The Blind Brother: A Story of the Pennsylvania Coal Mines Page 7

  CHAPTER VII.

  THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

  "Why, lads!" exclaimed Rennie; "lads!" Then, flashing the light of hislamp into the boys' faces, "What, Tom, is it you? you and the blindbrither? Ah! but it's main bad for ye, bairnies, main bad--an' warseyet for the poor mither at hame."

  When Tom first recognized Rennie, he could not speak for fear andamazement. The sudden thought that he and Bennie were alone, in thepower of this giant whose liberty he had sworn away, overcame hiscourage. But when the kindly voice and sympathizing words fell onhis ears, his fear departed, and he was ready to fraternize with theconvict, as a companion in distress.

  "Tom," whispered Bennie, "I know his voice. It's the man 'at talked sokind to me on the day o' the strike."

  "I remember ye, laddie," said Jack. "I remember ye richt well." Then,turning to Tom, "Ye were comin' up the fall; did ye find any openin'?"

  "No," said Tom, speaking for the first time since the meeting; "nonethat's any good."

  "An' there's naught above, either," replied Jack; "so we've little todo but wait. Sit ye doon, lads, an' tell me how ye got caught."

  Seated on a shelf of rock, Tom told in a few words how he and Benniehad been shut in by the fall. Then Jack related to the boys the storyof his escape from the sheriff, and how his comrades had spirited himaway into these abandoned workings, and were supplying him with fooduntil such time as he could safely go out in disguise, and take shipfor Europe.

  There he was when the crash came.

  "Noo ye mus' wait wi' patience," he said. "It'll no' be for lang;they'll soon be a-comin' for ye. The miners ha' strong arms an'stoot herts, an' ye'll hear their picks a-tap-tappin' awa' i' theheadin'--to-morrow, mayhap."

  "An' is it night now?" asked Bennie.

  "It mus' be, lad. I ha' naught to mark the time by, but it mus' bealong i' the evenin'."

  "But," interrupted Tom, as the thought struck him, "if they find youhere, you'll have to go back to the jail."

  "I ha' thocht o' that," answered Jack. "I ha' thocht o' that, an' mymin's made up. I'll go back, an' stan' ma sentence. I ha' deserved it.I'd ha' no peace o' min' a-wanderin' o'er the earth a-keepin' oot o'the way o' the law. An' maybe, if I lived ma sentence oot, I could dosome'at that's better. But I'll no' hide any longer; I canna do it!"

  Off somewhere in the fall there was a grinding, crunching sound for aminute, and then a muffled crash. Some loosened portion of the roof hadfallen in.

  For a long time Jack engaged the boys in conversation, holding theirminds as much as possible from the fate of imprisonment.

  Toward midnight Bennie complained of feeling hungry, and Jack went downinto the old chambers where he had been staying, and came back aftera while with a basket of food and a couple of coarse blankets, andthen they all went up to Bennie's doorway. Tom's oil was up there, andtheir lamps needed filling. It seemed more like home up there too; and,besides that, it was the point toward which a rescuing party would bemost likely to work.

  Jack's basket was only partly full of food, but there would be enough,he thought, to last, by economical use, during the following day. Heate none of it himself, however, and the boys ate but sparingly.

  Then they made up a little platform from the boards and timbers of theruined door, and spread the blankets on it, and induced Bennie, whoseemed to be weak and nervous, to lie down on it and try to sleep. Butthe lad was very restless, and slept only at intervals, as, indeed, didTom and Jack, one of whom had stretched himself out on the bench, whilethe other sat on the mine floor, reclining against a pillar.

  When they thought it was morning, they all arose and walked around alittle, and the boys ate another portion of the food from the basket.But Jack did not touch it; he was not hungry, he said, and he went offinto the new chambers to explore the place.

  After a while he came back and sat down, and began telling stories ofhis boyhood life in the old country, intermingling with them many amarvellous tale and strange adventure, and so he entertained the boysfor hours.

  It must have been well on into the afternoon that Tom took to walkingup and down the heading. Sometimes Jack went with him, but oftener heremained to talk with Bennie, who still seemed weak and ill, and wholay down on the blankets again later on, and fell asleep.

