Then came Hardie, halting and stammering a little as he began hisaddress. The audience thinking this was due to his searching for a wayto delude them, became more suspicious and critical, and ready to stophim, if he tried any tricks upon them; but broad-minded enough and fairenough to give him a hearing, until he trespassed upon them too much. 

So it was in this atmosphere that Socialism first was heard in Lowwood;but soon the speaker became less halting as he warmed to his subject, until not only was he fluent, but eloquent, and powerful, winning hisaudience in spite of themselves. 

They sat and listened, and were soon under his sway, watching his everygesture and thawing under his spell, as they watched the fine headthrown back with its inimitable poise, the back straight and stiff, theeyes aglow with the light of the seer, and the hands gracefully risingand falling to emphasize some point. 

What a change soon came over them! Gradually as the speaker developedhis subject the faces changed, and they were soon responsive to hisevery demand upon them. The clear ringing voice, insistent, strong, yetcatching a cadence of gentleness and winsomeness that moved them toapproval of everything he said. 

There was deep humanity about him, that was strangely in contrast withthe monster he had been to their fancy before they saw and heard him. This was not the politics of the vulgar kind, of which the newspapershad told; on the contrary, every man in the hall felt this was thepolitics to which every reasonable man subscribed. It was the politicsof the fireside, of sweetness and light, of justice and truth, ofhumanity and God. 

In burning words he denounced the wrongs under which the peoplesuffered, winning them by his warm-blooded championship of their cause, appealing to them to forsake the other parties, form an independentparty for themselves; and sketching in glowing words the picture of theworld as it might be, if only a saner and more human view were taken bythose who ruled. 

It made an indelible impression on Robert's mind. The way was so simple, so clear, so sure, that if only men like Hardie could go round everytown and village in the land, he believed that a Utopia might be broughtinto being in a very few years; that even the rich people, the usurpers, would agree that this state of affairs might be brought about, and thatthey'd gladly give up all they had of power over the lives of others, towork cooperatively for the good of all; and already he was deciding inyouth's way, he would give his life, every moment of it, to help Hardieand Smillie, and all those other great spirits to win the world to thisstate of affairs. Body and soul he would devote to it, and so help tomake the world a brighter and happier place for all human beings. 

His was the temperament that having found an ideal would storm the gatesof Heaven to realize it; or wade through hell, suffering all itspenalties to gaze upon the face of that he sought. 

So the meeting ended in great enthusiasm, and the audience was amazedand pleased to find that this man Hardie was not the vulgar-minded, loud-mouthed ignorant agitator of which the press had told them; but wasjust one of themselves, burning with a sense of their wrongs, withability to express their thoughts in their own words, and with anuncompromising hatred of the system which bred these wrongs in theirlives. 

Tam Donaldson and Robert compared notes after the meeting was over inthe following conversation:

"What do you think o' it, Tam?"

"Christ! but it was great, " was the reply. 

"What aboot the three wives noo, Tam?"

"Oh, for ony sake, dinna rub it in, Rob. I feel that small that I couldhide myself in the hole of my back tooth. Man, do you ken, I jist feltas if we were a' back in the Bible times again, wi' auld Isaiahthundering oot his charges and tellin' the oppressors o' the people whathe thought of them. The white heid o' Hardie maun hae been gey likeIsaiah's. Or sometimes it was like John the Baptist, comin' to tell uso' the new world that was ready to dawn for the folk! Man, it washellish guid, and frae this day I'm a Socialist. I've always beenfightin' the oppressors o' the workers, an' only wish I had a tonguelike Hardie, so that I could gang roon' the hale country tellin' folkthe rale God's truth aboot things. Guid God! Rob, it was better thangoin' to the kirk!"

"Ay, it was gran', Tam. I'm goin' to read up this Socialism; for itseems to me to be worth it. "

"So will I. I hae got twa or three bits o' books that I bought, an' I'llswallow them as quick as I can. Lod! It seems as if a new world hadopened up a' thegether the night. I'm that dam'd happy, I could rinroon' an' tell everybody aboot it! But I suppose we maun gang awa' hameto bed; for we'll hae to gang to oor work the morn, though it's dam'dcauld comfort to think o' gaun oot to the pit, when we could hae betterconditions to work in if only folk had the sense to do right. "

Thus they parted, full of the subject which had stirred them so muchthat night. 

Robert went home, full of vision of an emancipated world, his wholeheart kindled and aglow with the desire to be a spokesman like Hardie onbehalf of the workers, and thoroughly determined to devote the rest ofhis life to it. 

"There's nae word o' Mysie yet, " said Nellie, when he came in, and herwords seemed to shock him with their unexpectedness. 

"Is there no'?" he replied, trying hard to bring his mind back to therealities. "What kind o' word did Jenny get frae the polis?"

"Oh, they ken naething aboot her, " said Nellie. "A' that is kenned isjist what we heard already. The polis hae been searchin' noo for afortnight an' nae trace o' her can be got. Mr. Rundell has pit it in thepapers; but I hae my doots aboot ever seeing her again. Mysie wasna' thelassie that wad keep her folk in suspense. She wad ken fine that they'dbe anxious. Matthew an' Jenny are in an awfu' way. "

"Ay. I believe they will, " he replied, and a deep silence followed. 

After a time, as the silence seemed to become oppressive, and for thesake of saying something, Mrs. Sinclair said: "What kin o' a meetin' hadyou the night?"

"My! we had an awfu' meeting, mither, " he said in reply, his eyeskindling with enthusiasm at the memory of it. "Smillie was askin' foryou, an' he's comin' owre to see you the morn afore he goes awa'. "

"Oh, he had mind o' me then, " she said, pleased at this information. 

"Ay, an' he talked rale kindly aboot my faither to Hardie, mither. Smillie's a fine man, an' I like him, " he said with simple enthusiasm. 

"He is that, Rob. I've aye liked Bob for the way he has had to fecht. Lod, I dinna ken hoo he has managed to come through it a'. He's been agran' frien' to the miners. What kin' o' a man is Hardie?"

"He's yin o' the finest men I ever met, " he answered in quickenthusiasm. "You would hae enjoyed hearin' him, mither. It's an awfu'peety that the weemin dinna gang to the meetin's. I'm shair there's no'a woman in the place but wad hae liket him. My! if you had jist heardhim, strong, sturdy, and independent. Efter hearin' him, it fair knockedthe stories on the heid aboot him bein' oot to smash the hame, an'religion an' sic like. He's clean and staunch, an' a rale man. Nae shamaboot him, but a rale human bein', an' after listenin' to him tellin'what Socialism is, it mak's you feel ashamed that you ever believedthings that you did believe aboot it. It's that simple an' Tam Donaldsonis fair carried awa' wi' it the night. "

"I'm glad you had a guid meetin', " she said, her interest kindled too. "Tell me a' aboot it, " and Robert told her, sketching the fine picturewhich Hardie had given to his memory to carry, as long as life lastedfor him. 

"I've been appointed delegate to the Miners' Council, " he said after awhile. "I'll hae to gang to Hamilton once a month to attend theconferences. "

"Oh!" she said in surprise, and with pride in her voice. "What way haethey sent you?"

"I don't ken, " he answered, "but I was a wee bit feart to take it. It'sonly the very best men that should be sent there to represent thebranches, an' I thought they might hae sent an older man, wi' mair kindo' thought about him, an' mair experience. "

"Oh, weel, Rob, " she said with pride, "ye are maybe as guid as ony o'them, and a hantle better than some o' them. I hope you'll dae well andaye act fair. "

"I'll dae my best, " he said simply. "Mony a time we hae been selt wi'place-seekers, an' maybe there are some still at it, " he went on, "but Ican say this, mither, if ever I get an inklin' o' it, I'll expose themto every honest man. We want men who can look at things withoot seem'themsel's as the center o' a' things. My, if you had only seen Hardie, "he broke off. "He was grand. "

Thus they talked for an hour before retiring, but all the time Robert'smind occasionally kept wondering about Mysie, and he went to bed, hisheart troubled and aching to know the fate that had overtaken the girlhe had loved and lost. 

All night long he tossed unable to sleep, as he tried to think what hadhappened to her, his mind and heart pained at the thought of somethingthat boded no good to her. 

He again lived over in his mind all that had happened that night uponthe moor, when he saw the man going to meet her after his own meetingwith Mysie. 

He was pained and puzzled what to do. Had the stranger any connectionwith her disappearance, he asked himself? Should he tell of that? Andyet she had been to her father's house since then, so that it would beof little value to mention it, he thought. 

Perhaps she had run away with the man. That was quite a likely thing tohappen, and if Mysie wanted him no one else had anything to do with it. Still, she might have told her people, he thought. But perhaps she mightdo that later on. 

But Mysie and her fate would not be banished from his mind, and he layand tumbled and tossed, a terrible anxiety within him, for youth is aptto pity its own sufferings, and give them a heroic touch under the spellof unrequited love. 

Thus the night passed and morning came, and he had not slept, and hewent to his work debating as to whether he should inform the police ornot about the man he had seen in the company of Mysie. But no decisionwas ever come to. 

CHAPTER XVII

MYSIE RUNS AWAY

It was a gray, sultry summer night, with one small patch of red near thewestern horizon when Mysie, making the excuse of going to the village tovisit her parents, had stolen over the moorland path on her way to jointhe evening train for Edinburgh at a neighboring village station. 

She had left early, so as to have plenty of time on the way, and alsobecause she was really ill, and could not hurry. 

She had forced herself to work, so as not to attract attention to herweak state during the past few weeks. Peter, who had already gone somedays before, had now everything ready for her, and this was her finalbreak with the old life. 

She knew she was ill, but thought that when she got to Edinburgh, withgood medical attention and treatment, she would soon be all right again. Perhaps a rest and the change would help her as much as anything; andshe'd soon get well and strong, and she would work hard to fit herselffor the position she was to occupy as Peter's wife. 

But her legs did feel tired, as she trudged over the moor, and her stepsdragged heavily. She sank down for a few moments upon a thyme-strewnbank to rest; the scent of the wild moorland bloom brought back thememory of that evening in the copse. She shut her eyes for a moment, andheard again the alarmed protest of the whaup, and the grumble of theburn; saw again the moonlight patterns upon the ground, as it flitteredthrough the trees, like streams of fairy radiance cast from the magicwand of night and, above all, heard Peter's voice, praising her eyes, her hair, her figure. 

Her cheeks burned again, and her heart throbbed anew--she heard histones, hoarse, vibrant and warm, as his breath scorched her cheek. Shefelt his arms about her, the contact of his burning lips upon her own. 

Then the calm which follows the wake of the storm, the consciouslyaverted eyes, and the very conscious breathing, which had in itsomething of shame; the almost aversion to speak or touch again, andover all, the deep silence of the moor, broken only by the burn and thewhaup, and the thick cloud, kindly dark, that came over the moon. 

But, behind it all, the remorse and the agony that would never die; theanxiety and uncertainty, and the secret knowledge for which each hadpaid so high a price. 

She rose from the bank and went slowly along the lovely moorland path. Her breath was labored and the cough troubled her. She was hot, andbesides the tired sensation in her limbs, there was a griping feelingabout her chest that made breathing difficult. 

She reached the station just a minute before the train was due, andentered an almost empty compartment, glad to be seated and at rest. 

The train soon moved out of the station, and an intense desire took holdof her to go back. The full consciousness of her action only seemed tostrike her now that she had cut the last tie that bound her to the oldlife, and involuntarily she rose to her feet, as if to get out. A mansitting in the opposite corner, thinking she was going to close thecarriage window, laid a restraining hand upon her. 

"Don't close it, " he said, "fresh air is what we all need, though we maynot in our ignorance think so. But you take it from me, miss, that youcan't get too much fresh air. Let it play about you, and keep it alwayspassing through your room, or the railway carriage when traveling, andyou'll never be ill. Look at me, " he continued aggressively, almostfiercely, and very pompously, "the very picture of health--never had aday's illness in my life. And what is the reason? Why, fresh air. It isthe grand life-giver. No, miss, leave the window open. You can't get toomuch of it. Let it play about you, draw it deeply into your lungs likethis, " and he took a great deep draught, until Mysie thought he wasgoing to expand so much that he might fall out of the carriage window, or burst open its sides. Then, he let it out in a long, loud blast, likea miniature cyclone, making a noise like escaping steam; while his eyesseemed as if they had made up their minds to jump out, had the blast andthe pressure not eased them at the last critical moment. 

Then he stood panting, his shoulders going up and down, and his chestgoing out and in, like a pair of bellows in a country blacksmith's shop. 

"Nothing like fresh air, miss, " he panted. "You take my tip on that. I've proved it. Just look at me. I'm health itself, and might make afortune by sitting as an advertisement for somebody's patent pills, onlyI feel too honorable for that; for it is fresh air that has done it. Fresh air, and plenty of it!" and he turned his nose again in thedirection of the window, as if he would gulp the air down in gallons--averitable glutton of Boreas. 

Mysie could not speak. She was overwhelmed by the blast of oratory uponair, and a woman who sat on the far side of a closed window, withtight-drawn lips and smoldering eyes, looked challengingly at this freshair fanatic, observing with quiet sarcasm: "A complexion like that mightmake a fortune, if done with colors to the life, in advertising someone's 'Old Highland'!"

The fresh air apostle gasped a little, looking across at the grim setmouth and the quiet, steady eyes, as if he would like to retort; but, finding no ready words, he merely wiped his forehead, and then subsidedhelplessly in his corner seat, as the lady rose, and, going over to thewindow, said to Mysie, as she closed it: "It is a little cold to-night, after the scorching heat of the daytime, and one is apt to catch coldvery readily in a draught at an open carriage window. There, we'll allfeel more comfortable now, I fancy. It is a little chilly. " The poorworm who had always lived and thrived upon fresh air felt himselfshriveling up in the corner, and growing so small that he might easilyslip through the seam at the hinges of the carriage door. 

Mysie merely lay back in her corner without speaking. She had nevertraveled much in the train; and this journey, apart from itseventfulness, was sufficient in itself to stupefy her with its newnessand immensity. She had never before had a longer journey than to thecounty town, which cost sixpence; and here she was going to Edinburgh! agreat city, of which she had all the dread of the inexperienced, unsophisticated country girl. A slight shiver soon began to creep downher back, and gradually she became cold; but she sat never speaking, andthe other two occupants were so engrossed in thinking out maledictionsagainst each other, that they had no thoughts to bestow upon her. 

The wild, bleak moors rolled past, as the train rushed onward, and thetelegraph poles seemed to scamper along, as if frightened by the noiseof the train. She gazed away to the far horizon, where the sun had lefta faint glow upon the western clouds, and she tried to think ofsomething that would not betray her nervousness, but her mind was allchaos and excitement, and strange expectation. 

What would be waiting for her at the end of the journey? Suppose Peterfailed to be at the station, what would she do in a strange city? Whatif he were ill, and would not come? Or if he was doing thisdeliberately, and did not mean to meet her? Thus, torn by anxiety, andworried almost to death by nameless other fears, she spent the hour-longjourney which seemed like a day, making herself ill, so that she couldscarcely leave the carriage when the train steamed into Princes StreetStation. 

"Have you any luggage that I can assist you with?" asked the fresh airman, as Mysie seemed reluctant to get out, now that she had arrived ather destination. 

"No, " she replied simply, forgetting to thank him for his kindconsideration, and rising slowly to her feet, she followed the stream ofpassengers down the platform, keeping a keen look-out for Peter. 

"Here we are, Mysie, " he said cheerily, striding towards her, with realwelcome in his voice, and she clung to him like a child, so glad that hehad been true to his word. "I have a cab waiting, " he rattled onbrightly. "Just come along, and we'll soon be at your digs, and we'lltalk as we drive along, " and he piloted her to a waiting cab; andgetting in beside her, it moved off, as she heard him say "Grassmarket"to the driver. 

But she had little interest in anything, now that Peter was here. Shefelt a sense of security in his company that she had never felt before. She trusted him, now that all her bearings were lost. The fear of thecity, and the strangeness of her experiences, made her turn to him asher only prop upon which she could lean; and she clung to his arm asthey drove along, the cab rattling over the stones and through whatseemed to Mysie interminable streets of houses. 

"Did you manage to get away all right, without anyone knowing?" heasked, as he felt her trembling hands upon his arm. 

"Yes, I think sae, " she replied. "I never saw onybody. I jist let onthat I was gaun hame, an' gaed owre the muir, an' got the train. I didnasee onybody that I kent. "

"That was right, Mysie, " he said. "I was afraid you might decide at thelast moment not to come. "

"I did feel awfu' frightened, " she confessed, "an' I could fain haebidden at hame; but I can never gang hame noo, " she added with a slighttremor in her voice, at the realization of all it meant. "I can nevergang hame noo!" and the tears gathered in her eyes as she spoke. 

What a noise, and what a multitude of houses, she thought. She wouldnever be able to go out and find her way back. She would get lost in allthis noise and hurry and confusion. 

"I have taken a little house for you, Mysie, " said Peter, in explanationof his plans. "I have also a woman engaged to help you for a time, tolook after you till you get acquainted with the place; and I'll comehome to you every evening, and spend as much of my time with you as Ican, superintending your lessons. I am going to teach you myself for awhile, and we'll live together and be as happy as we can. But first ofall, you must get better, " he said, as a fit of coughing seized her. "You've got a bad cold. Luckily, the old man allows me plenty of money, so that we need not worry. "

Mysie sat lost in wonder at it all, and presently the cab stopped, andPeter helped her out, paid the fare and, taking her arm, led her up along flight of stairs--stairs that seemed to wind up and up till shefelt dizzy, before he came to a halt at one of the many doors opening onthe landing, entering which she found herself in a neat little room andkitchen, simply furnished, but clean and tidy. 

"This is Mrs. Ramsay, my landlady, " he said as they entered, leadingMysie forward to where a middle-aged woman of kindly demeanor stood witha smile of welcome for them. Mrs. Ramsay stepped forward and began tohelp Mysie to take off her hat. With a few words she soon made the girlfeel more at ease, and then left them to get tea ready. 

"Is that the woman you stay wi'?" asked Mysie, as Mrs. Ramsay went tothe other room. 

"Yes, she's my landlady, " he replied. 

"An' does she bide here too?"

"Well, she'll stay just as long as you think necessary. Whenever youthink you can get on without her, let me know. Her daughter is lookingafter her own house till she returns. She's a good, kindly soul, andwill do anything to help you. "

"Are you gaun to stay here now, too?"

"Well, that is for you to say, Mysie, " he said seriously. "Certainly Ishould like to stay with my wife, for we'll be married to-morrow. But ifyou would rather stay alone, I can easily remain in my digs, and justattend to your lessons In the evening. "

"If you stay here, will she need to stay too?"

"Of course that will all lie with you, Mysie, " he replied. "Perhaps itmight be better for her to stay and help you for a few weeks, and bythat time your cold may be better. But you can think it over to-nightand tell me your decision in the morning. "

Mrs. Ramsay's return cut short any further conversation, and they allsat down to tea, a strange little party. Mysie did not eat much. She wastoo tired, and felt that she would rather go to bed. She looked ill andvery wretched, and at last Peter went out, leaving the women together. 

"I'll be round for you by half-past ten in the morning, Mysie, " hesaid, as he was going. "So you must be up, and be as bright as you can. So take a good long sleep, and you'll feel ever so much better in themorning. Mrs. Ramsay will see you all right, " and he was off beforeMysie realized he was going. 

It was all so strange for Mysie. She was lost in wonder at it all, asshe sat quietly pondering the matter while Mrs. Ramsay washed the dishesand cleared the table. The noises outside; the glare of the street, lamps, the tier upon tier of houses, piled on top of each other, as shelooked from the window at the tall buildings, and the Castle Rock, grimand gray, looking down in silence upon the whole city, but added toMysie's confusion of mind. 

Shouts from a drunken brawl ascended from the street; the curses of themen, and the screams of women, were plainly audible; while over all awoman's voice, further down the street, broke into a bonnie old Scotsair which Mysie knew, and she could not help feeling that this was themost beautiful thing she had heard so far. 

The voice was clear, and to Mysie very sweet, but it was the words thatset her heart awandering among her own moors and heather hills. 

 Ca' the yowes tae the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My kind dearie, O!

