IN THE MINE.

CHRISTIE lay awake half that night, so excited was he by his new plans. These he thought over again and again, mentally making a list of things that he must take with him. Next day Ben paid him his wages, and, as it happened, sent him home rather early, saying there was no use in doing more that day.

"Ben," said Christie, "will you give me a little bit of tinder? We have none made, and I want a bit badly."

Ben grumbled and swore, of course, but he gave the tinder.

And Christie went off to the Widow Kirby's wretched little shop, where he bought a dip candle. The widow gave such small measure, and kept such very ancient and inferior goods, that even though he had to pay for the carriage, and was well aware that he was cheated on every purchase, Christie found it better to get the landlord to buy oatmeal for him. Flour to make bread was a luxury not to be thought of now.

"You're growing rich, I suppose," said the Widow Kirby, spitefully—you must remember that she was Billy's mother. "I thought you'd given up using candles! You never buy from me now—got too grand, now you've got Billy's place!"

"I have to buy where I get things cheapest, ma'am. I wanted this candle particular."

And he carried it off carefully.

The next purchaser Widow Kirby saw in her shop was Hessie Marks, who found her still abusing poor Christie for his impudence.

"Why, what did he say?" asked Hessie.

"Said my goods was dear!—much 'he' knows—and he wanted a candle particular—" here she tossed her head. "I'd 'particular' him—putting my Billy out of his place."

"Why, Billy ran off, and father had warned him he'd not take him back if he did that again. Billy's as idle as—myself," added Hessie, laughing. "I know you were going to say that, Widow Kirby. Give me the salt and let me go."

"There's no respectuousness left in the world," said Mrs. Kirby, grandly.

At which Hessie laughed again as she ran off with her paper of salt. She took it home, and then said to herself—

"I 'must' know what Christie wants with tinder and a candle"—and away she flew to the lonely cottage.

She found Christie in the kitchen, very busy packing up a heap of miscellaneous articles in a basket. Among these she saw the candle and Kate's tinder-box. Kate was sitting by the fire, which was a fairly good one, and the poor thing was knitting and watching her son, but she had asked no question about his proceedings.

"Why, Hessie, have you come to see mother?—Mother, here's Hessie."

Kate looked up and smiled: took the girl's little brown hand and stroked it gently.

"Little Hessie," she said.

And after a moment she dropped the little hand,—her knitting fell to the floor, and she turned her eyes upon the fire, staring at it and warming her hands.

"How cold she is!" whispered Hessie.

"Always," Christie answered, "and fire is all the poor thing cares for. What she eats would hardly keep a sparrow."

He spoke in his usual voice, and his mother took no notice.

"Does she never listen to you, Christie?"

"I can get her to, sometimes." He went over and laid his hand on her shoulder, saying, "Mother dear, have you no word for Hessie?"

"Hessie? Oh yes; you're kindly welcome, dear."

"I'd rather you'd cry, or hit me, than smile like that," cried Hessie, impetuously. "Oh, Mammie Kate, what's come over you?"

"I'm very tired, dear; and cold.—Christie, take her away, dear."

And again her eyes sought the fire.

"Oh, Christie, surely she's much worse than when I was here last."

"Yes. You know that's some time ago. The weather kept you at home."

"And does she never talk of herself, Christie?"

"Every morning she says, 'Is this the day we are to go down to the Water?'

"And I say, 'No, mother, not to-day.'

"And every night she says, 'We'll search by the Water to-morrow, Christie, you and me'—and I don't contradict.

"Ah, Hessie, 'tis a sad change."

Hessie had a great dislike to be seen crying. She rubbed her eyes, and shook her head until her black hair danced, and then said—

"What are you up to, that you wanted a candle and a lot of tinder?"

"Sit here in the window, and I'll tell you. Only, Hessie, you must promise, true and sincere, to keep my secret."

"Secret! Oh, what fun! Yes, I promise—I'll swear if you like."

"No, no!—You'll not break your word to me, I know."

"Well, I won't, indeed," said Hessie, more seriously. "Go on now—what's the secret?"

In reply, Christie told her his whole story, and how he meant to go into the second mine, and see if he could find any pieces of coal.

"Come along," the girl cried, springing up—"I'll go too. Ghosts won't appear to two—at least I think not; besides, they can't hurt us, they're nothing but shadows. Come,—show me the way. Oh, Christie, what fun!"

Christie was by no means sorry to have a companion, if the truth must be told. He looked out at the sun, and decided that they had still two hours of daylight—that is, of light sufficient for their purpose. He accordingly made up the fire, and the pair set off. How many a pleasant day's rambling came back to their minds as they did so!