  The flame of the little lamp burned up dimly. More oil and a fresh wickwere put in, but the blaze was still spiritless.

  Jack knew well enough what the trouble was. There were places up inthe new chambers where the deadly carbonic acid gas was escaping intothe prison, adding, with terrible rapidity, to the amount produced byexhalation and combustion. But he said nothing; the boys did not know,and it would be useless to alarm them further.

  Bennie started and moaned now and then in his sleep, and finally awoke,crying. He had had bad dreams, he said.

  Jack thought it must be late in the second evening of theirimprisonment.

  He took all the food from the basket, and divided it into three equalparts. It would be better to eat it, he thought, before actualsuffering from hunger began. They would be better able to hold out inthe end.

  Nevertheless, he laid his portion back in the basket.

  "I haven't the stomach for it just noo," he said. "Mayhap it'll tastebetter an' I wait a bit."

  There was plenty of water. A little stream ran down through the airway,from which the pail had been repeatedly filled.

  The night wore on.

  The first sound of rescue had not yet been heard.

  By-and-by both boys slept.

  Jack alone remained awake and thoughtful. His face gave token ofgreat physical suffering. Once he lifted the cover from the basket,and looked hungrily and longingly at the little portion of food thatremained. Then he replaced the lid, and set the basket back resolutelyon the ledge.

  "No! no!" he murmured. "I mus' na tak' it oot o' the mou's o' TomTaylor's bairns."

  For a long time he sat motionless, with his chin in his hands, and hiseyes fixed on the sleeping lads. Then, straightening up, there cameinto his face a look of heroic resolution.

  "I'll do it!" he said, aloud. "It'll be better for us a'."

  The sound of his voice awakened Tom, who had slept for some hours,and who now arose and began again his monotonous walk up and down theheading.

  After a while, Jack motioned to him to come and sit beside him on thebench.

  "I ha' summat to say to ye," he said. Then, with a glance at thesleeping boy, "Come ye up the airway a bit."

  The two walked up the airway a short distance, and sat down on a brokenprop by the side of the track.

  "Tom," said Jack, after a moment or two of silence, "it's a-goin' hardwi' us. Mos' like it's near two days sin' the fall, an' no soun' o'help yet. Na doot but they're a-workin', but it'll tak' lang to gethere fra the time ye hear the first tappin'. The three o' us can't livethat lang; mayhap two can. Ye s'all be the ones. I ha' fixed on thatfra the start. That's why I ha' ta'en no food."

  "An' we've had it all!" broke in Tom. "You shouldn't a-done it. Thethree of us ought to a' fared alike--'cept, maybe, Bennie; he aint sostrong, an' he ought to be favored."

  "Yes, Tom, the weakes' first. That's richt; that's why I'm a-givin'my chances to you lads. An' besides that, my life ain't worth savin'any way, alongside o' yours an' Bennie's. Ye s'all share what's i' thebasket atween ye. 'Tain't much, but it'll keep ye up as long's theair'll support ye. It's a-gettin' bad, the air is. D'ye min' the lomp,how dim an' lazy-like it burns? A mon's got to ha' such strength asfood'll give him to hold out lang in air like this."

  "I wish you'd 'a' eaten with us," interrupted Tom again. "'Tain't rightto let your chances go that way on account of us."

  Paying no attention to this protest, Jack continued:

  "But I've a thing on ma min', Tom, that I'd feel easier aboot an'fitter for what's a-comin' if I told it. It's aboot the father, lad;it's aboot Tom Taylor, an' how he cam' to his death. Ye'll no' thinktoo hard o' me, Tom? It wasna the fall o' top coal that killit him--itwas _me_! Tom! lad! Tom! be
ar wi' me a minute! Sit ye an' bear wi' me;it'll no' be for lang."

  The boy had risen to his feet, and stood staring at the man interrified amazement. Then Jack rose, in his turn, and hurried on withhis story:

  "It wasna by intent, Tom. We were the best o' frien's; I was his butty.We had a chamber thegither that time i' the Carbondale mine. But oneday we quarrelled,--I've no call to say what aboot,--we quarrelledthere in the chamber, an' ugly words passed, an' there cam' a momentwhen one o' us struck the ither.