This was always the song her father sang, if on a Saturday night he hadbeen taking a glass. It was not that he was given to drinking; butsometimes, on the pay night, he would indulge in a glass with AndrewMarshall or Peter Pegg--just a round each; sufficient to make them happyand forgetful of their hard lot for a time. She had seen her fatherdrunk on very few occasions, as he was a very careful man; butsometimes, maybe at New Year's time, if things were going more thanusually well, he might, in company with his two cronies, indulge in anextra glass, and then he was seen at his best. 

On such occasions Mysie's mother would remonstrate with him, remindinghim with wifely wisdom of his family responsibilities; but under all heradmonishings Matthew's only reply was:

 As I gaed doon the water side, There I met my bonnie lad, An' he rowed me sweetly in his plaid, An' ca'd me his dearie, O!

and as he sang, he would fling his arms around Mysie's mother and turnher round upon the floor, in an awkward dance, to the tune of the song, and finally stopping her flow of words with a hug and a kiss, as herepeated the chorus:

 Ca' the yowes tae the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My kind dearie, O!

So that, when the words of the old song floated up through the noise ofthe street, Mysie's heart filled, and her eyes brimmed with tears; forshe saw again the old home, and all it meant to her. 

"There now, " said Mrs. Ramsay, noticing her tears, and stroking her hairwith a kindly hand. "Mr. Rundell has told me all about it, and I am yourfriend and his. I deeply sympathize with you, my dear, for I know howmuch you must feel your position; but Mr. Rundell is a good-heartedyoung man, and he'll be good to you, I know that. Don't cry, dearie. Itis all right. "

Thus the words of an old song, sung by a drunken street singer, broughta stronger and deeper stab to the heart of this lonely girl, than to theexile in the back-blocks of Maori-land, or on the edge of the goldenWest, eating his heart out over a period of years for a glint of theheather hills of home, or the sound of the little brook that had beenhis lullaby in young days, when all the world was full of dreams andfair romance. 

In a sudden burst of impulsiveness, Mysie flung her arms round the neckof the older woman, pouring out her young heart and all its troubles inan incoherent flood of sorrow and vexation. 

"There now, dearie, " said Mrs. Ramsay, again stroking Mysie's hair andher soft burning cheek. "Don't be frightened. You must go to your bed, for you are tired and upset, and will make yourself ill. Come now, likea good lass, and go to your bed. "

"Oh, dear, I wonner what my mither will say aboot it, " wailed the girl, sobbing. "She'll hae a sair, sair heart the nicht, an' my faither'llbreak his heart. Oh, if only something could tell them I am a' richt, an' safe, it would mak' things easier. "

"There now. Don't worry about that any more, dearie. You'll only makeyourself ill. Try and keep your mind off it, and go away to bed andrest. "

"But it'll kill my mither!" cried Mysie wildly. "Her no' kennin' where Iam! If she could only ken that I am a' richt! She'll be worryin', an'she'll be lyin' waken at nicht wonderin' aboot me, an' thinkin' o' everywild thing that has happened to me. Oh, dear, but it'll break her heartand kill my faither. "

It needed all Mrs. Ramsay's tact and patience to quieten and allay herfears; but gradually the girl was prevailed upon to go to bed, and Mrs. Ramsay retired to the next room. But all night she heard Mysie tossingand turning, and quietly weeping, and she knew that despair wastorturing and tearing her frightened little heart, and trying her beyondendurance. 

Mysie lay wondering how the village gossips at home would discuss herdisappearance. She knew how Mag Robertson, and Jean Fleming, and LeezieJohnstone and all the other "clash-bags, " as they were locally called, would talk, and what stories they would tell. 

But her mother would be different--her mother who had always lovedher--crude, primitive love it was, but mother love just the same, andshe felt that she would never be able again to go back and take up herold life--the old life which seemed so alluring, now that it was leftforever behind. 

Thus she tossed and worried, and finally in the gray hours of themorning her thoughts turned to Robert, who had loved her so well, andhad always been her champion. She saw him looking at her with sad eyes, eyes which held something of accusation in them and were heavy withpain--eyes that told he had trusted her, had loved her, and that he hadalways hoped she would be his--eyes that told of all they had been toeach other from the earliest remembered days, and which plainly said, asthey looked at her from the foot of her bed: "Mysie! Oh, Mysie! What waydid you do this!"

Unable to bear it any longer, she screamed out in anguish, a screamwhich brought good Mrs. Ramsay running to her bedside, to find Mysieraving in a high fever, her eyes wildly glowing, and her skin all afire. The good lady sat with her and tried to soothe her, but Mysie keptcalling on Robert and her mother, and raving about matters of which Mrs. Ramsay knew nothing; and in the morning, when Peter arrived expecting tofind his bride ready, he found her very ill, and his good landlady verymuch frightened about the whole matter. 

CHAPTER XVIII

MAG ROBERTSON'S FRENZY

"I want to ken what has gone wrong with you?" said Mag Robertson, speaking to Black Jock, whom she had called into her house one morningas he returned from the pit for his breakfast. 

"There's naething wrang wi' me, " he said with cool reserve. "What daeyou think is wrang?"

"Ay, it's a' right, Jock, " she said, speaking as one who knew heunderstood her question better than he pretended. "I can see as farthrough a brick wall as you can see through a whinstone dyke. "

"Maybe a bit farther, Mag, " he said with a forced laugh, eyeing hercoolly. "But what are you driving at?"

"You'll no' ken, I suppose?" she retorted. "Sanny has told me a' abootit this morning afore he gaed to his work. My! I'd hardly hae looked forthis frae you, " she went on, her voice suddenly becoming softer and moresoothing as if she meant to appeal to his sense of gratitude if anyremained within him. "Efter what we've been to yin anither, I neverexpected you'd dae this. I aye thocht that you'd be loyal as we hae beentae you. We hae made oursel's the outcasts o' the district for you, an'noo you wad turn on us like this. No, I never thocht it o' you at a'!"

"What are you ravin' at this morning?" he asked, in a quiet voice, as ifhe meant to force her into being more definite. "I don't ken I'm surewhat you are drivin' at. "

"Dae you no?" she broke in quickly, loosing hold of herself as she sawthat her method of attack was not going to succeed. "I hae beensuspectin' something for a while. You hinna been in owre my door forthree weeks an' that's no your ordinar. But I have seen you gaun in taeTam Granger's nearly every nicht in that time. An' I can put twa an' twatogether. Dae you think we dinna ken the reason that Sanny has lost hiscontracts an' the reason why Tam Granger has stepped into them? Oh, ay, "she cried, her voice rising as she continued. "I can see hoo things areworkin'! I ken a' aboot it. Wee Leebie, I suppose, will be afore some o'us noo. The stuck-up limmer that she is. She gangs by folk as brazenedas you like, wi' her head in the air, as if she was somebody. You wadthink she never had heard o' Willie Broonclod, the packman, that shesloped when she left doon the country. Nae wonder she has braw claes toglaik aboot in; for they were gey easy paid. The dirty glaiket limmerthat she is. I wonder she disna think shame o' hersel'. "

"What the hell's a' this to me?" asked Walker abruptly breaking in uponher tirade. 

"I suppose it'll no' mean onything to you, " she returned. "But I justwanted to tell you, that you're no her first, for Willie Broonclod gaedto her lang afore she cam' here, an' she's left him wi' a guid pennythat he'll never get. But her man's a contractor noo, makin' big money, an' Jock Walker ca's in to see her whenever he's needfu' an' there'snaething sae low as a packman noo for her. The brazen-faced stuck-upbaggage that she is. Does she think I dinna ken her? Her, with her hairstuck up in a 'bun' an' her fancy blouses an' buckled shoon, an' a'!"Mag was now very much enraged and she shouted and swore in her anger. 

"Ach, gang to hell, " he said with brutal callousness. "You're no' hauf awoman like Leebie. She's a tippy wee lass, an' has a way wi' her. Shehas some spirit, an' is aye snod and nate, " and there was a tantalizingsmile about his lips that was plainly meant to irritate Mag. 

"I was guid enough a gey lang while, an'--"

"Ay, but you've haen a damn'd guid innins, " he interrupted. "A dam'dguid innins, an' I canna see what the hell you hae to yowl at. "

"A guid innins, you muckle black-hearted brute!" she cried. "By heavens, an' I'll see that you get yours afore I hae done wi' you. Dinna thinkthough I hae been saft wi' you a' along, that I'll ay be like that. Oh, no, I can stand a lot; but you'll find oot that Mag Robertson hasna selther a' tae you, without driving a hard bargain afore she lets you alone. You can gang back to your tippy wee baggage! Gang to hell, baith you an'her, an' joy be wi' you baith! But I'll put a sprag in your wheel aforeyou gang far. Mind that! By ---- I will! She'll nae toss her heid as shegangs past me as if I was dirt. Her, an' her fine dresses that she neverpayed for wi' money an' her fal-lals. By heaven! But you hae a finetaste!" She finished up exasperated beyond all control by his coolness. 

"Ay, it wad seem so, " he laughed brutally. "When I look at you, I beginto wonder what the hell I was lookin' at. You're like a damnationed biglump o' creesh, " and he laughed in her face, knowing this would rouseher more than ever. Then as she choked and spluttered in her anger hesaid: "But what the hell odds is't to you, you baggage?" and his eyesand voice were cold and brutal beyond expression. "Leebie Granger isyoung, " he went on insultingly, in a collected even voice which hestrove to make jaunty in tone. "She's as fresh an' young. An' you'reauld, an' fat an' as ugly as hell, an' if I dae gang to Leebie you haedamn all to dae wi' it. As I said, you've had your innin's, an' been geywell paid for it, an' I dinna gie a damn for you. "

"Dae you no'?" she cried now livid with anger and losing all controlover her words and actions, her eyes flashing with maddened rage and thefroth working from her lips. "I'll let you ken or no'. I'll tear thepented face off your new doll; and I'll sort you too, you dirty blackbrute that you are. "

"Gang to hell!" he shouted, starting out of the door so suddenly that healmost ran into the next door neighbor who hearing the noise had creptnoiselessly on tiptoe to the door the better to hear all that was goingon. 

"What the hell's wrang wi' you?" he demanded turning in rage upon theeavesdropper. "Have you naething else to dae than that? Gang in an' getyour dirty midden o' a hoose cleaned an' I'll see that you don't staylang in Lowwood to spy on ony mair folk!" and cowering in shame thepoor woman backed into the door and shut it, making up her mind that herman would be sacked that day, and wondering where they would flit to, soas to find work and a house. 

Walker strode up the row with Mag Robertson shouting behind him and theneighbors all coming to the doors as they passed, and craning theirnecks, while keeping their bodies safe hidden within the doorways oftheir homes. 

"We're surely gettin' an entertainment the day, " observed one fat oldwoman to another woman two doors away, as they both looked after Mag asshe followed Walker up the row, shouting her worst names at him, andvowing what she'd do with Leebie Granger, when she got hands on her. 

"Ay, " replied the other woman stealing along the wall to the doorway ofthe older woman, and slipping inside as if she were afraid of beingdetected. "It's a hell o' a business when blackguards cast oot. "

"Wheest, Annie, dinna swear, " remonstrated the old woman. "I dinna liketo hear folk swearin' at a'. I wonner the Lord disna open the grun' toswallow the half o' the folk noo-a-days; for I never heard sic swearin'a' my life. "

"Och, there's nae harm meant, " returned Annie, taken aback by the oldwoman's admonition. "It's jist a habit that folk get into an' they cannahelp it. But listen to her, " she broke off, alluding to Mag Robertsonagain. "She micht think shame o' hersel', the shameless lump that sheis. She'd hae been faur better to hae keepit her mouth shut, Phemie. "

"That's true, Annie, " replied Phemie. "Listen to her. My, she's no'canny an' she's fairly givin' him a bellyfu'. But they're a' yae swine'spick an' no' yin o' them decent. I wadna be in her shoon for a' themoney that ever was made in Lowwood. She micht hae kent hoo it wad end. Hark at her. My, but it's awfu'. "

"Keep in, Annie, " Phemie admonished as they both craned their necks tolook up the row as she saw Walker turning to face Mag. "Dinna let himsee you or your man will get the sack. My! but she's layin' it in tae'him. What a tongue. "

"Lord bless us! He's strucken her, Phemie, " said Annie, clutching herneighbor's shoulder as she spoke. "My, he's gaen her an awfu' blow onthe mouth an' knocket her doon. Come inside for as sure as daith it'llend in a coort case, an' I'm no wanting to be mixed up in it, " and theywent inside and shut the door, looking at each other with frightenedeyes. Then Annie, stealing to the window and lifting the curtain alittle at the side, gazed sideways up the row, reporting to Phemieeverything that happened. 

"He's kicking her, Phemie. Eh, the muckle beast that he is. My God, he'll kill her afore he's finished wi' her. He's hitting her on the faceevery time she tries to rise an' gaein' her anither kick aye when shefa's doon again. Oh! my God, will naebody interfere. He'll kill her assure as death, " and she stepped back with blanched face sickened at thespectacle she had described. 

"Here she comes, Annie, " said her neighbor after a few moments. "My!what a face. Dinna look you at her, " cried Phemie in alarm pushing backAnnie who had moved near to the window to get a better view. "In God'sname, woman, dinna you look at her. You shouldna ha' looked at onythingthat has taken place. If onything is wrang wi' your bairn when it isborn I'll never forgi'e' mysel' for lettin' you look at this business ata'. Gang awa' back an' sit down an' try an' forget a' aboot what you haeseen. Dinna look up till she gangs back intae the hoose, " and the oldwoman kept Annie sitting back at the bedside in the corner farthest fromthe window until Mag staggered to her home, her face streaming withblood. 

Not a soul was in sight as Mag returned; but many a pair of eyes watchedher from behind curtained windows, and expressions of sympathy werecommon even though her relations with Walker were common knowledge inthe village, and had been censured by everyone in consequence for hermisdeeds. They all knew why Mag had "opened out" on Walker that morningand the reason she had been set aside for another who pleased his fancy. 

Tam Granger and his wife had recently come into the district from aneighboring village, where Leebie's name had been coupled with a localdraper's or packman's in some scandal. Black Jock had soon got intocontact with them and finding them willing tools he had deserted Sannyand Mag Robertson. All the contracts were taken from Sanny and given toTam, and it was this that had made Mag watch for Walker coming in forhis breakfast, determined to have it out with him, with the result whichis chronicled above. 

The encounter between Mag and Black Jock was the talk of the village. Mag was mad with rage, and having washed her bruised face, she rampedout and in all day, washing the floor, clattering among dishes andscouring pots and pans. She was working off her anger and swearing andthreatening, until most of the other women in the row grew afraid, andkept as much as possible within doors the rest of the day. 

When the men returned from work the whole episode had to be gone throughand described to them by their wives. 

When Sanny Robertson came home that afternoon, he found Mag with swollenlips and half closed eyes and a face bruised all over. He did not haveto wait long for explanations. She railed and swore and raged until onewondered from where she got all the energy, and all the strength. It wasamazing why she did not collapse altogether. 

Sanny sat quietly listening without comment, then washed himself and satsmoking by the fire for a time. He was a quiet go-as-you-please man, notgiven much to talking. But finally he could stand it no longer, and hetook hold of his wife by the shoulder, saying. 

"Noo, jist you listen, an' for God's sake shut your mooth. It'll no daea bit o' guid ravin' like that. We are in a bigger hole noo than ever wehae been in a' oor lives, an' mind that. I've made up my mind what I amgaun tae dae. Sae listen. I'm gaun straucht awa' ower to Rundell's themorn, at the time when Mr. Rundell gangs hame frae the office for hisbreakfast, an' I'll tell him everything aboot the contracts. Then I'mgaun awa' doon the country tae look for work, an' I'll flit oot o' herean' tae hell wi't. Noo shut up an' gae me peace and quateness for anhoor, so that I can think oot things. You get awa' tae bed. Maybe byricht I should gang doon tae Black Jock an' stap a knife in him--if fornae ither thing than the way he has treated you the day, I should daethat. But I'm no gaun to dae it the noo. I'm no' blaming you for whathas happened; for I'm mair to blame than you are. But I'll be even wi'that black beast, an' put an end to his rotten career, someway oranother. Sae aff you gang to your bed, an' gie me a quate hoor taemysel', " and there was such a quiet authoritative ring in his voice thatMag dared not disobey it, and she went quietly off to bed while he satby the fireside smoking and thinking, and feeling that his home thatnight must surely be the most unhappy place on God's earth. 

About midnight he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and placing it on themantelpiece, went to bed and soon fell asleep, but Mag, an insanedecision taking shape in her brain, lay and brooded and tossed till wellon in the morning, when she rose, kindled the fire, "redd up" the house, prepared the breakfast and awoke her husband to partake of the meal shehad prepared. 

Never a word was spoken between them, and at last Sanny, after washingand dressing, walked out without a word, but fully determined in hisheart to get equal with Walker before the day was over. 

He went straight to Rundell House, and ringing the bell asked to see themine owner. 

He was shown into a room and Mr. Rundell came to him almost before hehad been comfortably seated. 

"Well, Sanny, " he began genially. "What brings you here this morning?"

"A business that I'd rather no' been comin' on, " replied Sanny uneasilyshifting on his chair. 

"Oh, nothing serious, I hope, is it?"

"Ay, it's serious enough, " returned Sanny. "Mair serious than you think, Mr. Rundell; an' I dinna ken what you'll think o' me after I hae teltyou. "

"Oh, well, in that case, " said the mine owner, becoming serious, andspeaking with slow deliberation. "Just let me hear what it is all about, and we'll see how matters stand after you have told me, " and he satdown in a chair opposite Robertson as he spoke. 

"I hae lost my contracts, sir, " began Sanny, not knowing how else toopen up the subject. "But I'm gaun to tell you the hale story just in myain way, so I want you to sit quate and no' interrupt me; for I hinnajist the knack of puttin' things maybe as they should be put. But I'lltell you the hale story an' then leave you to do as you like, an' thinkwhat you like. "

"Very well, Sanny. Just go on. I did not know you had lost them. Butjust let me hear about the trouble in your own way. "

"For gey near twenty year, " began Sanny, "I've had maist feck o' thecontracts in your pits back and forrit--me an' Tam Fleming. Walker an'us were aye gey thick, an' though it maybe was putten doon to you thatoor offer to work ony special job was the cheapest, I may tell you thatI never put in an offer in my life for yin o' them. Walker an'--an'"here Sanny stammered a little, "Walker an' oor Mag were gey thick, an'I'm ashamed o' this part o' the story; for I should hae been man enoughto protect her frae him. But the money was the thing that did it, Mr. Rundell, an' I'm no' gaun to mak' excuses noo aboot it. But everybargain I had, I had to share the pay, efter the men was payed, pennyaboot, wi' Walker. That was ay the bargain. He gaed us the job at hisain feegure, an' we shared the profits wi' him. 

"Noo, jist keep yoursel' cool a bit, " he said, holding up his hand asRundell made to speak. "We did gey well, " he resumed in his evenmonotone, like a man who was repeating something he had learned byheart. "But gey soon I found that I was expected to spend a good shareo' my pay in drink, while Walker took a', an' never spent a penny. So itwas, that for a' the money we made we've been gey little the better o't, an' very much the worse o' it. Without exception we shared penny abootwith Walker on every bargain we got, an' I ken he has a guid bankbalance, while I hae nane. 

"Noo, this is a rotten story frae end to end o't, " he went on after ashort pause to wipe his face with a handkerchief. "I allowed him toruin my wife's character. I kent it was gaun on a' the time; but likemony mair I hae kent, a manager's favor was mair to me than the honor o'a wife. I let him tak' a share o' the money I made, an' spent my ain tokeep him up on drink. But noo it's ended a'. A wheen o' weeks syne, aman ca'd Tam Granger came to the place and his wife being young an'fresh, an' guid-looking, besides being free, Walker's fancy was ta'enwi' her. So you ken what it means, when a gaffer carries on like that, an' the man is saft enough as weel as the woman being willin'. Tam gotmy contracts this week, an' I have to gang back into a common place andhowk coals. 