"We never get a day's play now, Christie."

"Indeed I've no time for play, that's sure. 'Tis as much as I can do—take care, that stone's loose—to keep mother alive."

"I hope no one will see us," said Hessie, after a short silence. "I can see them."

"Yes, but see how small they look," Christie answered, "and these bushes and things hide us a good deal. Now, here's the first opening. I'm not going in here; old Luke Martin that's dead years ago said it never was any good. It is the next that I mean to try."

And they soon reached the second opening, and paused at the foot of the stone river to take breath.

Poor children!—of the real dangers of their rash undertaking they were perfectly ignorant. Neither of them was quite free from a fear of ghosts. But of the foul air which might smother them if they ventured far in, of the gases that might explode if they carried in a naked light, and blow them to pieces or bury them in the falling roof, of a hundred other real perils, they knew nothing. They mounted the steep ascent, and dived in under the ivy at once, to lessen the chance of being seen. There was just light enough, inside, for them to arrange matters, and light their candle.

"Now look here, Hessie. See, I've got a ball of cord; I found it in poor father's box when I was searching for our old lantern. See now, I'll tie the end here, to this thick branch of the ivy. Now if you carry the ball, and let it out no faster than we walk, then if our candle blows out, we can find our way back by the cord."

"Why, that's real clever!" cried Hessie.

"It's out of a story mother used to tell us; don't you remember it? Sit down now, while I light the candle."

This somewhat tedious operation over, he stuck the end of the candle into the mouth of a bottle; the very bottle he had often carried to the Red Dog to be filled. Then taking Hessie by the hand, he said—

"Come now, we must not waste the candle."

Hessie began something saucy about Widow Kirby's candles, but the words died on her lips as they advanced into the thick blackness.

They saw they were in a narrow passage, cut through the earth and the intermingled rocks. Christie went first, holding the light aloft; Hessie followed, letting the ball of cord unwind. They knew afterwards that they had not gone very far, but it seemed to them a long way then, and Hessie's breath came in quick gasps, she was so excited. Not a word did either speak; slowly, steadily, did Christie advance.

Suddenly, he shouted—

"Hessie, there's a heap of coal yonder—I see it plain."

Hessie raised her eyes from her ball of cord, just as the boy was about to spring forward to seize the prize. But she saw something that he did not see. With a wild yell of terror, she flung herself upon him, dragging him back, and indeed dragging him down, for in the struggle they both fell. The candle was shaken out of the bottle and extinguished; they were in utter darkness. And Hessie continued to cling to Christie and to scream like one demented.

"For any sake, hold your tongue, Hessie—what frightened you?—let me go. I must find the candle. Was it—a ghost you saw?"

"No, I won't let you go. Be quiet, Christie; lie still, I tell you. I—I'll tell you in a minute.—Oh, I'm half dead with fright."

"Well, I'll lie quiet for a bit, but 'I' saw nothing. Let me find the candle, do."

In her terror, the child actually shook and struck him, crying—

"Be quiet, I tell you, or you'll never get out of this again. You'd have been in, one step more. Oh, Christie, dear Christie, I was only just in time. Right before you, there's a great black hole, and I think 'tis full of water. You were in, the very next step."

"Are you sure, Hessie? I saw some coal laid in a heap, but I saw no hole, nor no water."

"'I' saw it—right across the whole passage. We can never pass it. Oh, Christie, if you love me, let's go away."

"Let me get the candle."

But Hessie stuck to him, cuffing and scolding him.

"I tell you, you're very near it," she said; "if I let you go, you'll be over the edge yet."

By this time, Christie quite believed that she had seen a hole, and of course he had no desire to fall into it.

"Now listen to me, Hessie dear. It won't be easy to get back in the dark, because 'tis very rough underfoot. I won't go forward a bit—not an inch, but let go my arms, and let me feel about for the candle."

She let him go, but kept a hand on his shoulder.

Christie felt all round.

"I can't find it," he said. "We'd better get out, for you're shaking all over; I can come again. Give me the cord, Hessie."

"Oh, Christie, we're altogether lost now! I've dropped the ball. I forgot all about it."

"We 'must' find either the cord or the candle," Christie said, and began a more vigorous search.

Hessie kept crying out—

"You'll fall in!—You'll be over the edge!—Sit down again, Christie, 'do' sit down."