  "Then the fight began; han' to han'; both lamps oot; a' in the dark;oh, it was tarrible! tarrible!--doon on the floor o' the mine, crashin'up against the ragged pillars, strugglin' an' strainin' like mad--an'a' of a sudden, I heard a sharp cry, an' I felt him a-slippin' oot o'ma arms an' doon to ma feet, an' he lay there an' was still.

  "I foun' ma lamp an' lighted it, an' when I lookit at him, he was dead.

  "I was a coward. I was afraid to say we'd been a-fightin'; I was afraidthey'd say I murdered him. So I blastit doon a bit o' roof, an' fixedit like the top coal'd killit him; an' I wasna suspeckit. But I couldna stay there; an' I wandered west, an' I wandered east, an' I took todrink, an' to evil deeds, an' at last I cam' back, an' I went in wi'the Molly Maguires--Scotchman as I was--an' I done desperate work for'em; work that I oughtn't to be alive to-night to speak aboot--but Iha' suffered; O lad, I ha' suffered!

  "Mony an' mony's the nicht, as often as I ha' slept an' dreamed, thatI ha' fought over that fight i' the dark, an' felt that body a-slip,slippin' oot o' ma grasp. Oh, it's been tarrible, tarrible!"

  Jack dropped into his seat again and buried his face in his hands.

  The man's apparent mental agony melted Tom's heart, and he sat downbeside him and laid a comforting hand on his knee.

  "I have naught against you," he said, and repeated, "I have naughtagainst you."

  After a while Jack looked up.

  "I believe ye, lad," he said, "an' somehow I feel easier for thetellin'. But ye mus' na tell the mither aboot it, Tom; I've a reasonfor that. I've a bit o' money here, that I've saved along through theyears, an' I've neither kith nor kin that's near enow to leave itwi'--an' I want she should have it; an' if she knew she might not tak'it."

  As he spoke he drew, from an inner pocket, a folded and wrappedpackage, and gave it to Tom.

  "It's a matter o' a thousan' dollars," he continued, "an' I'd like--I'dlike if a part o' it could be used for gettin' sight for the blin' lad,gin he lives to get oot. I told him, one day, that he should have hissight, if money'd buy it--an' I want to keep ma ward."

  Tom took the package, too much amazed, and too deeply moved to speak.

  The grinding noise of settling rock came up from the region of thefall, and then, for many minutes, the silence was unbroken.

  After a while, Jack said, "Put the money where they'll find it on ye,gin ye--gin ye don't get oot."

  Then he rose to his feet again.

  "You're not goin' to leave us?" said Tom.

  "Yes, lad, I mus' go. It's the way wi' hunger, sometimes, to mak' a mancrazy till he's not knowin' what he does. Ye s'all no ha' that to fearfra me. Tom," grasping the boy, suddenly, by both hands, "don't come upinto the new chambers, Tom; promise me!"

  Tom promised, and Jack added, "Mayhap I s'all not see yeagain--good-by--keep up heart; that's the gret thing for both o'ye--keep up heart, an' never let hope go."

  Then he loosed the boy's hands, picked up his lamp, and, with a smileon his face, he turned away. He passed down the airway, and out bythe entrance where blind Bennie lay, still sleeping, and stopped andlooked tenderly down upon him, as men look, for the last time in life,on those whom they love.

  He bent over, holding his heavy beard back against his breast, andtouched the tangled hair on the child's forehead with his lips; andthen, weak, staggering, with the shadow of his fate upon him, he passedout on the heading, and up into the new chambers, where the poisonedair was heavy with the deadly gas, and the lamp-flame scarcely left thewick; and neither Tom Taylor nor his blind brother ever saw Jack Rennieagain, in life or in death.

  When Tom went back to the waiting-place, Bennie awoke.