"Weel, the wife couldna' stand being slighted like thet, an' Granger'swife had been tantalizin' her too, you ken hoo women rave when they areslighted. So she opened oot on Walker yesterday mornin' an' followed himup the row, the hale place being turned oot to hear her exposure o' him. She fair gaed mad wi' anger I think, an' lost a' control o' hersel' an'she followed him shouting so that a' the neighbors could hear hertauntin' an' jibin' at him, till he could staun it nae langer, an' heturned an' struck her, knockin' her doon on the green, an' then kickin'her, till she's a' bruised ower the body. She has an' awfu' lookin' facetoo, an' she came in bleeding like a sheep. 

"So that's the hale ugly story, Mr. Rundell. As I said I'm gaun to mak'nae excuses. There's nane tae mak'; an' I'm cheap served for it a'. Ishould hae stood by the wife and protected her. But I'll dae it noo. She's mine, an' if she's no guid it is me that is to blame. I'm leavin', an' I'm gaun awa' doon the country the morn to look for work; but Ithocht I'd tell you the whole rotten story first, then I'll get Walker, an' hae a reckonin' wi' him an' be off the morn. I'll pay off thatblack-hearted brute this day afore I leave Lowwood an' then myconscience will be easier. "

Mr. Rundell sat stupefied and amazed at the story just told him byRobertson, and just as both men sat staring at each other and beforeanother word could be said, a miner burst into the room, almostexploding with excitement, crying:--

"Oh, Mr. Rundell, you've to come to the pit at once. A woman has flungherself doon the shaft. "

"Guid God! That'll be oor Mag, " cried Sanny, starting up and out at thedoor, running in the direction of the pit and stumbling every few yardsin his excitement. 

When Sanny had left the house that morning to go and interview Mr. Rundell, Mag, with the insane decision she had made overnight stillholding her mind, dressed herself in her best clothes, and withouthesitation set off to the pit. 

On her way down the row she stepped into Leebie Granger's house veryexcited though she had been fairly quiet all morning; so quiet in factthat Phemie Grey and Annie Watson could not help remarking upon it. 

"She's been awfu' quate a' mornin', Phemie, " said Annie, going into herneighbor's house. "She has worked away there as if she was gaun to cleanthe hale place, scrubbing oot the floor, although she washed yesterday;an' noo, she has on her Sunday best, wi' her new hat on too, an' she'sawa' into Leebie Granger's. I wonner what'll hae ta'en her noo. "

"Guid kens, " replied Phemie, "but she's fair off her heid. Dae ye kenshe's just like a daft body. Did you see the look in her e'en?" and sothey discussed poor Mag, who had drawn their attention by thestrangeness of her behavior. 

"Oh, dinna be feart, Leebie, " began Mag as she saw Leebie's apprehensivelook. "I'm no' gaun to meddle wi' you, although I swore yesterday that Iwould. You've only done what I did before you. You are young, an' mairpleasin' than I am noo, an', as he said, I hae had a good innins. But, Leebie, you'll hae to look for another fancy man. He'll no' be langyours. I'll see to that. Him an' me will gang oot thegither, if I canmanage it. We've baith been rotten, an' it's richt that we should gangbaith at once, an' rid the place o' a dam'd bad sore. Guid day, Leebie. It's a dam'd puir life to leave, an' while it maybe is a woman's lot inlife to sell hersel' for ease and comfort, it's a' bad for her when shedoes it in a way that the world says is a wrang way; for she soon findsthat her life isna worth a tinker's curse. She sells hersel' an' it's noworth while complainin' if the bargain turns oot a rotten yin. 

"If every woman had plenty of honest work, there wad be nae fancy women, for they wadna ned do it. Guid day, Leebie. Maybe you'll think I'mstrange a wee an' maybe so I am. You micht think I'm daft; an' maybe soI am. But after a while when you get time to think, you'll maybe feelthat you hae heard mair soond sense oot o' Mag Robertson when she wasmad than ever she spoke when she was supposed to be wise. Guid day, Leebie. Think ower a' I have said. I'm no gaun to hurt you; but I'm gaunto tak' Black Jock oot o' your clutches as shair as daith. You've hadyour innins too; but it has been a dam'd short yin. I've had mine, an'the game is feenished noo. It's time the hale thing was totaled up sothat we can see wha is the winner. I've been maybe playin' a losin'game, Leebie, but noo we'll ken afore lang. Guid day, Leebie. I'm off, "and she was out of the door leaving Leebie speechless with fear andamazement. 

Mag flew down the brae to the pit almost running, while Leebie and otherneighbors looked after her with a strange dread at their hearts. 

When Mag arrived at the pit she asked a boy if Walker was up the pit yetfor his breakfast. 

"I dinna' think so, " replied the boy. "He's kind o' late this mornin';but there's the bell chappit three, " he said as the signal was made fromthe bottom that men were about to come up. "That'll likely be him comingup. "

The boy had no sooner spoken, than with a mad rush Mag darted forward, and opening the gates at the "low scaffold, " where no one was near, being situated below the pit-head proper, with a loud scream she hurledherself down the shaft. 

"God Almichty!" roared the engineman who saw all from the engine house, as he rushed out of the door, calling to the pit-head workers. "MagRobertson has flung hersel' doon the shank!" and immediately all wasconsternation. 

The engine keeper had just been in the act of signaling down to Walker, who was ready to ascend when he saw the flying figure dart forward andfling herself into the yawning abyss. 

Walker, standing at the foot of the shaft waiting for the answeringsignal from above, heard the noise and the rush of Mag's body as itbumped from side to side in its mad descent, and starting back, he wasjust in time to get clear as the mangled mass of rags and blood andpulpy flesh fell with a loud splashy thud at the bottom, the bloodspattering and "jauping" him and the bottomer, and blinding their eyesas it flew all over them. 

"In the name o' Heavens what's that?" yelled Walker, screaming in terrorand jumping aside from the bloody upturned face, with the wide, staringeyes, which he seemed to recognize, as the other parts of the body layabout, still quivering and twitching, and a horrible sickness came overhim and terror flooded his mind. 

"Bell, three, quick!" cried Walker, frantic with desperation in hisvoice. "Bell three, dammit. An' let us up out o' here. Hurry up, hell toyou, " and he drew the bell himself, and without waiting on the signalback from above, jumped into the cage, averting his face from thosehorrible eyes, which lay staring at him out of the darkness. 

"Chap it awa', man!" he yelled at the bottomer, his voice rising to ascream. "Chap it, an' let us up to hell oot o' this, " and the bottomer, no less frightened than he, tore at the bell, and jumping in himselfjust as the cage began slowly to ascend, clung to the bar, shiveringwith terror. 

CHAPTER XIX

BLACK JOCK'S END

When Walker reached the surface, he was like a madman. He raved andswore and frothed like a churn, running here, there and everywherenearly collapsing with rage, which sprang from terror. 

Usually cool and calculating, steady and active-minded, he seemed tohave lost all grip upon himself. He had been drinking heavily the nightbefore and was none too sober in the morning when he was called upon togo to work. Mag Robertson's attack the night before had sent him to thedrink, and being a heavy drinker he was in a bad state the followingmorning. Mr. Rundell found him swearing and raving in a great passion, sacking men and behaving like a maniac. 

"Look here, Walker, " he began at once, his quick temper rising anew ashe thought of the story Sanny Robertson had told him. "I'll give youtwenty-four hours to get out of here and away from the place; and if youare not gone in that time I shall inform the police. I know the wholestory regarding the setting of the contracts. Sanny has told me, and ifI was doing right I would not give you a single minute. "

Walker seemed to calm down all at once, and his eyes became cringing asthose of a kicked cur as he stood before the angry mine-owner. 

"But I hinna telt you a' he has done, " said Sanny Robertson, who came upjust then in time to hear Mr. Rundell's words. "The dirty black-heartedbrute murdered Geordie Sinclair. He telt me himsel' one nicht at thetime when we were drinkin' together. He kent a' aboot Geordie workin' onthe boss ground an' sent him to his death to get rid of him because in asoft moment I had telt Geordie hoo the contracts were set. He was feartGeordie wad tell you. He's a black-hearted murderer, an' noo he hasadded Mag's death to his list o' damnation. Tak' that! an' that! youdirty villain! I'll save the hangman the bother o' feenishin' you!" andSanny was upon Walker tearing at him like a cat, and clawing his facewith his nails, punching, biting and kicking him as hard as he coulddrive his hands and feet. 

The attack was so sudden that Walker went down, and Sanny was on top ofhim before anyone could intervene. 

"I'll tear the thrapple oot o' you, you dirty swine!" he squealed, as hetugged at Black Jock's throat. 

Mr. Rundell and a couple of laborers soon pulled Sanny up, though hestruggled to maintain his hold upon the throat of his adversary. 

"Let me at him, " he yelled, striving to get free. "Let me at him, an'I'll save the hangman a guid lot o' bother stretchin' his dirty neck!Oh, you swine! You dirty murderin' beast!" he shrieked, as he tried tobreak away from the restraining hands which held him. 

But Sanny was soon overpowered, and Walker, bounding to his feet, wasoff up the railway towards his home, terror filling his heart, and hismind reeling with fear. 

Mr. Rundell quickly organized a band of men to descend the shaft andrecover Mag's body, and soon the whole village was in possession of thenews, and the excitement was intense. 

They gathered her up, a mass of dirty, pulpy flesh, scraping the remainstogether and shoveling them into a rude improvised box, the head andeyes being the only part of the body that resembled anything like ahuman being. 

"Hell to my sowl, but this is the warst job that ever I got, " saidArchie Braidhurst, as he scraped a mass of blood and bones, mud andrags, together. "It's a hell o' a daith to dee. "

"Ay, puir lassie, " replied Adam Lindsay. "She's made a splash at thehinner end. Mag ay cried that it was best to mak' a splash aboot thethings you did; but, by sirs, she has made yin this time. What an awfu'mess!"

"Splash!" echoed Archie with a grim laugh. "She's gane a' into jaups. She maun hae thocht she was a juck-pool. I would like to dee like aChristian when I dee, and no' shuffle oot like a scattered explosion, ora humplick o' mince. "

"Oh, for Heaven's sake shut your mooth, an' let us get her gathered upan' get oot o' here. Dammit, hae ye nae common sense, swearin' an'jokin' about sic a thing! It's enough to tempt Providence, an' had itno' been for the tumblerful o' whisky that Mr. Rundell gied us I dinnathink I could hae faced it. It's awfu'!"

"What the hell are ye girnin' at?" asked Archie, turning round on him. "Are ye feart Mag bites ye? Man, she's got a' her bitin' by noo, although I admit she's made a hell o' a mess at the end. Pit your shovelin here an' lift this pickle, an' no' stand there gapin' like a grislyghost at the door o' hell! Fling it into her gapin' mouth, if you thinkshe's goin' to bite you!" and the others laughed uneasily at Archie'ssardonic humor. 

It was a nerve-trying experience for most of them, and they felt sickwith horror of it, in spite of the whisky and their grim jokes. The pitwas put idle, and the men went home. A gloom brooded over the wholeplace. 

Black Jock saw Mag Robertson's eyes staring at him, as he hurried overthe moor. He had not even stopped to wash himself, but merely stowingsome money into his pocket, was off, not deigning to answer hisdaughter's enquiries as to what was wrong, or where he was going. Everywild bird upon the moor seemed to shout at him in accusation; everyliving thing seemed to scream out in terror as he approached. 

He laughed a harsh laugh, like the cry of a wild beast, and the sheepscampered away in fear. The wind moaned out of the gray clouds, whichlay thick upon the hidden hills, and there was an early iciness in itsbreath as it groaned past; A soft, slushy sound rose from the moor atevery step, until it seemed that even earth protested. Eerie and sad themoor was, gray and threatening the hills. Laughing at intervals that lowgurgle which sprang from fear, as some wild bird would start up at hisapproach, he plodded on. 

He did not know where he was going. He had no particular objective. Hedid not know what line he would pursue. He only wanted to get away fromthe scene of the tragedy, and those terrible eyes staring, which seemedto follow him from behind every bush or clump of heather, till in thegray mist it seemed as if the moor were alive with them. 

Eyes everywhere. Eyes that never winked or moved. Eyes that nevertrembled with recognition or glimmered with life. Dead eyes, cold eyes, immovable and clear--horribly clear they were--eyes that simply stared, neither showing accusation nor denunciation; but there they were atevery tuft of yellow grass, behind every moss-hag, and staring likepools of clear silent death, which struck horror to his heart. Hebounded sideways as a partridge on whirring wing flew away at hisapproach, and almost dropped dead with fright as a muircock, with loudprotesting voice, seemed to scream: "'way back! 'way back! 'way back!"and then, drawing out into a low grumbling command, as it came to eartha few hundred yards away, still muttering its orders to him, as hemomentarily stood to recover from his fright. 

The whinny of a horse upon the hillside, the low cry of a young cow, thebleat of a sheep, all added to his feeling of dread, until the sweatstreamed down his body, as he swung along the moor. 

At last he came to a little village, about six miles from Lowwood, and, entering the inn, he called for a supply of whisky. 

"It's kind o' cauld the day, " the landlady said in an affable way, as hestepped into the bar. 

"Warm enough where I have been, " he replied bluntly. "Gie's something todrink in whusky!"

"So it wad seem, " she said in reply, noting his beaded forehead, as hewiped it with a colored handkerchief. 

"You've surely been gey hard ca'd wherever you hae been, " and there wasa note of curiosity in her voice. 

"I want a drink, " he broke in abruptly, "an' it doesna matter a damn toyou whether I hae been hard ca'd or no'. You're surely hellish keen tohae news. Dis a' your customers get the Catechism when they come inhere?" he queried. "If they do, I may as well tell you to begin with, that I came in for whusky, an' no' to staun' an examination. "

She saw at once that he resented her leisurely way and her attempt ataffability, and she hastened to apologize. 

"Look dam'd sharp, " he growled, as she attended to his order. "I wantwhusky and plenty o' it. "

"You are in an unco' hurry, " she replied, getting nettled, as she filleda glass. "It doesna' do to be so snottery as a' that. "

"Well, dammit, look alive. I'm dying for a drink. Bring in a bottle, " asshe placed a glass before him filled with whisky, "an' tak' the price o'your dam'd poison aff that!" and he flung down a sovereign upon thetable. 

"Look here, " said the landlady, "I'll tak' nane o' your snash, so mindthat. If folk come in here to be served, they've got to be ceevil. "

"Oh, there's nae harm, " he said apologetically, with a forced laugh, "but I'm in a hurry, and I want a drink. "

"Weel, I maun hae ceevility. So if you don't gi'e the yin, you'll no'get the ither. "

"That's all right, " he said. "Keep the sovereign. I may need more. Tellme when it is all spent, " and he filled a bumper and drained it withouta halt. 

"Weel, ye may be dirty at many a thing, " she observed, as she noted hisaction, "but you're a gey clean drinker o' whusky anyway, " and she lefthim with his bottle to fuddle alone. 

"A gey queer body that, " she mused, as she returned to the bar. "Lod!he's like a wannert thunder-storm, growlin' and grumblin', as if he hadgot lost frae the rest o' his company. But he seems to hae plenty o'siller anyway, " she concluded, "an' he can drink whusky wi' anybody Iever seen try it. "

By and by a village worthy came in, and he was at once hailed by BlackJock, and invited to have a glass. 

"What are you drinkin', chappie?" he enquired. 

"Same as you, " was the reply, while a smile of pleased anticipationhovered round the worthy's face at this unexpected good fortune. "I jistay tak' a moothfu' o' whusky. As a maitter o' fact, I was brocht up onthe bottle, and I hae never been spained yet. "

"Right you are, cocky! Drink up! You're the man I am lookin' for to helpme to spend an hour or twa. "

"That'll suit me a' to bits, " was the reply, "an' you are jist the man Ihae been lookin' for. It's a guid thing we hae met, or we'd baith haebeen unhappy. "

So the hours passed, and each newcomer was invited to join the company, until it grew so large that the "big room" was requisitioned, and itsoon held a laughing, joking, drinking, good-natured set of as drouthyindividuals as ever met together in company. Every worthy for milesaround seemed to get the news of the free drinks, and whisky and beerflowed like water, and the company grew more and more cheerful andhappy. 

Bottle after bottle of drink was consumed, and as the company gothilarious, a song was sung or a story was told, until the whole placehad the air of a fair day about it. 

Jock spent his money freely, and his company drank his health as freelyas he paid for the drinks. So the merry hours went past, and thedarkness came on. Yet for all the whisky that Walker consumed, he neverseemed to get drunk. He was certainly a bit intoxicated, but was in thatcondition described by one of the company next day as being "sensiblydrunk. "

"Come on, damn you, you son of a tinkler, " he urged. "Drink up, an' letus mak' a nicht o't, " and thus urged they drained their glasses, and hadthem refilled again and again. 

"Gie's a sang, Geordie, " cried one of the company across the room to anold shaggy-faced individual, who sat and laughed and drank with happydemeanor, rubbing his bristly chin, which resembled the back of ahedgehog, with dirty gnarled fingers which seemed made for liftingglasses, having a natural crook in them, into which the glass asnaturally fitted. "You hinna sung anything yet. Gie's yin o' your ainmakin'. "

"Lodsake, I canna sing, " said Geordie, with the air of a man who wantedto be told he could sing. 

"Ach, you can sing fine, " was the chorused reply from nearly everyone inthe company. 

"Come on, Geordie, you ken you can sing fine. Man, there's no' a bettersinger in the place, auld and a' as ye are. "

"Och, I canna sing noo, Charlie, " replied Geordie, clearing his throat, "but I'll confess that I hae seen the day when I could lilt it wi' thebest o' them. "

"Oh, but we a' ken fine that you can sing. Man, it's a treat to hearhim, " said Charlie, turning to Black Jock. "He could wile the bird affthe bush. Gie's yin o' your ain, Geordie. It's aye best to hear you atyin o' your ain. "

"Oh, weel, " said Geordie with a show of reluctance, as he rose to hisfeet, making a noise in his throat, like the exhaust pipe of an engine, "seein' that you are all so pressin' on the maitter, I'll gi'e ye a bitverse or twa. "

A roar of applause greeted Geordie as he sat down, and words ofappreciation broke from everyone in the room. 

"Dam'd guid, Geordie! Fill up your glass. That deserves a richt guiddram!" cried Black Jock, as he reached across the table and poured abumper for Geordie. "Wha's gaun to sing next? Come on, chaps; let usmak' a nicht o't!"

"Hear, hear, " said Geordie. "I'm just feelin' in gran' fettle for anicht. Tammas Fairly will gie's a bit verse maybe. He can sing a fairguid song. "

"Me sing!" exclaimed Tam. "Gae awa'! Ye ken fine I canna sing like you, Geordie, " and there was a hint of assumed bashfulness in Tam's voice ashe spoke. 

"Come on, Tam. There's to be nae jookin' oot o' it. It's to be a sangroon' aboot, so you micht as weel begin noo, an' get your turn by. "

"Ay, come on, " chimed in Walker. "Let us enjoy oorsel' the nicht, whenwe are in a mood for it. Guid kens when we may ever spend a nichtthegither again. Come on, Tam, get up!"

"Oh, weel, " said Tam with bashful reluctance, "I'll do my best, " andclearing his throat, Tam sang. 

"Hear, hear!" roared Black Jock. "That deserves a bumper too, Tammas. Fill up your glass. An honest dram's afore a' the simperin' Judies thatever held up their gabs to be kissed!" and filling another round, theydrank, and roared, and cried their appreciation. 

The fun waxed fast and furious, as song after song was sung, whichsometimes were capped by a rough story or a questionable joke fromsomeone in the company. 

"But you havena gi'en us a sang yoursel'!" observed Charlie, turning toBlack Jock, after most of the company had obliged with an effort. 

"No, I havena gi'en you a sang, " he replied with a coarse laugh, "but Ihae paid for a' the drinks, an' I suppose that'll please the maist o'you better than a dizzen sangs frae me. "

"Quite true, " said Geordie. "You're a gentleman, an' I never met abetter. I only hope we'll hae the pleesure o' meetin' you here againafore lang. It's been yin o' the best nichts I hae spent for a langtime. "

"That's true, Geordie, " said Charlie. "He has gi'en us yin o' the bestnichts I hae ever spent. In fact I never min' o' haein' a better, an' tocelebrate it, if nane of you hae ony objections, I'll sing anithersang. "

"Hear, hear, " cried Walker heartily. "Order for the sang, " and he tappedthe table loudly with a bottle, as he called for quietness amid the din. 