"Don't be a fool," the boy said at last; "do you want to sit here for ever? No one would dream of looking here for us; we might shout for ever and no one would hear us. I'd as soon fall into the hole as be starved sitting here. If you hear me fall in, Hessie, you creep away as well as you can, keeping away from the sound; for I declare I don't know this minute which way I'm turned."

Hessie sat quiet then, only whimpering a little when she heard him moving.

Presently he spoke again.

"I can't find anything—neither candle nor cord. But, Hessie, you're right enough. I've found the hole. I'm lying on the ground now, and I've put my arm in as far as it will reach; there's no water, I think. But there's a hole, no doubt of that. Come and feel."

"That I won't," said Hessie, with decision. "Come away, Christie; do come away."

Christie began creeping back to her, as he thought, but presently his head came bump against the side of the passage.

"I don't know how we're ever to get out," he said, rubbing his head, "unless we can get hold of the cord."

"Have you got the tinder-box? Make a spark of light, and maybe I may see the cord."

"That's true. I have the box; but mind, I have so little tinder that if I strike a light now, I mayn't be able to light the candle even if we find it."

"That can't be helped. Light it quickly; 'tis dreadful here, and 'so' cold."

Christie worked away; a tiny red glow came from the box.

Hessie gave a shrill cry of relief.

"I have it!—the cord. Oh, come quick!"

"Gently—gently now. Don't pull; if it gets pulled off the ivy, it won't guide us. Let me have it. Put your hands on my shoulders—so. I wish you'd got the candle too."

They stole along, very cautiously; soon they saw the welcome grey streak of the fast-fading daylight. A moment more, and they stood outside the ivy curtain.

Christie took off his shabby hat. "Thanks be to God, we're safe," he said, reverently.

But Hessie, poor child, was in a very different mood. The relief from such deadly terror seemed to set her a little beside herself. She laughed, she cried, she danced on the sliding, unsteady stones; finally, she turned on Christie and abused him heartily for bringing her into such danger, "worse than ghosts," as she indignantly affirmed.

"Come, come, let's get away home," said Christie, peaceably. "I've had the worse of it, anyhow. You cuffed and scratched me; I lost my candle, and got a good thump on the top of my head. Come, Hessie, you're none the worse of it—and mind you keep your promise and tell no one."

"I'll keep my promise, but I'll never come near you again, Christie Brent. You and your mother just make me wretched, and then you try to lose me in a mine full of ghosts."

With this, she turned and walked on before him in the grey dimness. When they reached the cottage, she set out at a run, without saying good-bye.

Christie went home, got some supper, persuaded his mother to go to bed, and then sat down to think over the events of the evening.

He had certainly seen something that looked like a few lumps of coal thrown together, just before Hessie flew at him. Whatever it was, he thought it must be at the other side of the hole. Had he been alone, he would certainly have fallen in, for he saw only the prize, not the yawning hole. Poor father! He told him not to go alone, but things were very different now. Father always said there might be a little coal there—always meant to go and see.

All in a moment, there came to the boy a thought which turned him white and cold. It was so vivid, that he often wondered afterwards if he had actually heard a voice say—

"Father went up to the mines, and fell into that hole."

"No, no!" Christie cried aloud. "He went down to the village—he went to the Water."

Yes; but he might have gone down the track because mother stood watching him, and he would not have her know that he was going to the mines. He could have crossed the Water and got up to the Miner's Road above the cottage quite easily. Many little things seemed to confirm this idea; and there were many words coming back to him now, which he had barely noticed when spoken, but which seemed significant now. Father had certainly had some plan in his head that day, for he sat thinking and thinking. He had said that if all else failed, he must try to borrow a donkey. Now there were but two donkeys which he could borrow, and if father had been on his way to ask for either of them, there was nothing to take him down to the Water.

What was to be done? Christie had determined to speak next day to Hessie, and get her to go with him again. But now he would go alone. Perhaps, after all, the hole was not deep; perhaps he could climb down, even if it were deep, and satisfy his mind. Be it noticed that all dread of ghosts vanished from his thoughts, and I really believe he forgot all about them. Once having imagined this dreadful thing, he must know, once for all, whether it were true or false. If he found any trace of poor father, farewell to all dim hopes that he might yet return; that joy might brim back poor mother's wandering wits; and that once again the little cottage might be a happy home.

Should he tell mother? This he left to be decided when he knew more.

It was very late when Christie crept into the inner room and went to bed. He was too tired not to sleep, but he dreamt that he and Hessie fell into the hole—which he saw in his dream, though he had not seen it in reality. They found father alive and well at the bottom of it, which, curious to say, looked exactly like Widow Kirby's shop.