  "I had such a nice dream, Tom," he said. "I thought I was a-lyin' inthe little bed, at home, in the early mornin'; an' it was summer, an'I could hear the birds a-singin' in the poplar tree outside; an' thenMommie she come up by the bed an' kissed me; an' then I thought, allof a sudden, I could see. O Tom, it was lovely! I could see Mommiea-stannin' there, an' I could see the sunlight a-comin' in at thewindow, an' a-shinin' on the floor; an' I jumped up an' looked out, an'it was all just like--just like heaven."

  There was a pause, and then Bennie added, "Tom, do you s'pose if Ishould die now an' go to heaven, I could see up there?"

  "I guess so," answered Tom; "but you aint goin' to die; we're goin' toget out--both of us."

  But Bennie was still thinking of the heavenly vision.

  "Then I wouldn't care, Tom; I'd just as lieve die--if only Mommie couldbe with me."

  Again Tom spoke, in earnest, cheerful tones, of the probability ofrescue; and discussed the subject long, and stimulated his own heart,as well as Bennie's, with renewed hope.

  By-and-by the imperious demands of hunger compelled a resort to theremnant of food. Tom explained that Jack had gone away, to be byhimself a while, and wanted them to eat what there was in the basket.Bennie did not question the statement. So the last of the food waseaten.

  After this there was a long period of quiet waiting, and listening forsounds of rescue, and, finally, both boys lay down again and slept.

  Hours passed by with no sound save the labored breathing of thesleepers. Then Tom awoke, with a prickling sensation over his entirebody, and a strange heaviness of the head and weakness of the limbs;but Bennie slept on.

  "He might as well sleep," said Tom, to himself, "it'll make the timeshorter for him."

  But by and by Bennie awoke, and said that he felt very sick, and thathis head was hurting him.

  He fell asleep again soon, however, and it was not until some hourslater that he awoke, with a start, and asked for water. After that,though oppressed with drowsiness, he slept only at intervals, andcomplained constantly of his head.

  Tom cared for him and comforted him, putting his own sufferings out ofsight; sleeping a little, straining his ears for a sound of rescue.

  The hours crept on, and the flame of the little lamp burned round anddim, and the deadly gas grew thicker in the darkness.

  Once, after a longer period of quiet than usual, there came a whisperfrom Bennie.

  "Tom!"

  "What is it, Bennie?"

  "Where did Jack go?"

  "Up in the new chambers."

  "How long's he been gone?"

  "Oh, a day or two, I guess."

  "Hark, Tom, is that him?"

  "I don't hear any thing, Bennie."

  "Listen! it's a kind o' tappin,' tappin'--don't you hear it?"

  But Tom's heart was beating so wildly that he could hear no lessernoise.

  "I don't hear it any more," said Bennie.

  But both boys lay awake now and listened; and by and by Bennie spokeagain, "There it is; don't you hear it, Tom?"

  This time Tom did hear it; just the faintest tap, tap, sounding,almost, as though it were miles away.

  There was a little crowbar there, that had been brought down from thenew chambers. Tom caught it up, and hurried into the heading, and beat,half a dozen times, on the wall there, and then, dropping the bar fromsheer exhaustion, he lay down beside it and listened.

  It was hard to tell if they heard his strokes, though he repeated themagain and again, as his strength would permit.

  But the faint tapping ceased only at intervals, and, once in a longwhile, a scarcely perceptible thud could be heard.

  Tom crept back to Bennie, and tried to speak cheeringly, as they layand listened.

  But the blind boy's limbs had grown numb, and his head very heavy andpainful. His utterance, too, had become thick and
uncertain, and attimes he seemed to be wandering in his mind. Once he started up, cryingout that the roof was falling on him.

  Hours passed. Echoing through the fall, the sound of pick and crowbarcame, with unmistakable earnestness.

  Tom had tapped many times on the wall, and was sure he had been heard,for the answering raps had reached his ears distinctly.

  But they were so long coming; so long! Yet Tom nursed his hope, andfought off the drowsiness that oppressed him, and tried to care forBennie.

  The blind boy had got beyond caring for himself. He no longer heard thesounds of rescue. Once he turned partly on his side.

  "Yes, Mommie," he whispered, "yes, I see it; ain't it pretty!" Then,after a pause, "O Mommie, how beautiful--how beautiful--it is--to see!"