"Order for the sang, boys!" bawled Geordie, "Charlie is gaun to favorthe company, " and as the noise immediately ceased, Charlie sang a songabout the fascinating women. 

"That's a guid yin, Charlie, " roared Walker, thumping the table as heroared. "I hae had a lang experience o' weemin' bodies, " and he winkedacross to Geordie as he spoke, "an' I can say they are raleblood-suckers. They're like whisky, gran' at the time, but you singsorry next day, an' fin' oot what a fool you hae been. They hing on toyou like leeches, an' mak' a mess o' things at the en'. Though you had aface like a crocodile as long as you had plenty of cash, they'd lickyour feet; when your money's done, they're awa' like swallows at thefirst nip o' autumn frost!"

"Ay, it's a dam'd funny world, " he went on in a lower tone, as if halfspeaking to himself. "A fu' purse an' you've plenty o' frien's, an' awoman when you need her, but if your purse is toom, your heart maygrien a hell o' a lang while afore yin wad ever come near you. "

Thus the evening passed till some were lying below the table, unable tosit up and take their round; and finally the closing hour arrived, andall had to disperse. 

Black Jock, again left to himself, deserted by all his company, and inspite of all the drink he had consumed walking fairly steadily, steppedout upon the country road, neither caring nor knowing in which directionhe went. His head bent forward upon his breast, or rolling occasionallyfrom side to side, seemed too heavy for his neck to support, as heswayed from the center of the road to its margin. 

The horrible staring eyes began again to infest his journey, and seemedto accompany him wherever he went. He could not get away from them. Outin the lonely night, the whole sky merry with stars, was alive withstaring eyes, that glared down upon him from above with a cold sinisterlight. They looked at him from the hedgerows; they glared at him frombehind every bush or knoll by the wayside; they glowered at him frombehind the trees; and they even perched upon his shoulders and peeped athim in accusation. 

"Damn you!" he growled, striking at them as if he would brush them fromhis sight; but still they followed and accused no matter where heturned. He grew more and more irritated and alarmed, as they seemed tomultiply with every minute that passed; and he quickened his pace, butin spite of his speed, they still pursued and multiplied. 

Driven mad by the persistence of their stare, he rushed from side toside of the road, striking at them, hitting out with his hands, andkicking with his feet; but still they grew in numbers and in immensity. 

He shook himself as if to free his body from them; he rushed ahead, swearing and muttering; he growled and shouted, sometimes pleading to belet alone, and sometimes roaring defiance to the night air; but stillthe eyes held him relentlessly, implacably, and ever growing in numbers, until it seemed as if the whole countryside were alive with them. Theycame nearer and receded again; they swarmed round him in legions, thenwithdrew behind the hedges to stare at him with wide-open lids. Theydrew him onward, and he advanced cautiously. Then they rushed at him, and retired again, as if driven back; but still they were there, justround the bend of the road, just behind that bush, just over that hedge, and behind that tree, glaring and looking at him, and ready to rushforth again as soon as they thought he was sufficiently off his guard. 

"Back!" he roared again, striking out with his fist as they rose only acouple of yards ahead. "Back! an' be damned to you, " as a whole swarmlarger and larger, so that they lighted up the night, came rushing roundhim. 

They were hissing and roaring at him this time. They had hitherto beensilent, and he seemed to hear at first a low murmuring whisper, as ifthey consulted together as to the best way to attack him. Then thewhisper grew to a louder swishing sound like the noise Mag had made asher body hurtled from side to side on falling down the shaft. It grewlouder and louder, like the wind coming through far-off trees, graduallyswelling to a roar. The eyes grew in numbers and got larger with thenoise; and finally, with terror clutching at his heart and an oath uponhis lips, he turned to run back, only to find that they had all mergedinto two wide, horribly glaring fiery eyes which were bearing down uponhim with the speed and noise of an express train. They were on himbefore he could turn, as if they now realized that he was fully at theirmercy, and with the courage of desperation he flung himself bodily uponthem and went down crushed beneath the heavy mass of a motor driven withreckless speed by a young man rushing to catch a train. 

Walker was down before the young man realized what had happened and thehoot of the horn had merely spurred Black Jock to the last desperateleap to death, the lights of the motor having taken on the shape of allthe pursuing eyes that had followed him that night. 

When he was taken from beneath the wheels, his neck broken and his bodysmashed, Black Jock had paid the last penalty, and the eyes whichdestroyed him flashed out accompaniment to his departing soul. And thewinking skies, still merry with the stars of night, looked down unmoved, while the night-birds on the moor answered one another in their flight, and called a last farewell to the spirit of Black Jock. 

CHAPTER XX

THE CONFERENCE

The storm which had been brewing in the industrial firmament grew morethreatening and the clouds grew blacker until it seemed as if nothingcould prevent a commotion on a big scale. 

The demand for a fuller life and more security was being made by theminers all over the country. Organization was proceeding apace, and anew idea was being glimpsed by the younger men especially, which filledtheir hearts and fired their imagination. 

"Do you think the time has come now, Bob?" asked Robert Sinclair, speaking to Smillie one day, as they proceeded by rail to a conferencetogether, "when the whole Federation can try its power in a demand forsomething real?"

"What do you mean by something real, Robert?" asked Smillie, with a keenlook at the young, eager face turned towards him. 

"Some guarantee of comfort in our lives, " was the reply. "You know thatwe have none now. You and others of us have been teaching the miners towork towards the day when a standard of ease and comfort will be assuredto all. We have worked for it, and the miners now are looking forsomething tangible. "

"Yes, I know; but do you think, Robert, that the time has come to put itto the test?" and Smillie had gone on to tell of some of thedifficulties they were faced with. 

So they talked and discussed, exchanging opinions and hopes; and allover the mining world their dreams were being voiced, and had helped tomake the coming crisis. 

Conferences were held, and the whole matter threshed out from everyangle. The miners were united as they had never been before and thewhole of the British miners were determined to use their organization toenforce their demands. 

It was a triumph for Smillie's genius, the climax of his dream, to havethem united as one body to fight what he called their real enemies. Onefederation linked together by common ideals, with common interests boundby common ties, united by traditions, by creed, by class, by commontastes shared, by suffering and hardship. It was his monument, andperhaps he regarded it with no little pride. 

When Robert was appointed delegate to the council of his Union from hisbranch, he set himself to master thoroughly, in every detail, itsmachinery, and very soon his voice was raised in the debates, and itamazed even himself to find what a power he seemed to possess over hisfellows. He soon learned to state his case in simple unaffected languagewhich took a marvelous hold upon his hearers, while at times his warmglowing imagination would conjure up a living picture that hit withirresistible force, and made a lasting impression upon those wholistened. 

He gradually became more fluent, and studied how best to impress hiscomrades. His earnestness and enthusiasm were unquestioned, andsometimes were even found to be a serious obstacle to the older type ofleader, men for the most part lacking imagination, and whose older andmore prosaic outlook could not understand the younger man, whose zealthey regarded with impatience. 

But Smillie soon recognized Robert's talent and his worth, and gave himmore scope than he otherwise might have done. 

Robert's admiration for his chief was unbounded, though it did not keephim from differing from Smillie at times on matters of detail. Onprinciples they were generally at one with each other and while it wasrarely that they differed, the occasions upon which they did so wereremembered by all who heard. Smillie soon realized that there was anunshakable will behind the young man, and watched him under everydifficult occasion with a certain amount of pride, as he grew inindividuality and resource. Robert was not a frequent speaker, but wasalways listened to with respect when he did speak. 

An industrial crisis was upon the country and everyone was expectant, and wondering how it would all end. Keir Hardie's preaching of theworking class gospel was a big factor in Robert's development and thelatter was soon in demand for platform lectures, stirring up the workersand pleading with them to organize, and teaching them economics throughhistorical allusion and industrial evolution until he soon becamerecognized as one of the coming forces in the working-class movement. Hewas as yet very impulsive, and while such a trait had generally apowerful appeal on the average audience of the working class type, itoften put him into somewhat compromising situations, when dealing withthe more sober and serious work of the organization. Still he wasshowing up well, and only time and experience were needed to cure hisdefects. So the year ended, and the cloud grew more and morethreatening. 

January brought the crisis to a head, and the Government, recognizingthat nothing could avert a strike and as the foreign situation waspassing through a critical period, requested that a conference should becalled in London, and invited the miners and the mine-owners to cometogether so that the Prime Minister and other statesmen could be presentto try and adjust the grievance. It was a historic gathering and onethat marked an epoch in the history of the industrial movement. 

Delegates were present from almost every Miners' Lodge in Great Britain, while the owners were also fully represented. 

The Prime Minister acted as chairman of the gathering and he wassupported on the platform by other members of the Government, whileSmillie and other well-known leaders represented the men and a number ofthe owners represented the Coal Masters' Association. 

The platform party was an imposing one. Men of big reputation werethere, and Robert felt himself wondering, as he looked at them, howordinary they looked after all, and he began to speculate as to thequalities they possessed which had given them such importance. 

"That's the Chancellor o' the Exchequer, " said one of the delegates toRobert, pointing out the individual named. "He's a wee eatin'-an'-spued'lookin' thing when you see him sittin' there, isn't he?"

"Ay, " answered Robert casually, as he surveyed the group. "I was justwondering how it was they had a' gained such reputations. In appearancethey are not much to boast about. "

"Ach, they're jist a lot o' oily tongued wheedlers, " was the reply, "an'that wee ferrit-eyed yin is the worst o' them a'. Just wait till hebegins to speak, an' you'll think he's a showman. He can fairly pit onthe butter, an' he'll send us a' away hame in the belief that we're thefinest set o' men he ever met, an' mak' us feel that if we decide to doanything against what he recommends, the hale country will gang toruin. "

"Oh, " said Robert, as his fellow delegate paused, "I've read aboot him. "

"Ay, but wait till you hear him. We can a' come up here as angry ashell, ready to string him up to the nearest lamp-post; but after he hasspoken an' slaivered ower us for a while, we begin to feel differently, an' finally gang awa hame wi' our minds made up that we are the salt o'the earth. Man, it tak's a' the sting oot o' bein' dune, to be dune saewell an' sae completely. "

"Yes, but when you know that why do you allow yourselves to bewheedled?"

"Ach, man; it's a' right askin' that question; but efter thae chaps getround aboot you, wi' their greasy tongues, an' their flatterin' ways, you jist begin to think that it's nae use to bother ony mair abootresistin'. Look at that auld fermer-collier lookin' chiel, wi' his whiteheid an' his snipe-nose an' a smile on his face that wad mak' youbelieve he was gaun to dae you some big service. That's the smile thathas made him Prime Minister. You'd think frae his face that he was justa solid easy-gaun kindly auld fermer, who took a constant joy in givin'jeelie-pieces to hungry weans. But when he speaks, and gets a grip o'you, he's yin o' the sooplest lawyers that ever danced roun' the rim o'hell withoot fallin' in. He'd do his faither, that yin. He wad that. "

Robert looked at the various individuals as they were described, keenlyinterested and feeling that this comrade of his was describing much ofwhat he himself had felt about these men, and wondered more and more asto what it was that had given them their power. 

"They're a fine rogues' gallery when you see them a' sittin' there, "went on the other. "They ken we are up here the day determined to demandour terms, an' that's the way they are a' turned out. Just you wait tillthey begin, an' you'll see a fine bit o' play actin'. They'll play usaboot as auld Tom Tervit wad play a trout in the Clyde. They hae onyamount o' patience, an' they'll gae you onything but the thing you want. They'd promise us the kingdom o' Heaven; an' they'll give us plenty o'line to run wi'; but a' the time they'll be lookin' for a chance to landus. An' they'll do it. Jist you wait. "

"Well, it will be our own fault if we let them, " said Robert, shortly, as he listened. "I would not let any of them do that. If we have ourminds made up on what we want, I can't see why we should be wheedledlike that. "

"Neither do I, " was the reply. "But it is aye done for all that. Thenthere's that ither chiel--I think he's on the Local Government Board orsomething. He's a corker, wi' a face like yin o' they pented cupids thatthe lasses send to the young men on picture postcards. Look at his nicewee baby's mooth, an' the smile on it too. It wad dazzle a hungrycrocodile lookin' for its denner. His e'en are aye brighter than ony Iever saw--an' speak! Guid God! He could speak for a hale June day. He'sgran' at makin' your flesh creep. He blinds you wi' sparks, an'fire-works, his words are that hot an' glowin', an' he fair dumbfoundersyou wi' fine soundin' sentences an' lang words. He's a corker I can tellyou! But here, they are gaun to begin, " he broke off hurriedly as thePrime Minister rose to his feet. Then in a sly whisper, he added:--"Justyou pay attention, an' tell me after if you can tell how we hae beendune. They are here to do us the day, as sure as daith. "

The Prime Minister's speech was a masterly plea for compromise; butthrough it all, it seemed as if he was laying the blame upon the minersfor the critical stage which had been reached. He appealed and cajoled, asked them to take long views, and talked fine platitudes aboutself-sacrifice, and the spirit of brotherhood, which could alone bringpeace and contentment. The country was in danger, and it would be aterrible crime if the miners forced a strike; for only upon the greatwhite solitudes of self-sacrifice and mutual help, whose peaks toweredaway into the realms of eternity, could real satisfaction be gained, andmuch more of a like kind. 

Then followed other ministers, who took their cue from their chief; butthere was no hint that any of them had ever made a serious attempt tounderstand the problem which has arisen to confront them so seriously. 

They talked, or so at least it seemed to Robert, who sat in the body ofthe hall with the rest of the delegates, to the miners as if they werechildren, naughty and spoilt; and of course such an attitude could neverbring about any form of agreement to sensible men, who deal every daywith the life at the rough, raw edges of things. 

So it was, when four of them had spoken after the Prime Minister, andnone of them had shown any attempt to grapple with the subject underdispute, Robert felt more and more the truth of his fellow-delegates'description. It was all a masterly bit of wheedling and the Chancellor'seffort especially was designed to win them over to a compromisesettlement. 

He began jocularly with a broad jest which set the delegates all rockingwith laughter, telling how glad he was to be there to talk over withthem the difficulties which had arisen. It always gave him pleasure tomeet them and to get to know their point of view; because usually theirgood sense and their large stock of prudence made them amenable tolistening to a reasoned argument. 

He was glad they always recognized there were two sides to mostdisputes, and he felt sure whatever the outcome of this conference mightbe they would not allow their good sense to stand in the way of apossible settlement. Gradually he worked into more serious lines, andwith vivid language, putting the case for the opposite side, gentlybringing their minds by degrees further and further away from thepoint--the real point of issue. 

Then finally when sufficiently developed, he gathered all the threadstogether, and in a great burst of poetic eloquence and fiery fervor heswept along like a tornado in a grand burst of superb oratory, his eyesrolling and flashing, his hands and head poised into beautifullyeffective gesture, and appealed to them in great rolling, fierysentences that completely swept the conference like a whirlwind, and satdown amid a great burst of applause which broke with splendidspontaneity from the assembled delegates, and the winning golden smileupon his face which Robert's companion had described earlier in the day. 

Robert could hardly analyze his feelings. He felt he did not knowwhether to admire or condemn, but all the time he felt a slow risingindignation within him, and that the Conference was being swung awayfrom what they had met to discuss. Perhaps it was his companions'conversation that did it. He could not tell; but unable to containhimself longer his impulsive nature getting the upper hand, he bouncedto his feet, pale and excited, though trying hard to curb and controlhimself, and in a low tense voice, which at first halted a little, electrified the gathering by a speech wrung from his very soul. 

"Mr. Chairman, " he began, in this unexpected incident, "I have listenedvery attentively to the speeches just delivered by yourself and theother honorable gentlemen. "

Here some of the other delegates intervened to tell him that he was notexpected to speak, but the Prime Minister, for some reason unknown, toldhim to go on and so he proceeded. 

Then Robert proceeded to pour out his soul, stating the miners'grievances and their rights as men. How they were always put off withpromises, and defeated in dialectics and the game of wits. As he spokehe felt the assembly gradually thaw, then become liquid, finally itseemed to join the torrent of his eloquence, and sweep on, blotting outall resistance. 

When at last he sat down a wild burst of applause rent the air, as hesat down pale and excited; but glad that he had got the chance at lastof speaking what he felt to the enemies of his class. 

For fully five minutes the delegates went wild in their cheering andapplause. Again and again it broke out afresh, when it had spent itselfa little, and seemed to be dying down, but the memory of it alwaysstirred them to fresh outbursts until at last, taking advantage of alull, the Prime Minister suggested that he and his colleagues wouldprefer that the conference should stand adjourned till the next day, andthis was agreed to by the delegates, who were not averse to the holiday. 

Congratulations were showered upon Robert from all sides. Even men whodiffered from him on most things grasped his hand and shook it, and toldhim how proud they were of his little speech. 

Robert heard and saw all their pleased enjoyment but was vaguelytroubled in his heart, wondering how Smillie would have taken it, andthis pained him more than the pleasant things the other delegates saidto him. 

"Man, Sinclair, " said the one who had sat next to Robert in theConference, when they got out on to the street, "you've fairly upset thehale jing bang o' them the day. Lod! But I was like a balloon in a highwind, fair carried away wi' you. I never thocht you could have donethat. I was in the opinion that Smillie was the only yin that couldstand up to that set o' rogues. It was great. It was that. "

Robert laughed uneasily and bashfully as he answered, "I couldn't helpit, Davie, " then adding as an afterthought, "Maybe I hae put my fit init. I wonder how Smillie took it a'. "

"Ach, well, it disna matter a damn, onyway. You did fine, an' I cannasee how Smillie has onything ado wi' it. However, we hae a hale day tooorsel's now, what dae you say to gaun to the length of Kew Gardens?It's a gran' place, an' I hae a sister oot there in service. "

"Oh, I don't mind. I don't know onything aboot London and as you arenae stranger, I might as well gang wi' you, as bother onybody else toshow me roun'. "

"There's some of thae chaps'll fairly enjoy this, " said Davie, noddingin the direction of some of the delegates. "That's the way they agreedto adjourn sae already. They jist leeve for the conferences. It's thetime they like. They booze and get their horns oot for a day or two, an'I can tell you, Rab, it's maybe jist as well that they dinna bring theirweemin folks wi' them. However, it tak's a' kinds of folk to mak' aworld, I suppose, so let's off, and see as muckle o' London aspossible, " and they set off and were soon swallowed up in the greatMetropolis. 

CHAPTER XXI

THE MEETING WITH MYSIE

When the London Conference ended, the delegates hurried back to put theterms of the suggested agreement before the men, and as they journeyedthe whole topic of conversation was of the Conference, and of the termswhich had been suggested as a basis for settlement of the dispute. 

"Well, you can a' say what you like, " put in Davie Donaldson, who hadsat beside Robert in the Conference, "but in my opinion we hae beendiddled again. The wee showman wi' the ferret een was too mony for us, an' he jist twisted us round his wee finger as he liked. "

"Ach, but you are never content, " replied another who was of an oppositeopinion. "It doesna matter what kind o' terms you get, you're nevercontent. "

"I'm no' content wi' thae terms ony way, " persisted Davie stubbornly. "What the hell's the use o' makin' a demand for something, an' sayin'afore you gang that you mean to hae it, an' then to tamely tak' the haufo' it, an' gang awa' hame as pleased as a wheen weans wha have beenpromised a penny to tak' castor oil? I'd be dam'd afore I'd tak' that. "

"You're owre ill to please, " said the other. "You're never satisfied wi'a fair thing. Didn't you hear as weel as me that there was a danger o'war breakin' oot at the present time, an' we couldna possibly hae astrike at a time like this. "

"War!" retorted Davie, heatedly. "They'll aye hae a war or somethingelse to fricht you wi', when you show that you mean business. Wha thehell hae we to quarrel wi' onyway, I'd like to ken?"

"Oh, it micht be France, or Germany, or Russia, or some ither o' thaecut-throat foreign nations. "

"An' what are you gaun to quarrel aboot?" yelled Davie still moreheatedly. 