  Tap, tap, thud, came the sounds of rescue through the rock and coal.

  Tap, tap, thud; but, oh, how the moments lagged; how the deadly gasincreased; how the sharp teeth of hunger gnawed; how feebly burned theflame of the little lamp; how narrow grew the issue between life anddeath!

  A time had come when Bennie could be no longer roused to consciousness,when the brain itself had grown torpid, and the tongue refused to act.

  Tap! tap! louder and louder; they were coming near, men's voices couldbe heard; thud! thud! the prison-wall began to tremble with the heavyblows; but the hours went slipping by into the darkness, and, overthe rude couch, whereon the blind boy lay, the angel of death hungmotionless, with pinions poised for flight.

  "O God!" prayed Tom; "O dear God, let Bennie live until they come!"

  CHAPTER VIII.

  OUT OF DARKNESS.

  It was with a light heart that the Widow Taylor kissed her two boysgood-by that morning in December, and watched them as they disappearedinto the fading darkness. When they were gone she went about herhousehold duties with a song on her lips. She did not often sing whenshe was alone; but this was such a pretty little song of a mother andher boy, that on this happy winter morning she could not choose butsing it.

  Hers were such noble boys, such bright, brave boys! They had given herheart and life to begin the struggle for bread, on that awful day whenshe found herself homeless, moneyless, among strangers in a strangeland; when, in answer to her eager question for her husband, she hadbeen told that he had met an untimely death, and was already lying inhis grave.

  But, as she had toiled and trusted, her sons had grown, both in statureand in grace, till they had become, indeed, her crown of rejoicing.

  One thing yet she looked forward to with eager hope, and that was thetime when her blind boy might have the benefit of skilful treatment forhis eyes, with the possibility of sight. It might take years of savingyet, but every day that they could all work made the time of waitingone day less. So she was hardly less rejoiced at the renewal of theirtasks than were the boys themselves.

  It was a bright day, and warm, too, for December; she thought of itafterward, how fair the day was. But it was lonely without her boys. Ithad been weeks since they had been away from her all day so; and, longbefore the sun went down, she began to wish for their coming.

  She made supper early, and set out a few treasured dainties on thetable, in honor of the first day's work. Then, while the shadows grewindistinct, and the darkness settled down upon the earth, she sat bythe window and saw the stars come out, and waited for her boys.

  Suddenly there came a jar, the house rocked slightly, the windowsrattled, and a dish on the pantry-shelf fell to the floor and wasbroken.

  The Widow Taylor started to her feet, and stood, for a moment,wondering what it could mean. Then she opened the door of her cottageand looked out.

  Other women were standing by their gates, and men were hurrying pasther in the darkness.

  "What's happened?" she called out, to a neighbor.

  "A fall," came back the answer; "it must 'a' been a fall."

  "Where?"

  She asked the question with a dreadful apprehension settling down uponher.

  "We canna tell; but mos' like it's i' the Dryden Slope. They'rea-runnin' that way."

  The widow shrank back into her house, and sank, weakly, into a chair.For the moment she was overcome; but only for the moment. Hope came toher rescue. There were a hundred chances to one that her boys were notin the mine, even if the fall had been there; indeed, it was alreadytime for them to be at home.

  She waited, for a few moments, in anxious indecision; then, throwing ashawl about her head and shoulders, she went out into the night.

  She knew very well the route by which her boys came from their work,and she determined to go until she should meet them. There were manypeople hurrying toward the slope, but only one man coming from it, andhe was running for a doctor, and had no time to talk.

  Increasing anxiety hastened the widow's steps. She could not go fastenough. Even as it was, people jostled by her in the darkness, and sheran to keep up with them.

  At last, the mile that lay between her cottage and the mine was almostcovered. Up on the hillside, at the mouth of the slope, she saw thetwinkling and glancing of the lights of many lamps. The crowds hadgrown more dense. Other women were pushing past her, moaning andlamenting.

  She climbed the hill, and through the throng, to where a heavy rope hadbeen stretched about the mouth of the slope, as a barrier to hold backthe pressing crowd; and clutching the rope with both hands, she stoodthere and waited and watched.

  She was where she could see into the opening of the mine, and where shecould see all who came out.

  Some cars were lowered from the slope-house to the mouth, and a dozenmen, with picks and crowbars, climbed into them and went speeding downinto the blackness. It was another rescuing party.

  Across the open space before her, the widow saw Sandy McCulloch coming,and cried out to him, "Sandy!"

  He stopped for an instant, then, recognizing the woman's voice, he cameup to her, and laid his hands on hers, and, before she could speakagain, he said, "Ye're lookin' for the lads. They're no' come oot yet."

  "Sandy--are they safe?"

  "We canna tell. There was mony 'at got this side o' the fall afoor itcomed; an' some 'at got catched in it; an' mos' like there be some'at's beyon' it."

  A car came up the slope, and the body of a man was lifted out, placedon a rude stretcher, and carried by.

  Sandy moved, awkwardly, to get between the dread sight and the woman'seyes. But she looked at it only for a moment. It was a man; and thoseshe sought were not men, but boys.

  "They're a-workin'," continued Sandy, "they're a-workin' like tigers toget to 'em, an' we're a-hopin'; that's a' we can do--work an' hope."

  The man hurried away and left her, still standing there, to watch thecar that came up from the blackness, at lengthening intervals, with itsdreadful load, and to hear the shrill cry from some heart-broken wifeand mother, as she recognized the victim. But they were always men whowere brought out, not boys.

  After a time, a party of workers came up, exhausted, and others wentdown in their places. The men were surrounded with eager questioners,but they had little to say. The work of rescue was progressing, thatwas all.

  By and by Sandy came back.

  "Ye should no stay here, Mistress Taylor," he said. "When the lads befound ye s'all know it; I'll bring 'em to ye mysel'. Mos' like they'reback o' the fall, an' it'll tak' time to get 'em--all nicht maybe,maybe longer; but when they're found, ye s'all not be long knowin' it."

  "O Sandy! ye'll spare naught; ye'll spare naught for 'em?"

  "We'll spare naught," he said.

  He had started with her towards home, helping her along until thebend in the road disclosed the light in her cottage window; and then,bidding her to be hopeful, and of strong heart, he left her, andhurried back to aid in the work of rescue.

  The outer line of the fall, and the openings into it, had already beensearched; and all the missing had been accounted for--some living, somedead, and some to whom death would have been a happy relief--all themissing, save Tom Taylor and his blind bro
ther.

  It was well known that their route to the foot of the slope lay by thenew north heading; and, along this passage, the entire work of rescuewas now concentrated. The boys would be found, either buried under thefall, or imprisoned back of it.

  At some points in the heading, the rescuing parties found the rockand coal wedged in so solidly that the opening of a few feet was thework of an hour; again, the huge blocks and slabs were piled up,irregularly; and, again, there would be short distances that werewholly clear.

  But no matter what these miners met, their work never for one momentceased nor lagged. They said little; men do not talk much under apressure like that; but every muscle was tense, every sense on thealert; they were at the supreme height of physical effort.

  Such labor was possible only for a few hours at a time, but the toolsscarcely ceased in their motion, so quickly were they caught up byfresh hands, from the exhausted ones that dropped them.

  Men do not work like that for money. No riches of earth could chargenerve and muscle with such energetic fire. It was, indeed, a labor oflove.

  There was not a workman in Dryden Slope but would have worn his fingersto the bone to save these lads, or their widowed mother, from one hourof suffering. The frank, manly character of Tom, and the patheticsimplicity of his blind brother, had made both boys the favorites ofthe mine. And beneath the grimy clothes of these rugged miners, beathearts as warm and resolute as ever moved the noblest of earth's heroesto generous deeds of daring.

  When the Widow Taylor reached home it was almost midnight. She set awaythe supper-dishes from the table, and, in place of them, she put someof her simple household remedies. She prepared bandages and lint, andmade every thing ready for the restoration and comfort of the suffererswhen they should arrive.

  She expected that they would be weak, wounded, too, perhaps; but shehad not yet thought of them as dead.