"What the hell do I ken?" was the answer. 

"Then, if you don't ken, why the damn should you quarrel? It's a dam'dsilly thing to fecht at ony time, but it's a dam'd sicht sillier tofecht withoot haein' a quarrel at a', " cried Davie, now fairly roused. "That's jist hoo they diddle us. They diddle the workers o' France an'ither countries in the same way. Maybe the French Government is tellingthe French colliers that there is a danger o' a war wi' Britain at thisminute, to keep them quate; an' if they are, do you an' me ken anythingaboot what the war will be for? No' a thing does yin o' us ken. Wars areno' made by workin' folk at all! They are made wi' the ither crowd, an'they laugh in their sleeves when they hae sent us awa' back to our workan' oor hames as quate as mice, " and Davie looked round in triumph, asking with his eyes, and in the tones of his voice, for confirmation ofhis views from the others. 

Thus they talked and discussed, exchanging opinions about all things instrong but expressive language, as the train sped northwards bearingthem home. District meetings were organized, and the leaders putpersuasively the arguments for the acceptance of the terms laid down. All through the crisis the men had behaved admirably, for they hadlearned to trust Smillie, even when they felt doubtful of his policy. Robert took a big share in the organizing of these meetings and inaddressing them. He flung himself into this work whole-heartedly. Theterms certainly did not please him; but, as the majority at the LondonConference had decided to recommend them to the men, he thought it hisduty to sink his personal opinions, and in the interests of disciplineand the unity of the organization--as he had already had his say and hadbeen found in the minority--he put all his efforts into trying to getthe men to accept the suggested terms, and go forward as one unitedbody. His persuasive powers of appeal, and his straight, direct way ofargument, commended him to his comrades. By the time that the ballot hadbeen carried through in the various districts, it was mid-February, andthe Scottish delegates met in Edinburgh to give the result of thevoting among the rank and file. 

Robert attended the Conference, and while he had appealed to the men toaccept the terms of the London Conference, he secretly hoped that theballot vote of the men would decide to fight; for, like Davie Donaldson, he believed they had again been side-tracked. He wondered how Smillieregarded the matter. He had not had an opportunity of talking withSmillie to learn his opinion, but he felt sure that his leaders did notlike the terms either. 

If, however, the men had agreed on acceptance, he could not helpmatters; but a direct refusal from the rank and file would, he thought, be an intimation to the more reactionary leaders that the spirit ofrevolt was growing, and would give the rebels the chance for which theywere looking. But he would soon know, he thought, as he hastened to theSynod Hall, where the Conference was to be held; for the result of theballot was to be announced at the end of the first part of theConference. 

There was some routine business to get over when it opened, and after awhile the President rose and gave the result of the ballot, which showeda considerable majority for acceptance, and this brought the adjournmentfor dinner. 

Robert felt that he wanted to spend a quiet five minutes or so beforethe Conference resumed; so he hurried through with his dinner and thenstrolled out into Princes Street Gardens, which attracted him very much. His mind seemed to want peace and quietness, and as he walked along, turning over the situation and examining it from all points of view, thefluttering of early mating birds among the shrubs soon shifted histhoughts to other things; and, as they romped and courted, and foughtamong the bushes, his thoughts went back to the moor at home, and thelittle wood, and the memories of other things. 

The vague stirrings of power within him had become more pronouncedduring the last six months, and he felt conscious of a growing sense ofimportance. It was not that he was conceited, but his mental muscles, asit were, seemed to have gained in power from the strenuous exertionswhich they had lately undertaken. 

He knew that he possessed talents far above the average of his class. Hewas sensible of a certain superiority, yet it was not from thecontemplation of this that he drew his elation. He saw the issue quiteclearly and knew the pathway which must be trodden. He was notpersonally ambitious for the sake of making an impression or gainingpower. He knew that in too many cases men had in the past made theirposition a sinecure in the Labor Movement and he condemned their action. The Movement must be served and not lived on. Not personal betterment, but the betterment of the whole lot. Whatever it demanded of servicefrom anyone should be given willingly, no matter in what direction thecall were made. 

Musing thus, he strolled along among his hopes of the future. His life'swork lay here, working for his own class--for humanity. There wasnothing else to win him; for like most young men in like circumstanceshe had already concluded that now, since Mysie was not to be his, therewas nothing else to which he could better devote his life. 

Where was Mysie, he wondered? What had happened to her? She hadcompletely gone out of everybody's knowledge, and no one seemed to knowanything about her. 

He moved slowly along and at the thought of Mysie his former decisionseemed a cold one and he felt that she still held a big place in hislife. Moving towards a seat a little way ahead so that he might enjoythis mood, the figure of a girl started up as if to go, and immediatelyhe rushed forward, all his pulses afire, and his whole being stirredbeyond words. 

"Mysie!" he exclaimed, jumping forward, "Guid God! where have you comefrom? Where have you been?" and his hands were holding hers, and hiseyes greedily scanning her face as if he would look into her very soul, and read the story of the last few months. 

"Oh, Rob, " she said, with a gasp, "I didna think I wad meet you here. "

"Sit down, " he said hurriedly, as he recovered himself. "Sit down andrest. You're ill. What's the matter? Where have you been? Tell me allabout it!" There were tears in Mysie's eyes too, as she weakly sat down, unable to do anything else. She had recognized him as he approached, andhad started up to get away; but he had also recognized her, and she wastoo late. 

"Hoo is my mither an' my faither?" she enquired, after a short silence, as she tried to recover herself. "Hoo are they a' at hame?" the greedyheart hunger for loved ones drove her to the impatient enquiry. "Didthey miss me muckle, Rob? Were they awfu' vexed at what I did? Tell mea' aboot it then, I want to ken. "

"But you must tell me first aboot yoursel', Mysie, " he repliedevasively, searching in his mind the best way to adopt in telling her ofthe things he knew would wound her. "Come, Mysie, " he urged, "you surelycan trust me. I have always been your friend, and I only wish now tohear all about you. Why did you go away?"

She saw him look at her, and a quick flush overspread her thin, palecheeks as she detected his look. He had no need to ask further. 

"Oh, Rob, I wish--I wish I had died a year syne!" and a wild burst ofsobbing came over her as she spoke. 

"Dinna greet, Mysie, " he said, as his hand reached out and began tostroke her hair tenderly. Then after a short pause, "Wha was he, Mysie?Tell me, an' I'll tear the black heart oot o' him!"

But Mysie only cried, uncontrollably, and hid her face in her hands; forthe homely doric on Robert's tongue touched her and it came readier tohim in moments like these, and the tender touch of his hand upon herhead gave her comfort, soothing her, and staying her grief, as a childis quieted by the loving hand of a mother. 

"I'll tell you a' aboot it, Rob, " she said at last after a short time. "An' I hope you'll no' tell onybody. There's naebody to blame but mysel'for a' that has happened, an' I maun bear the punishment if there ispunishment gaun, " and bit by bit, with many an effort to compose herselfas she spoke, she told him the whole sad story from beginning to end. 

"There was naebody to blame, Rob--naebody but mysel'! I should hae kentbetter. But I never thocht it wad hae turned oot as it has done. I haebeen gey ill, an' I maun say that Peter has been awful guid to me. He'sdone his best to get me better, so that he can marry me afore ithappens. I lay for nearly six months, an' I wasna carin' whether I diedor no'! I was fair heartbroken, an' didna mind what happened. This isthe first day I hae been oot. He cam' this mornin' frae his lodgings taeask me tae gang oot a wee while in the sunshine, seein' that it was sica guid day, and Mrs. Ramsay brocht me oot here, and warned me to sittill she cam' back. When I saw you comin' I got up to run awa', but Idinna ken whaur to run to; for this big toon is a' strange to me, an'I'm feart. "

"Oh, if I had only kent! You maun keep yoursel' as free frae worry aspossible, an' try an' get better, " he went on, trying to speak aslightly as possible. "Keep up your spirits, an' you'll maybe soon be a'better. "

"Aye, Rob, " she said, "but it's no' easy. An' I hae been gettin' waurinstead o' better. I ken mysel' that I'm no' improvin', an' I oftenthink it wad hae been better if I had died. When folk don't want tolive--when they've nothing to be happy aboot they are better to dee!"

"But you maunna talk like that, Mysie, " he said again. "You'll getbetter yet, an' be as happy as ever you were. It is only because you areill noo an' you sae weak, that mak's you talk like that. An' forby youmaun mind that there are ither folk wha'll be vexed if you dinna getbetter. Your faither and your mither wad like to see you weel an' happy, an' oh, Mysie, Mysie, I want you to get weel!" he broke outpassionately--pleadingly, the misery in his voice going to her heart asit cried to her, ached for her, and suffered for her. "Wad you haemarried me, Mysie, if I had asked you afore you went awa'?" and hishands were again stroking tenderly the brown hair and patting the thincheeks as he spoke and plead. 

"Ay, Rob, " she answered simply, "I wad hae married you. I sometimesthink yet that I'll never marry onybody else. As a lassie I aye dreamedin my ain mind that I'd be your wife. It's awfu' hoo the things thatfolk want maist are aye the things they never get!"

"Mysie, wad you marry me yet?" he asked, impulsively. "Jist this minute?An' I'll tak' you hame, an' naebody will ken onything. I'll take a' theblame, an' you can say that it was me. I'll nurse you back to healthagain wi' my mither's help an' naebody need ken the richt wye o' it!"

"No, Rob, " she said after a short pause. "I couldna dae that. It wadneither be fair to you or me, nor to onybody else. "

"But, Mysie, " he went on in the low tender voice that was so difficultto withstand, "you don't like Peter weel enough to be his wife. You sayyou never intended to be onybody's wife but mine; an' what wye shouldyou no' do as I propose? You ken I'll never do onything else but loveyou. You ken that, Mysie!"

"Ay, Rob, " she answered, "I ken a' that. Naebody kens it better than menoo; and that's what mak's it sae awfu' hard to refuse. But it wadna bericht at a', an' that's a' that can be thocht aboot it. You maunna askme ony mair. "

"But I will ask you, " he cried in another burst of passion, "an' I'llkeep on askin' you. You ken you are mine, an' naebody else has a richtto you. I love you, Mysie! Oh, can you no' see, lassie, that it wad bea' richt if you'd do as I want you?"

"No, no, Rob. Dinna say that. It wadna be richt at a', an' I'd be doin'anither wrang thing if I did. "

"But you said jist the noo, that you sometimes thocht you wadna marryonybody else?"

"Yes, I ken I said that, " she replied. Then with pain in her voice as itgrew more pitiful, "Dinna ask me, Rob, to do that. I ken it wadna bericht, an' you munna ask me ony mair; for though I said that I sometimesthocht I wadna marry onybody else, I canna marry you noo. Oh! if only mymither kent, it would break her heart, an' my faither wad dee o' thedisgrace! What do they think o' me, Rob? Tell me a'--hoo are they, an'if they miss me very much. "

"Your faither and mither nearly broke their hearts, " he said simply, "an' at nicht your mother lies an' thinks an' wonders what has come owreyou. You ken hoo a mither grieves an' worries aboot her bairns. Shenever thocht o' sic a thing happening in her family. She was aye saeprood o' them a'. I heard her say ane day to my mither that she dootityou maun be deid, or you wad hae sent her word; and that you wadna haegane wrang. She never, she said, kent o' you takin' up wi' men, an' wassure that naething o' that kind had happened. "

"Did she really think that, Rob?" asked Mysie, glad to know that hermother had believed in her virtue, yet pained. "Rob, if only mithers wadbe mair open wi' their lassies an' tell them o' the things theyshouldna' do, an' the dangers that lie afore them. But tell me abootthem a'. What did my faither say aboot it? How are they a' keepin'?"

This was the question which Robert had feared most, for although MatthewMaitland had said very little, everybody knew that he grieved sorelyover his daughter's disappearance, and at the time was lying very ill. He was fast nearing the end, which most colliers of the day reached--cutoff in middle life, made old by bad ventilation in the mines, and blackdamp. His condition was almost despaired of by the doctor, and whenRobert left Lowwood that evening for Edinburgh, he was in a verycritical state. Two months before, the oldest boy, who was some twoyears younger than Mysie, had been taken suddenly ill, and had diedafter a few days' illness. 

How was he to tell Mysie of this? How tell her that John was dead, andher father perhaps dying? How tell of her mother eating out her heart inthe hungry longing for news of the missing girl, and killing herselfwith work and worry?

"Your faither's no' very weel, Mysie, " he began evasively, his eyesturned away from her, in an attempt at hiding what he felt. 

"What's wrang wi' him, Rob?" she asked, the quick alarm in her voicecutting his heart as she spoke. 

"He hasna been workin' for fully a fortnicht, " he replied. 

"But what's wrang?" she persisted. "Is he ill?"

"Mysie, I'd raither onything than be the means o' painin' you, for youare no' in a fit state to be worried. "

"You maun tell me, Rob, " she cried fiercely, her face showingexcitement. "What is it that is wrang? Is he awfu' ill?"

"He's lyin' gey bad, Mysie, an' when I cam' awa' this mornin', I didnalike the look o' him at a'. He was kind o' wanderin' in his mind, an'speakin' to you an' John, jist as he used to speak when we were a'bairns thegither. He was liltin' some o' thae auld sangs he used to singto us. But dinna greet, Mysie, you'll mak' yoursel' waur. You are novery strong, you ken, an' if you worry it'll mak' you waur. You shouldraither try an' bear up, an' get strong, an' maybe gang an' see him. He'd be awfu' prood to see you, an' so wad your mither. "

"No, no, " she cried. "I canna gang. It wad kill them to see me noo, an'I couldna bear't, if they should be angry wi' me. I couldna face theiranger, Rob. "

"Weel, Mysie, " he said, drawing a long breath, as if to face a stiffproposition, "there is no other way out of it, but that you'll hae tomarry me now--just this minute, an' gang back wi' me. If you do that, Ican tak' you back wi' me, an' gang to your faither an' say that it wasme that was responsible. It can be done, Mysie, if only you'll agree toit. Come, Mysie!" he cried in a burst of passionate pleading. "I wantyou. Mysie, Mysie! Say that you'll come. "

Robert looked at her pale, thin, emaciated face with greedy pleading inhis eyes. He saw the thin-looking, hungry body as it shook with hersobs, and that terrible cough, which seemed as if it would carry heraway before his eyes. "Say you'll come, Mysie!" he pleaded, his handsheld out appealingly. "Say you'll come, an' it'll be so easy. "

"No, no, " she sobbed vehemently, "I canna do that. Dinna ask me onymair, Rob, I canna do that. It wadna be fair. "

A hopeless look came into his eyes as he listened to her words, for heknew that Mysie could never consent to his proposal. Frail as she was, and torn by her wish to agree, yet he knew she meant it, when she saidno. 

"Where do you live, Mysie?" he enquired at last, thinking to find someway of helping her. "Wad you gie me your address, so that I'll ken whereyou bide?"

"No, I dinna want to tell you, Rob. You'd better gang awa' noo. Mrs. Ramsay will soon be comin' for me. Gang awa' an' leave me. I want to bea wee while by mysel'. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leaveit a'!"

Robert stole away on tiptoe, as if he were afraid longer to intrude uponher grief--his mind in a whirl, and his heart heavy with sorrow. Hereturned to the Conference to find that the debate was in full swing, and that Davie Donaldson, was laying about him in vigorous style, denouncing the leaders for recommending the terms to the men, andtelling them that the "wee chocolate-moothed Chancellor had againdiddled them. "

But he felt no interest in Davie's denunciation, and could not smile athis picturesque language. His mind would revert to the gardens inPrinces Street, and he saw the thin white figure on the seat, thepicture of hopeless misery, her frail form torn with sobs; and heard thewail in her voice as she moaned, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could deean' leave it a'!"

Some of the young delegates wondered why Sinclair remained silent insuch an important debate. They had succeeded in raising a question whichat any other time would have brought him to his feet; but he satimpassive and silent, and above all the clash and glamor, above theapplause and the interruptions, above all the witty sallies whichbrought unexpected laughter, he saw only the thin, white lonelyfigure--the dejected and outcast, the poor plaything of fate, and heardthe heart-breaking cry, "Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave it a'!"and in every syllable there was a stab of pain. 

The Conference ended, and the delegates made homeward. The terms hadbeen agreed to, so far as Scotland was concerned, and all pointed topeace. 

"You didna speak the day, Sinclair, and I fairly thocht you wad hae beeninto the fecht, " said one delegate to Robert, as the train moved awayfrom the station. 

"No, I wasna feelin' up to the mark, " he returned, in a tone thathinted that he did not want to be troubled, and he sat back in hiscorner in silence. In the gray quick gloaming the moors and the hills, viewed from the train, seemed to him a country without hope. There wassadness in it, and pain, and the gray wintry sky brooded of sorrows tocome. 

Occasionally a few sheep would start away from where they had beengrazing close to the railway, startled by the noise of the train. Thinwisps of gray ragged clouds hung low, as if softly descending upon thehills, in fateful sinister storms, and a fiery flash of yellow left astrip of anger on the western horizon, where the sun had gone down ashort time ago. 

Gray mists and grayer moors, with occasionally a solitary tree standingout in the distance, as if to accentuate the loneliness and the sorrowof the world in their ragged branches, which seemed ready to pierce thesky in defiance of the anger of the, as yet, unleashed storm. 

On rushed the train, and through the mists there kept coming before hiseyes the white lonely figure, moaning in fatal grief--grief inexorableand unrelenting, while the flying wheels groaned and sobbed and clicked, with the regular beat of a breaking heart, as if they were beating outthe sorrows of the world, and over all they sang the dirge of the brokenlife of a maid. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave ita'!"

CHAPTER XXII

MYSIE'S RETURN

When Mrs. Ramsay returned she found Mysie in a fainting condition, thoroughly exhausted, and on the point of collapse. Mrs. Ramsay saw, byher red swollen eyes, that she had been weeping. With the help of herdaughter the kind woman, who had done so much for Mysie during the pastfew months, got her to the street, and procuring a cab, got her back tothe house, much alarmed by the patient's condition. 

All night Mysie tossed and raved in a high fever and delirium, whileMrs. Ramsay sat by her bedside, trying to soothe and quieten thestricken girl. As she seemed to get no better the older woman grew morealarmed. 

"Oh, my puir faither!" moaned the girl. "Oh, mither, I am vexed at whathas happened. Oh, dear, I wonder what I'll do!"

"There now, dearie!" said Mrs. Ramsay in warm sympathetic tones, as shestroked the burning hands and brow. "Try and quieten down and go tosleep. You were getting on very well, you know, and making fineprogress, but you'll make yourself worse than ever if you carry on likethat. There now, dearie! Try and get to sleep, and you'll soon be betteragain!"

But Mysie was silent only for a moment, and the low moan soon broke fromher lips again, like the wail of some stricken thing at night upon themoor, and still she tossed and tumbled feverishly in her bed. 

In the morning the doctor came and shook his head. Mysie was ill, veryill. Her condition was serious, and it was little he could do. Only careand good nursing and try to keep her from worrying. He left aprescription, and Peter soon had the necessary medicine, and later thepatient grew calmer, and finally sank into a deep sleep; and so the oldfight had to be fought over again, to get her strength restored and hervitality increased. 

Mysie did not mention another word of home. She lay quiet, hardly evenmoving and seldom speaking; but the burning fire that consumed her wasapparent in her hectic cheeks and glowing eyes, and one could see thather mind was away, never dwelling upon her surroundings, but waswandering among the heather hills and quiet valleys, where the call ofthe curlew and the shout of the lapwing stir the primitive impulses ofthose who love the haunts of the moorland life, and weave so muchromance into the lives and souls of the country bred people, who nevergrow to love the ugly towns, but whose hearts remain with their firstlove--the moors, and the hills, and the mountain brooks for ever. 

She seemed to grow a little stronger as the days passed. She took hermedicines regularly and without protest; but deep down in her heart shefelt that she would never get better, and her only desire, that had beenshaping itself ever since Robert had told her of her father's condition, was to be strong enough, to go home to Lowwood, just to see her parents, her brothers and sisters, once more; then she could die in peace. Ifonly she could do that, she would not care what happened. Nothing elsemattered; but she must get home. Nothing would prevent her from doingthat. 