  Then she lay down upon her bed and tried to sleep; but at every noiseshe wakened; at every passing foot-fall she started to her feet.

  At daybreak a miner stopped, with blackened face and bleeding hands, totell her that the work of rescue was going bravely on. He had, himself,just come from the face of the new opening, he said; and would go backagain, to work, after he had taken a little food and a little sleep.

  The morning went by; noon passed, and still no other tidings. Themonotony of waiting became unbearable at last, and the stricken womanstarted on another journey to the mine.

  When she came near to the mouth of the slope, they made way for herin silent sympathy. A trip of cars came out soon after her arrival,and a half-dozen miners lifted themselves wearily to the ground. Thecrowd pressed forward with eager questions, but the tired workers onlyshook their heads. They feared, they said, that not half the distancethrough the fall had yet been accomplished.

  But one of them, a brawny, great-hearted Irishman, came over to wherethe Widow Taylor stood, white-faced and eager-eyed, and said, "Itwon't be long now, ma'am, till we'll be afther rachin' 'em. We'rea-hopin' every blissed hour to break through to where the purty lads isa-sthayin'."

  She started to ask some question, but he interrupted her:

  "Oh, av coorse! av coorse! It's alive they are, sure; an' hearty; a bithungry like, maybe, an' no wondher; but safe, ma'am, as safe as av yehad the both o' thim in your own house, an' the dure locked behind yez."

  "An' do ye find no signs?" she asked. "Do ye hear no sounds?"

  "Ah, now!" evading the question; "niver ye fear. Ye'll see both childera-laughin' in your face or ever the mornin' dawns again, or LarryFlannigan's word's no betther than a lie."

  She turned away and went home again, and the long night passed, and themorning dawned, and Larry Flannigan's word was, indeed, no better thana lie.

  It was only the same old story: "They're a-workin'. It can't be longnow."

  But among themselves the miners said that had the lads escaped thefall, they would perish from hunger and foul air long before the waycould be opened into their prison. To bring their lifeless bodies outfor decent burial was all that could be hoped.

  The morning of the fourth day dawned, beautiful and sunny. It was theholy Christmas Day; the day on which the star-led shepherds found theChrist-child in the hallowed manger in the town of Bethlehem. Whiteand pure upon the earth, in the winter sunlight, rested a covering ofnewly fallen snow; and, pale-faced and hollow-eyed, the mother of thetwo imprisoned boys looked out upon it from the window of her desolatedhome.

  The sympathizing neighbors who had kept her company for the night hadgone for a little while, and she was alone.

  She knew that there was no hope.

  They had thought it a kindness to tell her so at last, and she hadthanked them for not keeping the bitter truth hid from her.

  She did not ask any more that she might see her two boys in life;she only prayed now that their dear bodies might be brought to herunmangled, to be robed for Christian burial.

  To this end she began now to make all things ready. She put in orderthe little best room; she laid out the clean, new clothing, and thespotless sheets; she even took from her worn purse the four small coinsto place upon the white, closed lids.

  In the locked cupboard, where the boys should not see them till thetime came, she found the Christmas presents she had thought to give tothem this day.

  Not much, indeed. A few cheap toys, some sweetmeats purchased secretly,a book or two, and, last of all, some little gifts that her own weary,loving hands had wrought in the long hours after the children wereasleep.

  And now the Christmas dawn had come; but the children--

  She had not wept before, not since the first jar from the fall hadrocked her cottage; but now, with the sight of these poor, simpleChristmas gifts, there came some softening influence that moved herheart, and brought the swift tears to her eyes, and she sat down in heraccustomed chair and wept--wept long and piteously, indeed, but in theweeping found relief.

  She was aroused by a knock at the door. The latch was lifted, the doorpushed open, and Sandy McCulloch stumbled in. He was out of breath, hiseyes were wide with excitement, and down each side of his grimy facewas a furrow where the tears had run.

  The widow started to her feet.

  "Sandy!"

  A wild hope had come into her heart.

  "They're found!" he forced out breath enough to say.

  "O Sandy, alive or--or"--

  She could not finish the question; the room seemed whirling round her;she grasped at the chair for support.

  "Alive!" he shouted. "Alive, an' a-goin' to live!"

  He started forward, and caught the woman as she fell. The shock ofjoy had been too sudden and too great, and for a time nature gave waybefore it.

  But it was indeed true. When the men, working at the face of thetunnel, caught the sound of responsive tappings, they labored withredoubled energy, if such a thing could be, and, after another night ofmost gigantic effort, they broke through into the prison-house, to findboth boys unconscious indeed, but alive, alive.

  Medical aid was at hand, and though for a time the spirit of Bennieseemed fain to leave his wasted body, it took a firmer hold at last,and it was known that he would live.

  In triumphant procession, they bore the rescued, still unconscious,boys in tender haste to their mother's house; and those who ran beforeshouted, "Found! found!" and those who followed after cried, "Alive!alive!"

  How the women kissed their own children and wept, as they saw the ladsborne by! How the men grasped one another's hands, and tried to speakwithout a tremor in the voice--and failed. And how wild the whole townwent over the gallant rescue of the widow's sons!

  But Jack Rennie, poor Jack, brave, misguided Jack! They found his bodylater on, and gave it tender burial. But it was only when the lips ofTom and Bennie were unsealed, with growing strength, that others knewhow this man's heroic sacrifice had made it possible for these two boysto live.

  Under the most watchful and tender care of his mother, Tom soonrecovered his usu
al health. But for Bennie the shock had been moresevere. He gained strength very slowly, indeed. He could not free hismind from dreadful memories. Many a winter night he started from hissleep, awakened by dreams of falling mines.

  It was not until the warm, south winds of April crept up the valleyof Wyoming, that he could leave his easy-chair without a hand to helphim; and not until all the sweet roses of June were in blossom that hewalked abroad in the sunlight as before.

  But then--oh, then what happened? Only this: that Jack Rennie's giftwas put to the use he had bespoken for it; that skilled hands in thegreat city gave proper treatment to the blind boy's eyes through manyweeks, and then--he saw! Only this; but it was life to him,--new,sweet, joyous life.

  One day he stepped upon the train, with sight restored, to ride backto his valley home. Wide-eyed he was; exuberant with hope and fancy,seeing all things, talking to those about him, asking many questions.

  The full and perfect beauty of late summer rested on the land. Thefields were never more luxuriantly green and golden, nor the trees morerichly clothed with verdure. The first faint breath of coming autumnhad touched the landscape here and there with spots of glowing color,and the red and yellow fruit hung temptingly among the leaves of allthe orchard trees.

  The waters of the river, up whose winding course the train ran on andon, were sparkling in the sunlight with a beauty that, in this boy'seyes, was little less than magical.

  And the hills; how high the hills were! Bennie said he never dreamedthe hills could be so high.

  "Beautiful!" he said, again and again, as the ever changing landscapesformed and faded in his sight; "beautiful! beautiful!"

  Before the train reached Wilkesbarre the summer evening had fallen,and from that city, up the valley of Wyoming, Bennie saw from thecar-window only the twinkling of many lights.

  Tom was at the station to meet him. Dear, brave Tom, how his heartswelled with pride, as, by some unaccountable instinct, Bennie came tohim, and called him by name, and put his arms around his neck.

  Many were there to see the once blind boy, and give him welcome home.And as they grasped his hand, and marked his happiness, some laughedfor joy, and others,--for the same reason indeed,--others wept.

  Then they started on the long home walk, Tom and Bennie, hand in handtogether, as they used to go hand in hand, to find and greet the mother.

  She was waiting for them; sitting by the window in her chair, as shehad sat that dreadful winter night; but there came now no sudden jar tosend a pallor to her face; she heard, instead, the light footsteps ofher two boys on the walk, and their voices at the door; and then--why,then, she had Bennie in her arms, and he was saying--strange that theyshould be the very words that passed his lips that awful hour whendeath hung over him--he was saying, "O Mommie! how beautiful--howbeautiful--it is--to see!"

  Transcriber's Notes:

  --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text in bold by "equal" signs (=bold=).

  --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

  --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

  --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.