It was the instinct of the wounded animal, dragging itself home todie--home to its home in the kindly earth, away from contact with otherthings--just to be alone, to nurse its suffering and its misery, tillthe last shred of strength had gone, and the limbs stiffened out, whilethe glazing eyes looked forward as the pain increased, across thebarriers of other worlds to a land of plenty--a land of green shrubs, and sweet waters bubbling from scented hillsides, overhung with blueskies which never brewed storms. A land of bud and bloom and blossom, scented and sweet, with every desirable weed and tasty herb--a land oflife full and beautiful, of warm suns, calling up dreams from ablossoming mist of bluebells, creating the freshness and the happinessof youthfulness in every living thing. A land where far vistas and widehorizons, bounded by green hills, brought visions from the inner self, with joyous abundance through lusty life, and glorious passionatebeing--a land sweet and fruitful, and never-ending in its beauty and itsmeans of happiness!

Slowly the days passed, and her strength gradually increased little bylittle, until a month had gone past, and she was able to be about thehouse again; but this determination in her heart to go home grewstronger with every day that passed, and it seemed to give her strengthand vitality, and her hope became more definite and more sure. 

She pictured her home again, as she had known it; the little kitchen, with its white scrubbed floor and a few newspapers spread over its newlywashed surface to keep it clean from muddy feet; the white-washed jambsof the fireside, and the grate polished with blacklead; the clear-toppedfender, with its inscription done in brass in the center, "Oor ainfireside"; the half-dozen strong sturdy, well-washed chairs; thewhitewood dresser, with its array of dog ornaments and cheap vases, andwhite crocheted cover; and the curtains over the two beds in thekitchen. All these things she loved to think about, and she saw thempictured in her mind as real as they'd ever been to her when her ownlife was centered in them, and her fancy took delight in these secretjoys. It was her home she saw always, the humble "but and ben" with theprimitive conditions of life, the crude amenities, the sweet joys ofsimple unaffected people; but it was her home. 

One day, Mrs. Ramsay had gone out on an errand that detained her sometime, Mysie seized suddenly again in a more intense form by her desireto go home, feverishly dressed herself, and hastily scribbling a note ofthanks to her good friend and nurse, she stole out on to the street, apoor, forlorn, weak girl, but thoroughly determined to go home to whereher heart called her. 

Out upon the street, she grew frightened. She did not know anythingabout the city, nor in which direction to turn. She had no idea how farit was to the station. She was helpless and alone, and very muchexcited. 

A boy passed her, whistling as she had often heard her own brotherswhistling, and hastily calling to him she accosted him thus:

"Could you tell me hoo far it is to the station?"

"Whit station?" asked the boy, and she suddenly remembered it wasPrinces Street, and mentioned it. "Oh, ay; it's no' faur, " he saidairily, as he pointed in the direction of it. "Jist gang alang thatway, " and he turned away as if to leave her. 

"Wad you tak' me to it, an' I'll gie you a shillin'?" she asked, and heeagerly turned at once to close the bargain. 

"Oh, ay, " he agreed, "I'll soon tak' you there, " and the two set off;and guided by the boy, whose knowledge of the city seemed to herwonderful in one so young, they arrived at the station, with Mysie verytired and half-fainting with excitement. 

"Hae you a ticket?" asked the boy, judging from her appearance that sheneeded to be reminded of such things. 

"No, I forgot I hadna got yin, " replied Mysie. "I wonder where I'll haeto gang to get yin. Hoo much will it be, think you?"

"Oh, I dinna ken, " said the boy. "Come alang here to the bookin' office, an' ask a ticket for the place you want to gang to, an' the clerk willsoon tell you the price o't. "

Luckily Mysie had a few pounds in a purse which Peter had given her sometime ago, in case she might want to go out, he said, and buy somethingshe might want. Going to the booking office, and guided by her littlefriend, she timorously made known her wants, and a ticket was given her;and she returned under her youthful escort, who enquired the time of thetrains leaving of a porter, and conducted her to the platform, andhelped her into the train, which soon started off on the homewardjourney. 

"Thenk you, " said the boy, his eyes glowing with pleasure at the twoshining half-crowns which Mysie had given him, and he waved his hand toher as the train steamed out of the platform. 

"Going home, going home, " sang the wheels as the train rushed along. "Going home, " with every beat of her heart they answered her with theircheery monotone. "Going home, " they gurgled, as they freely ran down thegradients. "Going home, going home, " as they ran along the flat moor. "Going home, going home, " they panted up the inclines, but still joyousin the thought of getting there. 

Home, aye, home, they were taking her. Home to the cheery fireside, withthe homely fare and the warm hearts! To the cosy corner by the fender ather father's feet, to the music of her mother's clicking needles as sheknitted; to the sweet comfort of the love and kindness of brothers andsisters; to the warmth of glowing smiles and loving hearts. Home! Home!Oh, God! Comfort of weary and battered humanity, dragging its woundedand broken life to the shelter and the sanctity of love. So rose herhopes, and her heart sang as the brooding night lowered and the windrose, bringing the rain lashing from the spring clouds to burnish themoor with storms. Home to the hearts that loved her first, and wouldlove her to the end. 

At last the train steamed into the little station from which she hadfirst gone to the great city, and everything looked just the same asupon that night, when she had stolen across the moor to run away whereshe expected to hide her shame, and try and redeem that one mistakenimpulse, which had been so thoughtlessly indulged, and so terribly paidfor in suffering and tears. The station-master looked at her keenly asshe passed. She seemed so frail and weak looking to be abroad in such anight; but she passed on and out upon the country road that ran acrossthe moor, where the darkness always lay thickest, and where the terrorsof the timid were greatest, and the storms raged fiercest. 

On she battled, already feeling weak and tired; but always the thoughtof home waiting for her impelled her onward. Home was waiting overthere--waiting just two miles off, where she could see the twinkling ofthe lights from the pithead at which she had worked, and where she hadbeen so happy at the dreams conjured by six and sixpence per week. Downrushed the wind from the hills, careering along the wide moor, drivingthe rain and hail in front, as if he would burst the barriers of theworld and go free. 

She halted and turned her back upon the blows, as if she would fall; butthere were light and warmth, and love and cheerfulness over there, ifonly she could hold out till she reached them. 

She turned again, and a sheep scampered across the moorland path just infront, and the soft bleat of an early lamb soothed the quick excitedleap in her heart. The rain ceased, and a pale glitter of the rim of amoon, like the paring of a giant's nail in the sky, glinted from behindthe dark cloud, and flung a silver radiance over the bog-pools around, which glittered like patches of fairy silver upon a land of romance. 

She was wet, but not cold. The fever in her blood raged and shestaggered forward again, slowly and tottering. A smile was playing abouther lips and eyes. Her lips were parted, and her breast rose and felllike the heaving beat of an engine. But home beckoned and lured heronward, and the hope of a long dream filled her soul. Again a sharpscurry in front drove her heart to her mouth, as two hares battled andtore at each other for the love of the female which sat close by, watching the contest. 

The sharp swish of the wings of lapwings, as they dived towards her, filling the moors with their hard rasping double note, and also battlingfor possession of a mate, stirred her frightened blood; and at everystep some new terror thrilled her, and kept her continually in a stateof fear. 

Still she plodded on, and another squall of rain and hail followed, giving place soon to the glory of the cold moon, and again obscuring itin a quick succession of showers and calm moonshine. But there was homein front, and she was always drawing nearer. Just a little while now, afew hundred yards or so, and she would be there. 

Weak and exhausted, stumbling and rising again, driven by thatunrelenting, irresistible desire, this poor waif of humanity, impelledby sheer force of will, staggered and crawled towards its hope, forwardto its dream, and at last stood by the window of the home it had sought. 

Panting and utterly worn out, she stood holding on to the window ledge, her will now weakened, her strength of mind gone, and her desireforsaking her now that she was there. 

The wind fell to a mere whisper, and she stooped to look in at a chinkin the shutter, the tears running in hot, scalding streams from her eyesand blinding her vision. The soft stirring of little limbs beneath herheart brought back the old desire to hide herself from everyone she hadknown. 

Oh, God! It was terrible thus to be torn; for she had sung the song ofall motherhood in her own simple way--the song of the love thatrecreates the world. The same song that enables motherhood to communewith God. "I will walk in the pure air of the uplands, so that your lifeshall be sweet and clean. I shall bathe my body in the sweet waters ofthe earth, so that you shall be pure; I shall walk in meditation andsolitude, so that your thoughts shall be worthy thoughts; I shall dwellon the hillsides, so that your mind shall be lofty; I shall love allliving things, so that you shall be godly in the love of your kind; Ishall be humble, so that you shall not be proud; I shall be tender, wandering among the sweet flowers, so that you shall never be rough orunkindly; I shall serve, so that you shall be kingly in your service toothers. 

"Down in the valleys I shall linger, drinking in the music of sweetstreams; and the songs of the morning and the eventide shall make yougentle and happy. The tender grass shall be my couch upon the moor, sothat you can know the restfulness and comfort of love. The gratefultrees shall shade me from the fierce heat of the sun, so that you shallbe restful, yet active in kind deeds. Oh, I shall clothe me in thesweetest thoughts, and sing the sweetest songs, speak the kindliestwords, and do the friendliest deeds--I shall lie down in gratitude forall that has ever been rendered to me, and shall keep faith with love, so that you--you who are me, you who are my heart and mind, my body andsoul shall be ushered into the world as a savior of the race; and thelyrics of the dawn and the dayfall, of the golden, glorious day, and thesilver radiant night, shall all be thine to interpret, in spirit and inword and service. "

Thus had motherhood sung in all ages, weaving the dreams of hope aboutthe soul which she had called from eternity, after having gone upon thatlong perilous journey into the land of Everywhere to bring back a newlife to the world. Mysie dashed the warm tears from her eyes, and lookedagain through the chink in the shutter. 

She had a full view of the kitchen. It was the same cosy, bright placeit had always been, when she had sat there on the corner of the fendero' nights, her head against her father's knee, as he read out the newsfrom the evening paper, while her mother sewed, or darned, or knitted. 

Her father sat in the easy chair, pale and thin and weak. He looked ill, and it seemed as if he were merely out of his bed, so that her mothermight change the linen, for she was busy pulling off pillow-cases andputting clean ones on, and turning the chaff-filled tick to make iteasier for his poor bones to lie on. 

He lay back in his chair, his eyes half closed, as if tired. 

"The wind has surely gane doon noo, " Mysie heard her mother observe, asshe spread out the clean white sheet upon the bed. 

"Ay, it seems to hae quietened, " returned Matthew weakly. "It has beenan awfu' nicht, and gey wild. "

"Ay, it has that. Peety ony puir body that has been oot in it, " said hermother, with a deep sigh, as she folded back the blankets. "It's anawfu' nicht for the homeless to be oot in. "

Silence reigned for a short time, and only the whisper of the windoutside prevented the sobs of the poor waif at the window being heard. 

"You are lookin' a wee better the nicht, Matthew, " said Mrs. Maitlandafter a long thoughtful pause, as she drew in her chair beside his. 

"Ay, I'm feelin' no' sae bad, " he answered feebly. Then, as if havingmade up his mind about something, he went on, as he looked into theglowing fire, "Do you ken, wife, I hae been thinkin' a lot aboot oorMysie a' day. I wonder what'll be the cause o't? But a' day she has beenin my mind, an' I only hope naething has come to her. "

"I dinna ken, Matthew, " she said; for this was the first time he hadspoken about their missing daughter since the day they had learned ofher disappearance. He had always remained silent when she had givenexpression to her thoughts regarding Mysie; but thinking this anencouragement, she spoke about her, and he too, in a way that made herwonder; for he was never talkative at any time, and it seemed as if hisheart was hungering to talk of their bairn. 

"I wonder what wad hae come owre her, that nae spierin's o' her could begot. Puir Mysie! I liket that wean, wife--liket her maybe owre weel; an'my heart has been sair for her mony a time, wonderin' what has come o'her!"

Mrs. Maitland lifted a corner of her rough apron and wiped her eyes, asshe cried softly at hearing her husband thus speak of their missingdaughter. 

"Do you think she'll be living, Matthew?" she asked looking through hertears at her husband anxiously. 

"That's hard to say, wife, " he replied, a break in his voice. "SometimesI think she maun be deid, or she wad hae come back to us in some way. Ithink we liket her weel enough, an' she kent it, and she was ay a guidlassie at a' times. "

"Ay, she was, " replied the mother, "a guid bairn, an' a clever yin abootthe hoose; an' I never had an angry word frae her a' my days. Oh, Matthew, " she cried out, again bursting into tears, and sobbingpitifully, "what is't we hae done to be tried like this? Mysie gane, an'guid kens where she is, an' John ta'en awa' jist when oor battle wasbeginnin' to get easier. Noo you hae been laid aside yoursel', an' Godkens hoo we are to do, for hinna a penny left in the hoose! Oh, dear, but it's a hard lot we hae to suffer!" and she sobbed in silence, whileher husband stroked her pale, thin, toil-worn hands that hid her weepingeyes. 

"Wheesht, lassie!" he said brokenly. "Dinna you break doon noo, for youhae been the mainstay o' us a', when we wad hae lost heart often. I usedto think that oor lot couldna be harder, when the bairns were a' wee, an' we were struggling frae haun' to mooth, to see them fed an' cled. But wi' a' the hardships, thae days were happy. We were baith young, an'I was aye fairly healthy an' when we locked the door at nicht, we weresatisfied that a' that belanged to us were inside, an' in safety, eventhough their wee stomachs maybe werena' ower fu'. But noo we canna dothat, wife. Some hae gane to where want an' poverty canna hurt them, an'that is a consolation; but where will oor lassie be, that never gi'ed usa wrang word a' her days? Is she in want this nicht, the same as we areoorsels? Will she be hungry an' homeless, ill clad, an' oot in thestorm? If she is, then God peety her. If only we had her aside us, hunger wad be easier tholed for us a', " and Matthew, unable to controlhimself longer, completely broke down and wept, mingling his tears withthose of his wife, because of their misery and poverty and suffering. 

The girl outside could hardly restrain herself at thus hearing herparents speak. She sobbed and held on to the window ledge, her eyesfixed greedily upon the open chink in the shutter, listening to, andlooking at her parents in their misery, as they sat and talked so kindlyand anxiously about her--talked so that every word was a stab at herheart; for she had never heard them open their hearts like this before. 

"Ay, wife, " he said after a time, "it was a sair blow to me. I could haefain dee'd at the time; I was fair heartbroken. It's a gey queer worldthat brings the keenest pangs frae them that yin likes best. I could haedee'd gladly to hae saved that bairn frae the slightest hurt!"

"Matthew, " said the mother, speaking with all her soul in her eyes, asshe looked at him, "if by ony chance it should turn oot that Mysie gaedwrang an' fell into disgrace, wad ye tak' her back, if she should comehame again?" and there was a world of pleading in the mother's voice asshe spoke. 

"Tak' her back! Oh, God, I'd dae onything to hae her here at thismeenit, nae matter though it should be proved that she was guilty o' thewarst sin under the sun. Tak' her back! Oh, wife! my heart is breakin'for her!" and he lifted his thin worn hand to his eyes and sobbed in hisgrief. 

"Weel, Matthew, " returned the wife, "if ever she does come back, naematter when it may be, or hoo it may be, I'm glad you'll no be harsh wi'her. You'll just speak to her as if naething had happened; for I kenshe'll be mair feart to face you than onybody else. Jist try an' mak'her believe, when you speak, that she had gane awa' to the store amessage, or to the well for watter, an' that she had bidden owre lang, as she an' ither weans used to do when they got started the play, an'forget to come hame. Jist speak to her that way, Matthew, an' thehame-comin', if ever it comes, will no' be sae hard for the puir bairn. For God knows, it micht be hard enough for her!"

The girl outside, listening eagerly to every word, tried to cry out withthe pain of all this talk by her parents, but her tongue clove to herparched mouth, and her lips were stiff and dry. 

"I'll never be harsh wi' a bairn o' mine, wife, " he replied brokenly. "Iliket Mysie owre weel ever to be harsh wi' her. Oh, if only I could seeher afore me this nicht, I wad gie a' I ever had in the world. To haeher sittin' here, as she used to sit, her wee heid wi' its soft hairagainst my knee, an' my haun clappin' it, an' her bonnie een lookin' upat me, as if I was something she aye looket up to, as bein' better thanony living being she ever kenned, wad be mair pleasure for me thisminute than if I got a' the money in the world. I'd swap heaven and mychances o' salvation, wife, jist to hae her sittin' here on the fender, as she used to sit. Hunger an' a' the rest wad be easy borne for that. "

There was a soft rustling sound at the window as he spoke, and a slowstep was heard, which seemed to drag along towards the door, then afumbling at the sneck, the handle lifted, and the door opened slowlyinwards, as if reluctant to reveal its secret. 

It was a tense poignant moment for all; for both the father and mother, weak as the former was, rose to their feet expectantly, their eyessearching the slowly opening door, as a thin pale draggled figureentered and staggered forward with a low pitiful cry of "Faither!Mother! I've come hame!" and tottering forward, fell at Matthew's feet, clasping his knees with the thin fragile hands, while the tears of aheart-breaking sorrow flowed from the appealing eyes, upturned to theamazed parents. 

"Mysie! Mysie!" he sobbed, clasping her to his thin worn knees, andkissing the bent head, as she sobbed and cried. "Oh, Mysie! Mysie! butyou hae been a lang time at the store!"

CHAPTER XXIII

HOME

"Oh my puir wean! My bonnie bairn!" crooned Mrs. Maitland, as she bentover the figure of her daughter who, clinging to Matthew's knees, waslooking up into his face, as he lay back in his chair where he hadfallen, when Mysie fell at his feet. "Oh, my puir lamb, you're wet tothe skin, an' fair done; for God knows its an' awfu' mess you hae cam'hame in. "

"Puir thing, " she wailed and crooned, again breaking out after havingkissed and fondled Mysie's wet face. "We hae lang hungered foryou--hungered for you for a gey lang time, an' noo you hae cam' hame, near to daith's door. But we'll nurse you back. We'll mak' you strongand healthy again. Oh, Mysie, my puir lassie. What ails you? Where haeyou been? What has happened to you a' this time? But what am I thinkingaboot, " she broke off, "sitting here, when I should be gettin' some dryclaes for you, an' a bed ready. "

She rose and began to busy herself shaking up a bed and diving intodrawers, bringing clean clothes forth and hanging them over a piece ofrope which stretched across the fireplace, so as to air and heat them, the tears streaming from her eyes and occasionally a low moan breakingfrom her as if forced by some inward pain; while Matthew, nearlyovercome with excitement, could only lie back in his chair, his eyesclosed and his hands stroking tenderly the wet young head that layagainst his knee. 

"Faither, " murmured Mysie, brokenly and weakly, "oh, faither, I've comeback. Jist let me lie here near you. I jist want you to clap my held, tolean against you, an' gang to sleep. Are you angry wi' me, faither? Areyou--" and Mysie's eyes closed in a faint, as she lay limp against hisknee. 

Just then the door opened and Mrs. Sinclair came in. She always came in, after she had got everyone in the house to bed, to see how Matthew felt. It was her first errand in the morning and her last before retiring atnight. She was generally the last visitor, and the door was alwayslocked and barred when she went away. 

"Oh, Nellie, come awa' in, " said Matthew. "You're a God's send thisnicht. I'm glad to see you. Mysie's jist cam' back, an' she has fented. Gie's a bit haun' wi' her to get her into bed. Puir thing. She's fairdone up, " and Matthew tried to raise up the prostrate figure of hisbairn; but sank back too weak, and too overcome to do anything. 

"Dinna you trouble yourself, Matthew, " said Mrs. Sinclair, gathering theprostrate girl in her arms and raising her up on her knee like a child. "Bring some dry claes. Jenny, an' get some warm watter bottles in thebed. Puir thing, she's in an awfu' state. She's a' tremblin' an' maunhae been awfu' ill, " and she worked with and stripped the wet clothesfrom the girl and soon had her in bed, but in spite of all her effortsMysie remained unconscious. She then left to get the doctor summoned, leaving the sorrowing parents to look after the girl till she returned. 

When she did come back, Matthew was in bed and his condition very muchworse. The excitement had been too much for him in his weakened stateand he lay exhausted, crying like a child. 

Soon the doctor came and did all in his power. At the end of an hourMysie's eyes opened and she looked about her. 

"Where's my faither?" she asked weakly. "Oh, I'm gled I'm hame. "

"He's in bed, " answered Mrs. Sinclair. "An' you're no' to talk thenicht, Mysie. Jist lie still, like a good lass, an' drink this, an' inthe mornin' you'll may be a bit better. " And Mysie drank, and with asigh of happy contentment, she turned her face to the wall, glad she wasnow at home--home with her wounded spirit and broken life. 

The soft easy chaff bed gave her more of rest and satisfaction than ifit had been eiderdown. She traced as of old the roses upon the cheappaper with which the box bed was papered, and which had been hermother's pride when it was put on. Mysie watched the twining andintertwining of the roses, as they reached upward toward the ceilingthrough a maze of woodbine and red carnations, and noted that thecurtains upon the bed were the same as they were when she had last sleptthere. 

The old wag-at-the-wa' clock which had belonged to her grandfather, wheezed wearily from the corner and the shrill eerie call of a courtingcat outside broke familiarly upon her ear. Thus surrounded by the sightsand sounds of old, a glad contentment in her heart, she soon dozed offinto a deep sleep. 

When Mrs. Sinclair went home just as midnight was striking she foundRobert sitting by the fire wondering at her absence. He had justreturned from a meeting at a neighboring village, and finding hisbrothers and sisters all in bed and his mother not in the house with histea ready for him as usual, he wondered what was the matter. 

"I was owre at Matthew's, " she replied in answer to the question sheknew he was going to ask. 

"Is he waur the nicht?" he asked quickly. 

"Weel, it's no' him, although he's gey upset too; but Mysie has cam'hame the nicht, an' puir lassie she is in an awfu' state, " and she wasquick to note the soft blanching of his cheek as she spoke. 

"Mysie hame, " he echoed with quick interest. 

"Ay, puir lassie; but I doot if I'm no' cheated that Mysie'll no' belang anywhere. The doctor says she's to be keepit quate; for she's geylow. In fact he felt me at the door that he dinna think she could last aweek. "

Robert sat a long time looking into the fire, while his mother got readyhis tea, and described to him all that she knew of Mysie's return and ofher sad condition. 

"You'd hardly ken her, " she went on. "She's that thin and white and faurgane lookin', forby havin' a boast that wad fricht you. Puir lassie, Iwas vexed for her an' Matthew too is gey upset aboot it. Dae you ken, Rob, I believe they mun be gey hard gruppit. Wi' Matthew being offwork, and John deein' an' a' the ither troubles they had this while, Ithink they canna be ower weel off. "

"Ay, " he said, "they canna be ower weel off; for they hae had a lot todae this while. You micht look to them, mither. We are no sae ill offnoo, an' we can afford tae help them. "

"Weel, Rob, I've been aye givin' them a bit hand, buying beef for soupan' that' an' daein' a' I could. But I'm awfu' puttin' aboot ower puirMysie. She's gey faur gane, an' wherever she has been she's been haein abad time of it. "

"I saw her at Edinburgh, " he said quietly, as she paused to pour out thetea. 

"In Edinburgh?"

"Ay, " he replied. "Last month when I was at the conference, " and Roberttold his mother the whole story of his meeting with Mysie and of herdisappearance and all that had happened to her from the time she hadgone away. 

"But you never telt yin o' us, Rob, " she said after he had come to theend of the story. 

"No, I never telt ony o' you; for Mysie made me promise no' to tell; an'forby she wadna' gi'e me her address. But I was that upset that day thatI couldn't collect mysel' an' I minded o' a lot o' things I should haedone an' said after I left her. It was terrible, " and he relapsed intosilence again, as he went on with his supper. 

His mother saw all the pain in his heart that night, though neitherspoke much of the state of his feelings for Mysie; but it was evident toher who saw all the cross currents of fate, perhaps more clearly thanRobert knew. 

She looked at him with furtive pride. There was no showy parading ofwhat he felt, but only the set of the mouth was a little firmer perhapsthan usual and the eyes a little softer and glistening. That was all. 

"Ay, Robin, " she said brokenly, unable to hide her pride and weakness. "I ken a' that you hinna telt me. I guessed it years syne; but I'm surenoo. An' I'm awfu' vexed, laddie; ay, I'm awfu' vexed, " and with that hewithdrew to his room, more touched with her simple words of sympathythan anything she had ever said to him in all her previous life. 

Mrs. Sinclair went to bed, but she knew her laddie had not done so. Sheheard him in his room and knew that in the silence of the night and inthe privacy and secrecy of his own room he was fighting out his battlewith fate, and she knew that no one could help him--that only the fiberof his own soul could help him through. 

In the morning he rose early and went for a walk, for it was Sunday. Returning, he found his mother with the latest news of Mysie'scondition. She waited until the other members of the house had gone out, and then with a sigh observed very quietly but with a world of tendersympathy in her voice:

"Mysie's sinkin' fast, Robin. I think you should gang ower and see her. She canna' last very lang, puir thing, an' she was askin' aboot you whenI was ower. I think she wad like to see you. You'll gang ower and seeher, Rob, " she entreated, a sob in her throat as she spoke. "She'll beawfu' pleased to see you. "

"Ay, I'll gang ower, mither, " he replied simply. "I'll gang ower efter awee while. "

But it was drawing near to the darkness when he managed to summonsufficient resolution to face the ordeal. 

Mysie was lying in the room and he went in to see her--her whom he wouldhave given his own life to restore to activity and health again. A lowmoan occasionally escaped her as she panted and battled for breath andthe color came and faded from her cheeks in quick fleeting waves. 

Oh God! Was this Mysie--this faint apparition of the girl whom he hadloved? Even in the short month when he had seen her in Edinburgh a verygreat change had been wrought upon her. The eyes, softly glowing with aquiet radiance as they rested upon his face, were sunk, and the voicefaint and weak. A thin white hand lay upon the coverlet and the greatwaves of brown hair which had been his pride, were tumbled about thethin face framing it in a tangled oak brown frame of deepest beauty. 

She lifted her hand as he approached, a sweet smile breaking throughher pain, caught him in radiance of love. "I'm glad you've come, Rob, "she panted. "I jist wanted to see you again--an'--an' tak' good-by wi'you, " and the quick catch in her words gripped his heart as he kneltbeside the bed, taking the thin hand between his while the tears startedfrom his eyes and fell upon the white bed cover. 

"Oh, Mysie, " he said brokenly. His voice refused to go further and hebent his head upon the bed, trying hard to control himself and keep frombreaking down before her. 

"I'm awfu' vexed, Rob, " she said, after a while. "It was a' a mistak'an' naebody's to blame. I ought to hae kent better mysel', " and shepaused again for breath. "I--I should hae kent better, that nae guidcould come--oot o' it--I was just carried awa'. Dinna ever blamelasses--nor men either, when things happen. They--they canna helpthemsel's--" and here again she paused for breath, gasping and fightingat every word. 

"It's a' a mistake, Rob, an' I think it's a' in the way folk look atthae things. " Another pause, while her chest heaved and panted. "Maybewe dinna look at thae things richt, " she again resumed. "We--we mak'mistak's and canna help oorsel's; but God dinna mean it as--as amistak'. It's a' because we think it is. Everything's richt--but we mak'them wrang in the way we look at them. It wad hae--been a' richt--in oormind, if I had been married afore--afore it happened--but because wewerena married--it was wrang. It's a' a mistak' Rob, a' a--" and a burstof coughing nearly choked her and a flood of blood began to gurgle inher mouth. 

Robert grew alarmed and lifting a cloth began to wipe the blood from hermouth, looking on her so concerned and anxious that she tried to smileto him to reassure him. 

Presently she lay back with eyes closed and her hand limp in his. A wildfear took possession of him as he looked upon the scarcely movingbreast, a fear which seemed to communicate itself to the sufferer, andshe opened her eyes again, but the voice was weak and very far away. 

"Dinna be angry wi' onybody, Rob. It was you I liket, it was you Iwanted--but it was a' a mistake. "

"I'm no' angry, Mysie, " he said stifling his sobs, his tears fallingupon the white thin face. "Oh, Mysie, I'm only vexed. I'm only vexedaboot the hale sad business. There now, dearie, " he said bending lowover her and kissing and stroking the pallid brow and caressing the faceso dear to him. "There noo, I'm no' angry. You're mine, Mysie. You'vealways been mine, an' I'm no' angry. But oh, I love you, Mysie, an' it'sbreaking my heart to part frae you. Oh, God!" he groaned in agony. "Whatdoes it a' mean? I canna' bear it, --I canna' bear't, " and a wild burstof grief swept over him as he flung his head and arms upon the bed in avain attempt to control his sobbing sorrow. 

A long pause--then the white hand was raised and crept slowly over hisshoulder, working its way among the thick shaggy hair of his head as thefingers strayed from curl to curl, patting him and soothing him as achild is soothed by a mother's hand. It rested upon his bent head andthe eyes opened again. 

"Ay, Rob, I'm vexed for your sake--but it was a' a mistake. " She went onhalting and very weak. "It was a' a mistak'--an' naebody is to blame. Weare just--driven alang, an'--we canna help oorsel's--it's awfu' tohae--sic feelin's--an'--an' no' hae any poo'er--to guide themricht--it's ay the things we want maist--that we dinna get. Kiss me, Rob--kiss me, as you kissed me--yon--nicht on the muir. Haud me likeyou--an' I think I can--gang content. Oh, Rob, --ay liket you--it was youI wanted a' the time!"

He clasped her tenderly in his arms as he kissed her mouth, her eyes, her brow, her hair, stroking her and fondling the dear face, catchinghungrily the smile that came to the pale lips, and lingered there like ablink of sun upon a hillside after the rest of the landscape is clothedin shadow. 

Again there was a pause while he searched the pale face with thelingering smile, noting the veined, almost discolored eyelids, transparent and closed over the tired suffering eyes. Then a burst ofcoughing again and the blood in thick clots gurgled up from the throat. Then after a little she spoke again. 

"Oh, Rob, you hae made me very happy. But I'm vexed aboot you--an'--an'Peter. He tried to dae what was richt; but it wasna to be--I hopeyou'll--no'--be angry wi' him. He was like me--he couldna' help it. "

"Oh, Mysie, I'm no' angry wi' him, " he replied brokenly, trying hard tomake his voice sound dearly. "I'm no' angry wi' onybody. "

"I'm glad o' that, Rob, " she said, her hand caressing his head. "You wasay a guid hearted laddie--I'm awfu' glad. " Then her mind began to wanderand she was back in Edinburgh speaking of her father and John. 

"Oh, faither, " she rambled on. "Dinna be angry wi' me. There's naebodyto blame. Dinna be angry. "

Then Robert was conscious that others were in the room, and looking uphe beheld his mother and Jenny Maitland and behind them with anxiousface and frightened eyes stood Peter Rundell, the picture of misery anddespair. 

"She's kind o' wanderin', puir thing, " he heard the mother say inexplanation to the others. "She's kind o' wanderin' in her mind. "

It was a sad little group which stood round the dying girl, all anxiousand alarmed and watchful. Then after a while she opened her eyes againand there was a look of startled surprise as if she were looking atsomething in the distance. Then she began to recognize each and all ofthem in turn, first Robert, who still held her hand, then her mother andNellie, and Peter. A faint smile came into her eyes and he steppedforward. Her lips moved slowly and a faint sound came falteringly fromthem. 

"Dinna be angry wi' onybody, " she panted. "It was a'--a--mistake. "

Then raising her hand she held it out to Peter, who advanced towards thebedside and placing his hand on Robert's she clasped them together inher own. "There noo--dinna be angry--it was a' a mistake. It was Rob Iliket--it was him--I wanted. But it--was--a' a mistak'. Dinna be--" andthe glazed sunken eyes closed forever, never to open again, a faintnoise gurgled in her throat, and the dews of death stood out in beadsupon the pale brow. A tiny quiver of the eyelids, and a tremor throughthe thin hands and Mysie--poor ruined broken waif of the world--wasgone. 

"Oh, my God! She's deid, " gasped Robert, clasping the thin dead hands ina frenzy of passionate grief. "Oh, Mysie! Mysie! Oh God! She's deid, "and his head bent low over the bed while great sobs tore through him, and shook his young frame, as the storm shakes the young firs of thewoods. Then suddenly recollecting himself as his mother put her handupon his bent head saying: "Rise up, Robin, like a man. You maun gangoot noo. " He rose and with tears in his eyes that blinded him so that hehardly saw where he was going, he stumbled out into the darkness underthe pale stars--out into the night to the open moor, his grief soburdening that he felt as if the whole world had gone from hisreckoning. 

"Oh, my poor Mysie, " he groaned. "It was all a horrible mistake, " andthe darkness came down in thick heavy folds as if the whole world weremourning for the loss of the young girl's soul, but it brought nocomfort to him. 

CHAPTER XXIV

A CALL FOR HELP

It was a quiet night in early April, full of the hush which seems togather all the creative forces together, before the wild outburst ofprodigal creation begins in wild flower and weed and moorland grasses, and Robert Sinclair, who had walked and tramped over the moors forhours, until he was nearly exhausted, his heart torn and his mind in anagony of suffering, sat down upon a little hillock, his elbows on hisknees and his hands against his cheeks. 

The moor-birds screamed and circled in restless flight around him. Theywere plainly protesting against his intrusion into their domain. Theyshrilled and dived in their flight, almost touching the bent head, withswooping wing, to rise again, cleaving the air and sheering round again;but still the lonely figure sat looking into darkness, becoming numbedwith cold, and all unconscious of the passage of time. 

Gradually the cold began to tell upon him, and he started to his feet, plodding up the hill, through the soft mossy yielding soil. Back againhe came after a time, his limbs aching with the long night's tramping;but yet he never thought of going home or turning towards the village. 

"Oh, Mysie!" he groaned again and again, and all night long only thesetwo words escaped his lips. They came in a low sad tone, like the windcoming through far-off trees; but they were vibrant with suffering, andonly the moor-birds cried in answer. 

"Oh, Mysie!" and the winds sighed it again and again, as they camewandering down out of the stillness between the hills, to pass on intothe silence of the night again, like lost souls wandering through anuncreative world, proclaiming to other spheres the doom that had settledupon earth. 

"Oh, Mysie!" groaned a moorland brook close by, which grumbled at someobstruction in its pathway, and then sighed over its mossy bed, like atired child emerging exhausted from a long fever, to fall asleep asdeeply as if the seal of death had been planted upon the little lips. Occasionally he shifted his position, as his limbs grew cramped, or roseto pace the moor again to bring himself more exhaustion; but always hecame back to the little knoll, and sat down again, groaning out the sadplaintive words, that were at once an appeal and a cry, a defiance and asubmission. By and by the first gray streaks of dawn came filteringthrough the curtains of the cloudy east, touching the low hills withgray nimble fingers, or weaving a tapestry of magic, as they brightenedand grew clearer, over the gray face of the morn. 

Soon the birds leapt again from every corner, climbing upon the laddersof light and tumbling ecstasies of mad joy to welcome the day, as ifthey feared to be left in the darkness with this strange figure, whichmerely sat and groaned softly, and looked before it with silent agony inits eyes; and now that the light had again come, they shouted theirprotest in a louder, shriller note; they mounted upon the waves of lightand swooped down into the trough of the semi-darkness, expostulating andcrying, not so much in alarm now, as in anger. For with the light comescourage to birds as well as men, and fear, the offspring of ignorance, which is bred in darkness, loses its power when its mystery is revealed. 

But even with the coming of the day the still silent figure did notmove. It continued to sit until the birds grew tired of protesting, andeven the mountain hare wandered close by, sniffing the breeze in hisdirection, and cocking its ears and listening, as it sat upon its hindlegs, only to resume its leisurely wandering again, feeling assured thatthere was nothing to fear in the direction of this quiet, bent figure ofsorrow, that sat merely staring at the hills, and saw naught of anythingbefore him. The things he saw were not the things around him. He wasmoving in a multitude again. He was walking among them with pity in hisheart--a great pity for their ignorance, their lack of vision; and hewas giving them knowledge and restoring light to their eyes, to widentheir range of vision, so that they could take things in their trueperspective. He was full of a great sympathy for their shortcomings, recognizing to the full that only by sowing love could love be reaped, only in service could happiness be found--that he who gave his lifewould save it. 

The great dumb mass of humanity needed serving--needed love. It passedon blindly, wounding itself as it staggered against its barriers, bruising its heart and soul in the darkness, and never learning itslessons. Saviors in all ages had lifted the darkness a bit, and givenknowledge, and sometimes it had profited for a while till false prophetsarose to mislead. 

It was a seething feverish mass, stamping and surging towards everyblatant voice which cried the false message to it, rousing it to anger, and again misleading, until it often rose to rend its saviors instead ofthose who had duped it so shamelessly. 

All the tragic procession filed past, and he gave them peace andknowledge. By and by they grew to a long thin stream, feverish andagitated, seemingly all converging towards a point--pain and anxiety inevery quick movement, and suffering in every gesture. He looked withstill more and more compassion upon them, with a greater love in hisbreast, but it did not calm them as before, and at last in desperationhe stretched out his hands in appealing pity for them, his whole beingaglow with the desire to help and pity and love, and he found that thescene changed. He was on the moor, and there was the discomfort of coldin his limbs; but--yes, he was looking at the pit, and there was a longstream of men, women and children, principally women and children, running frantically across the moor towards the pit, and he could hearthe faint sound of their voices, which clearly betokened suffering, anxiety and alarm. Something had happened. He must have been looking atthat procession for a long time, he realized, and pulling himselftogether, he bounded to his feet and was off in a long striding racethrough the moor towards the pit, his heart telling him that somethinghad happened which was out of the ordinary kind of accident thatregularly happened at a coal mine. He bounded along, knowing as he wentthat there was something more of sorrow for his mother in this, whateverit was. He felt so, but could not account for the feeling, and as thisthought grew in intensity in his mind, he changed his course a bit, andmade for home, to ascertain what had really happened. It was somethingbig, he felt, but whatever it was, his mother must again be called uponto suffer, and his alarm grew with his pace, until he arrived breathlessat the house. One look at her face, and he knew his instincts had toldhim the truth. 

She was white and strained, though tearless, but her eyes were full ofan awful suffering. 

"What has happened, mother?" he demanded, as if he could hardly wait forher to answer. 

"The moss has broken in, an' twenty-three men are lost. Jamie an' Andraare among them. They gaed oot themselves this morning, telling me theycould work fine, even though you werena there. Oh, Rob! What will I do!Oh, dear! Oh, dear! My bonnie laddies!" and with a sob in her voice sheturned away, and Robert was again out of the house, and running throughthe moor to the pit, as hard as desperation could drive him. His twobrothers were down there, and they must be got out. Even as he ran hewondered what strange freak of fate it was, that had kept him out thereon the moor all night and so saved him from this terrible fate. 

He could understand how his brothers would feel at the chance of workingone day by themselves. He had always been their guide and protector. They had gone into the pit with him when they left school, and had justcontinued working with him since, learning their trade from his greaterexperience, and trusting always to his better judgment when there wasdanger to avoid. They would go out that day with the intention ofworking like slaves to produce an extra turn of coal. Even though itwere but one extra hutch, they would fill it, and slave all day withnever a rest, so that they could have the satisfaction of seeingapproval in his eyes, when they told him at night how many they hadturned out, and how well things had gone generally with them in hisabsence. 

He reached the pit, to find that the moss was already rising in theshaft, and that there was no possibility of getting down to try and savethese twenty-three men and boys who were imprisoned in the darknessbeneath. 

He came across Tam Donaldson, who was the last to get up. 

"Tell me aboot it, Tam, " he said. "Is there no chance of getting down?Do you think any of them will be safe so far?" and a whole lot of otheranxious questions were rattled off, while Tam, dripping wet from havingto wade and fight the last fifty fathoms toward the pit bottom, throughthe silent, sinister, creeping moss that filled the roadways andtunnels, stood to give him an account of what had taken place. 

"They were a' sitting at their piece, Rob--a' but James and Andra. Theywere keen to get as muckle work done as possible, an' they had some coalto get to fill oot a hutch, when a' at yince we heard Andra crying on usto rin. Had they a' ran doon the brae we'd a' hae been safe, for wecould hae gotten to the bottom afore the moss; but some ran into theinside heading, an' hadna time to realize that their outlet was cut off, an' there they are; for the moss was comin' doon the full height of theroad when I ran back to try an' cry on them to come back. So I had torin for't too, an' jist got oot by the skin o' my teeth. 

"I kent fine it wad happen, " he went on, as Robert stood, the tears inhis eyes, as he realized how hopeless the position was of ever beingable to restore these men and boys again to their homes. There was angerin Tam's voice as he spoke. "It's a' to get cheap coal, an' they oughtto hae known, for they were telt, that to open oot that seam into longwell workings so near the surface, an' wi' sic a rotten roof, wasinvitin' disaster, wi' as muckle rain as we hae had lately. They are alot o' murderers--that's what they are! But what the hell do they care, sae lang as they get cheap coal!"

Robert turned away sick at heart. It was certainly a foolish thing, hehad thought at the time, for the management to change their method ofworking the coal; for even though the seam had grown thinner, he feltthat it could have still been worked at a profit under the old system. He knew also that the men were all upset at the time by this change, butthe management had assured them that there was no danger, and that itwould mean more money for the men, as they would be enabled to producemore coal. 

This certainly had happened for a week or two, but the rates were soonbroken, because they were making too high wages; and the men found, asusual, that their increased output had merely meant increased work forthem, and increased profits for the owners. 

Was there nothing to be done? Robert wondered, as he paced restlesslyback and forth, his mind busy, as the mind of every man present, andanxious to make any sacrifice, to take any risk, if by so doing theymight save those imprisoned in the mine. Even while his mind wasworking, he could not help listening to the talk of those around him. There were strange opinions expressed, and wild plans of rescue weresuggested and discussed and disputed. Everyone condemned the coalcompany for what had happened, but over all there were the white-facedwomen and the silent children; the muffled sobs, the tears, and theagony of silent wet eyes that spoke more pain than all the tragediesthat had ever been written. 

Robert could not help listening to one man--a big, raw, loosely-builtfellow, who stood in the midst of a group of women laying off his ideaof a rescue. 

"I'm rale glad to be out of it, " he said, "for Jean's sake, an' thebairns; but for a' that I'd gang doon again an' try an' get them oot ifthere was ony chance o' doin' it. "

"Hoo is Jean?" one woman interposed to enquire about his wife, who hadbeen ill a long time. 

"Oh, she's gettin' on fine noo, an' the doctor has a hopeful word o'her, " he answered. "In fact, I was just feeding the birds the last timehe was in, an' asked him hoo she was doin'. "

This man, Dugald McIntosh, had one god--his canaries. He read all hecould get to read about them, and studied the best conditions underwhich to rear them, sacrificed everything he could to breed betterbirds, and this was always a topic for him to discourse upon. 

"I was just busy feedin' them when he cam' in, and after he had examinedher, I asked him hoo she was gettin' on. "

"Fine, " he said, "gi'e her plenty o' sweet milk noo, and fresh eggs, an'she'll sune be on her feet again. Fresh eggs! mind you, an' me canna getyin for my canaries! I thocht it was a guid yin!"

Robert turned away; but there was working in his mind an idea, and heran round to the colliery office to the manager, who was nearly mad withgrief and anxiety at what had happened. 

"Come in, Sinclair, " he said simply. "Can you suggest anything to helpus? Whatever is done, it can only be done quickly; for the moss isrising rapidly in the shaft, and even though some of the men are safe inthe upper workings, it is only a question of a very short time till themoss will rise and suffocate them, or until the black damp does so. Ifyou have any idea that can help, out with it and let us make a trial, for the inactivity is killing me. "

"I have been thinking, Mr. Anderson, " replied Robert, "that we might godown the old air-shaft over in the moss there, and run along the toplevel, which is not far from the surface, and try and blast it throughon the heading into which the moss broke. "

It might be full of moss too, for no one knew the extent of the breakagein the metals, and even though it were clear, the damp would be lying init; but surely they might make an attempt on it. Robert rememberedworking this level to within about nine feet from going through on theheading. If he had plenty of hands, just to go down and drill a hole inanywhere, and blast out the coal with a shot or two wherever he couldbest place them, he might succeed in getting through to the men. Itmight be that after the first rush filling the roadways, the flood ofmoss had drained off, and was not now running so thickly down theheading. 

"Let me go and try, sir, " he pleaded eagerly. "I think I can manage, ifthe level is still unbroken. We can work in short turns, so as not tobe overcome with the damp. Will you let me have a try? I believe it'sthe only chance we have, and if we do succeed, look what it will mean tothe women in the village. Will you let me try?"

"Yes, " replied Anderson, reaching for his lamp, "and I shall be one ofthe triers too. Go out and pick seven or eight men. I'll get thenecessary tools and get off over the moor to the old air shaft. It maystill be open. It is a pity we let it go out of repair, but we can havea trial. "

Robert ran out, a hope filling his heart, telling his news to thoseround about, and the first man to step forth, before he had finished, was Dugald McIntosh, the man who had put more value on his canaries thanon his wife's health, who quietly lifted up the drills the manager hadbrought, and slinging them lightly over his shoulder, was off across themoor at a run, with a dozen men at his heels, all eager to get to gripswith the danger, and try to rescue their imprisoned comrades. 

CHAPTER XXV

A FIGHT WITH DEATH

Robert Sinclair seemed to be the one man who knew what to do--at least, he seemed to be the only one who had a definite aim in view and as if bysome natural instinct everyone was just ready to do his bidding. He wasthe leader of the herd towards whom everyone looked ready for a neworder to meet any new situation which might arise. Initiative andresource were a monopoly in his hands. He was silent, and worked to getready to descend the old air-shaft, with grim set lips. Yet there seemedto be no sense of bustle, only the work was done quickly and orderly, his orders being issued as much by signs as by speech, and soon awindlass was erected with ropes and swing chair fastened, into which heat once leaped, followed by another man. Tools and explosives werepacked in and lamps lit and the order given to lower the chair. 

Robert felt a queer sort of feeling as he stood waiting on the firstmotion of the little drum round which the rope wound. He was cool andclear brained--in fact he wondered why he was so collected. He felt hewas standing out of all this maelstrom of suffering and terror. Not thathe was impervious to anxiety for the men below, not that he was unmovedby all that it meant to those standing round; but after that first wildthrob of terror that had clutched at his heart when his mother had toldhim the dread news and that his two brothers were imprisoned in themine, something seemed suddenly to snap within him, the load and theintensity of the pain lifted, and from that moment he had been master ofthe situation. 

He glanced round him as he waited quietly in his swinging seat. He feltas he looked, no sense of fear or impending doom. He knew that blackdamp probably lay in dense quantities down in that yawning gulf belowhim, he knew that the sides of the shaft were in a bad state ofdisrepair, and that they might give way at any time as the swinging ropemust inevitably touch them, and bring the whole thing in upon him, withhundreds of tons of débris and moss. 

Yet it was not of these things he thought. Perhaps he did not think ofanything particularly, but a far-off lilt of a children's game which wasplayed at school, kept iterating and reiterating through his brain, andeverything seemed done to that tune. 

 "Don't take a laddie, oh, Laddie oh, laddie oh, Don't take a laddie oh, Take a bonnie wee lassie. "

It sang continually within him and men seemed to move to its regularbeat, as they hurried to get ready. He looked at the hills, and notedhow quiet everything seemed, their curving outlines gave such a sense ofeternal rest. There was a patch of lovely blue sky above him, he noticedwhere the clouds opened up and a glint of golden glorious sunshine camethrough; but it looked garish and it closed again and the white cloudstrailed away, their lower fringes clinging to the hill tops like veilsof gossamer woven by time to deck the bride of Spring. A lark rose atthe edge of the crowd of weeping women and children as if unmindful ofthe tragedy over which it sang so rapturously, and he noted itsfluttering wings and swelling throat as it soared in circles of gladsong. 

All these things and more he noted though it was but a momentary pause. 

"Are you right?" came the question from the men at the windlass, faraway it seemed and unconnected with the scene. 

"Right, " he answered with a start, and looking round he seemed to becomeaware of the white-faced, red-eyed women among whom his mother's faceseemed to stand out. She was not weeping, he noticed, but oh God! herface seemed to turn him with the intensity of the suffering in her eyes. He realized that he had not noticed her before, and now with a wildthrob of pity he stretched out his hands towards her, a look ofsuffering in his eyes, as if he were feeling the pains of humanitycrucified anew, and the chair began to drop slowly below the surface, swinging down into the darkness and the evil dangers that lurked below. Her face was the last thing he saw--a face full of agony yet calm with agreat renunciation coming to birth in her eyes, her lips drawn thin likea slit in her face and all the color gone from them, the head bent alittle as if a great blow had fallen upon her--an island of agony set ina sea of despair. 

A wild impulse seized him to go back. It was too much to ask of a woman, he felt. Too great a burden of tragedy to heap upon one soul, as he casthis mind back through the suffering years and viewed all the pain shehad borne, and the terrible Gethsemane which her life had been; but asthe chair swung round he clutched the swaying rope and with the otherhand steadied it from crashing against the side of the shaft as theyslowly dropped lower and lower into the darkness and the evil smellswhich hung around. 

"Things look bad here, " said his comrade as they passed down where atsome time a huge portion from the side had fallen out and down into thebottom of the old shaft. 

"Ay, " answered Robert, "everything seems just ready to collapse, " andthey dropped lower and lower, swaying from side to side, cautiouslyguiding their swinging chair from the moss-oozing side, their nervesstrained as they listened to the creeking rope as it was paid out fromabove. 

"Holy God, " cried his mate, "that was a near thing, " as a huge mass ofrocks and slimy moss lunged out a little below them and hurtled away ina loud rumbling noise. 

Robert pulled the signal cord to stop and looked up to see the whiteclouds passing over the narrow funnel-like shaft in which they hung. Then he gave the signal to let out again noting how thick with damp theatmosphere was becoming, and having difficulty with his light. 

Lower and lower they swung and dropped down into the old shaft and asthe rope creaked and crazed above them it lilted:

 "Choose, choose, wha' you'll tak', Wha' you'll tak', wha' you'll tak', Choose, choose wha' you'll tak', A laddie or a lassie. "

And the memory of the old lilt brought back other scenes again and hefound himself guiding the chair from the shaft side steering it off withhis hand at every rhythmic beat of the child song. 

Soon they reached the bottom of the shaft, for it was not very deep, andfound a mass of débris, almost choking up the roadways on either side ofthe bottom. But they got out of their chair and soon began to "redd"away the stones though they found very great difficulty in getting thelamps to burn. Occasionally, as they worked, little pieces came tumblingfrom the side of the shaft, telling its own tale, and as soon as Robertgot a decent sized kind of opening made through the rocks which blockedthe roadway he sent up the other man to bring down more help and to getothers started to repair the old shaft by putting in stays and batons topreserve the sides and so prevent them from caving in altogether. 

He found his way along the level which had been driven to within ninefeet of going through on the heading in which the inbreak of moss hadtaken place. He noticed the roof was broken in many places and that thetimber which had been put in years before was rotten. Strange noisesseemed to assail his senses, and stranger smells, yet the lilt of thatold childish game was ever humming in his brain and he saw himself withother boys and girls with clasped hands linked in a circle and goinground in a ring as they sang the old ditty. 

"Three breakings should dae it, " he said as he looked at the face of thecoal dripping with water from the cracks in the roof. "If only they werehere to put up the props. I could soon blow it through, " and he began toprepare a place for batons and props, pending the arrival of more helpfrom those who were only too eager to come down to his aid. 

It was almost an hour before help came in the shape of two men carryingsome props. Then came another two and soon more timber began to arriveregularly and the swinging blows of their hammers as they drove in thefresh props were soon echoing through the tunnels, and Robert set up hisboring machine and soon the rickety noise of it drowned all others. Hepaused to change a drill when a faint hullo was heard from the otherside. 

"Hullo, " he yelled, then held his breath in tense silence to hear theresponse which came immediately. "Are you all safe?" he roared, hisvoice carrying easily through the open coal. 

"Ay, " came the faint answer; "but the moss is rising in the heading andyou'll have to hurry up. "

Robert knew this, and one of his helpers had gone down an old heading toexplore and had returned to say that it was rising steadily and was nowwithin two hundred feet from the old shaft down which he had descended. 

"Where away did the roof break?" roared Robert as he changed his seconddrill. 

"Half way doon the cousie brae, " came the answer, "an' we're all shut inlike rats. Hurry up and get us oot, " and again the rickety, racketynoise of the boring machine began and drowned all other noises. 

He soon drilled his holes and he could hear them on the other sidesinging now some ribald song to keep up their courage, while others whowere religiously inclined chanted hymns and psalms, but all werewondering whether Robert and his men would be able to break through thebarrier in time to save them before the persistently rising moss claimedthem. 

He charged his shots and called them to go back, telling them the numberof his charges, then lit his fuse and ran out of the old level to waitin a place of safety while the explosion took place. 

Soon they boomed out and the concussion put them all in darkness; butthey soon had the lamps re-lit and were back in among the thick volumesof powder smoke, groping about and shading their lamps and peering in tosee what their shots had done to lessen the barrier between them andtheir imprisoned comrades. 

Then the shovels set to work and tossed the coal which the shots haddislodged back into the roadway and soon the boring machines were busyagain, eating into the coal; for those tireless arms of Robert's neverhalted. He swung the handle or wielded the pick or shovel, never takinga, rest, while the sweat streamed from his body working like somemechanical product for always in his mind he was calculating his chancesfor being able to blast it through the barrier before the moss rose. 

"It has only a stoop length an' a half to rise now, " reported one of themen. "It's creeping up like the doom o' the day o' judgment. But I thinkwe'll manage. If these shots do as well as the last ones we should bewithin two feet of them, an' surely to God we can bite the rest of it, if we canna blaw it. Let me stem the shots, Rob, an' you take a rest. "

"You go to hell, " was the unexpectedly astounding reply; for no one hadever heard Robert Sinclair use language like this before. "As soon asthae shots are off an' if they blaw as well as the others we'll turn outthe coal an' then you can gang up the pit, every yin o' you. I'll soonblow through the rest of it, and if you are all up by then it will makefor speed in getting the others out. We're going to have a race for iteven though we manage as I'm thinking to. So get out of the way anddon't talk. Again the air's getting too dam'd thick for you allremaining here. There's hardly as muckle as would keep a canary living, "and again he called to those on the other side to beware of the shots, and again ran out to a place of safety while the explosions took place. 

Once more the result of the shots was good; but the smoke choked andblinded them and one man was overcome by the fumes. They carried him outthe road a bit and after he showed signs of coming round, Robert gaveinstructions for him to be taken to the surface. 

"Oh, Lod, but it's nippin' my e'en, " said one as he rubbed his eyes andblew his nose, sneezed and finally expectorated. "It's as thick as soormilk, be dam'd!"

"Well, get him up, and I'll away back and redd out the shots and tryand get it through again. The moss is rising quicker noo an' it has onlyaboot eighty feet to come. "

So back he went among the thick choking volume of smoke, tripping andstumbling and staggering from side to side as he scrambled on. Would hebe in time to blast the barrier down before the steadily creeping mossrose to cut off his only avenue of escape?

"My God! What's that?" he asked himself as he paused while a rumble andcrash behind him told him that the old shaft had caved in burying hiscomrades in rocks and moss and water. 

He ran back but could get no further than within a stoop length of theold shaft. There were hundreds of tons of débris and all was finallylost. For the first time terror seized him and he tore desperately atthe bowlders of stone, cutting his fingers and lacerating his body allover with cuts and bruises. He raved and swore and shouted indesperation, the sweat streaming from every pore, his eyes wild andglaring, but he was soon driven back by the moss which was oozing andpercolating through the broken mass of bowlders and gradually it forcedhim back with a rush as it burst through with a sudden slushing sound asif suddenly relieved from a barrier which held it. Back he rushed, hislight again becoming extinguished, the flood pursuing him relentlessly, the air now so heavy that he could hardly breathe, but groping his wayhe reached the first end roadway down which for the moment the flood ranto meet the rising moss creeping up relentlessly from below. 

Choking and only half conscious he staggered on with all sense ofdisaster gone from his mind, with no thought of his comrades on theother side waiting so impatiently to be released, and singing theirfrothy songs in the hope that all was well, his legs doubling below him, and his lungs heaving to expel the poison which the thick air contained. Down at last he fell, his head striking against the side of the roadway, and he lay still. 

The moss might rise hungrily over him now, the rotten roof might fallupon him, all the dangers of the mine might conspire together againsthim; but nothing they might do could ever again strike terror into theyoung heart that lay there, feebly throbbing its last as it was beingovercome with the deadly poison of the black damp. 

He was proof against all their terrors now, the spirit could evade themyet; for though the old shaft might collapse and imprison his body andclaim it as a sacrifice to the King Terror of the Underworld, no prisonwas ever created that could contain the indomitable spirit of man asGod. He was free--free, and was happy and could cry defiance to thedangers of the mine, to the terrors of time itself. He could clutch thecorners of the earth, and play with it as a toy of time, among the Godsof Eternity. 

"Choose, choose wha' you'll tak', " throbbed the young heart and a smileof triumph played upon the lips as the pictures of bygone times flittedacross his dying brain. He was again the happy infant, hungry it may be, and ill-clad, but Heaven contained no happier soul. The little stomachmight not be filled with sufficient food; but the spirit of him as itwas in younger years knew no material limits to its laughter in thechildish ring games of youth. Again he was waiting in the dark wintrymornings on Mysie, so that she would not be afraid to go to work on thepit-head; ay, and he was happy to take the windward side of her in thestorm, and shield her from the winter's blast, tying her little shawlabout her ears and making her believe he did not feel the cold at all. 

He was back again at his mother's knee, listening to her glorious voicesinging some pitiful old ballad, as she crooned him to sleep; or lyingtrying to forget the hunger he felt as the glorious old tune seemed todrown his senses while he waited to say his prayer at night. 

 "Jesus, tender shepherd, hear me, Bless Thy little lamb to-night, In the darkness be Thou near me, Keep me safe till morning light. "

Then there was the "good-night" to everyone and the fond kiss of thebest of all mothers, the sinking into sleep that billowed and rockedthe weary young spirit of him, crushed and bruised by the forces of theworld, and finally the sweet shy smile of a young girl blushing andawkward, but flooding his soul with happiness and thrilling every fiberof him with her magic as she stood upon the hill crest, outlined againstthe sunset with a soft breeze blowing, kissing the gray hill side, bringing perfumes from every corner of the moor and beckoning him as sherose upward, he followed higher and higher, the picture taking shape andbecoming more real until it merged into spirit. 

And the creeping moss moved upward, hungry for its prey and greedy todevour the fine young body so fresh and strong and lusty; but it wasbalked, for it claimed only the empty shell. The prize had gone on thewings of an everlasting happiness and the spirit of the moor, becausethere is no forgetting, triumphed over the spirit of destruction, sothat in the records of the spirit he shall say:

 "I shall remember when the red sun glowing Sinks in the west, a gorgeous flare of fire; How then you looked with the soft breeze blowing Cool through your hair, a heaving living pyre Fired by the sun for the sweet day's ending; I still shall hear the whirring harsh moor-hen, Roused from her rest among the rushes bending I shall remember then. 

 "I shall remember every well-loved feature, How, on the hill crest when the day was done, Just how you looked, dear, God's most glorious creature, Heaven's silhouette outlined against the sun; I shall remember just how you the fairest, Dearest and brightest thing that God e'er made, Warmed all my soul with holy fire the rarest, That vision shall not fade. "

But pain and tragedy forever seem to have no limit to their hunger; andin the clear spring air above the place where the bodies of her boyslay, Mrs. Sinclair's heart was again the food upon which the tragedy oflife fed. All the years of her existence were bound up in the productionof coal, and the spirits of her husband and of her sons call to-day tothe world of men--men who have wives, men who have mothers, men who havesweethearts and sisters and daughters, stand firm together; and preserveyour women folk from these tragedies, if you would justify your manhoodin the world of men.