'I know that. But you're the very men to be trusted with such jobs. Explain to Rees Thomas why I can't come as I promised him. He has been worrying me about the "danger," as he calls it.'

Lusty went away to get his men, tools, &c., and his going seemed to David like a second and more tragic withdrawal of the light and blessedness of the sun.

He waited; every limb trembling with apprehension lest the struggle was about to be renewed.

He saw his father glance askance at him, while he stood pondering over some idea about which he hesitated.

'David,' he said, turning to the boy, and speaking in more thoughtful, measured tones than were usual with him in addressing dependants, David, are you man enough to keep a promise if you make one?'

What-what-promise, father?' faltered out David, anxious to please, yet afraid of the consequences.

'Well, I can't go down the mine with you to-night, and I suppose you'd rather go with me when you do go?" "Y-, yes-father!'

On Monday morning I expect to have quite other business to attend to, if, as seems likely, Mr. Jehoshaphat dies before then. Are you listening? Do you understand?'

"Yes, father!'

"Now then I'll see if I can treat you as a man. I'll make a bargain with you, if only to see how you can keep it. Give me your word you will go down with me quietly on Monday morning early, just for an hour or two, to see the place and the people at work, and get used to them, and then you shall come up again with me, and go with me to the Farm-if I go-but in any case you shall have the rest of the day for a holiday. Then on Tuesday morning you begin in earnest, with no more nonsense! David, that'll please your mother.'

Now,

Oh no, father!' burst in David, impetuously. "Well then, it'll please me. Are you man enough to do this to know the time has come when you must act

like a man? Will you take my hand now, and say bravely, "Yes, father"?"

David's heart was full, and Israel had at last found the way to it. After a few natural spasms of anguish at the renewed thought of the beautiful world behind him and the hideous mine below, he took his father's large outstretched hand between both his little ones, tried to smile, then burst into tears and stifled sobs, while saying,

"Yes, father, yes, I will! Oh, I will indeed!"

You promise me to go quietly down on Monday morning for an hour or two."

I do, father!'

You promise me to begin work regularly on Tuesday, and to let me be troubled with no more nonsense?'

"Yes, father,' cried David, still holding the hand and pressing it convulsively against his panting breast.

All right. Fulfil your promise and you shall be a man-perhaps after all a deal luckier man than your father, when you come to see all that I see. Now then go home, and tell your mother that I may be very late-perhaps kept all night.'

David's first impulse was to run, his next to go very slowly indeed, lest his father might, because he saw him run, stop him.

There was only a few yards to pass over before he would get behind a building, and then--

His father was still standing where he had left him. He was sure of that, for he had listened with intensest expectancy for the sound of his step, which he felt he must be able to distinguish. Why did his father not move? He must be hesitating! And David knew instinctively that this letting him escape was not an action natural to his father.

With bounding heart and step he was just about to pass behind the house which contained the gigantic revolving fan for ventilating the mine, when, like the voice of doom, came the one word,

'David!'

Should he turn or fly? This might be his last chance!

85

No: his father had appealed to him-as a man-he still remembered that; he would turn and go back.

He did so, and Israel met him, and looked and spoke as pleased in his grim fashion at the boy's obedience. David saw his face, and noted the tone of voice, and felt certain his father had done this only to try him, and he was glad-almost proud.

As I told thee, lad,' said Israel, 'I may be very late. So thou hadst better hear now what I was about to tell thee in the morning. Mr. Jehoshaphat is to be prayed for at the church to-morrow. I shall be there if I can. Tell your mother you are to be there too—even if she won't go.'

'But, father-mother is so miserable if I don't go to chapel with her.'

'Be at the church early, a few minutes before the service begins. You will larn to-morrow, I expect, more than your silly school has yet larned you in all these years. You will larn all about a great man-and so larn, I hope, how to be a great man yourself. Succeed-succeedsucceed-my boy! That's the one thing I and the parson are now going to try to teach you. Now run home-fast as you like.'

David needed no second bidding. Away he went, with steps almost as fleet as those of the hare, that, after escaping her hunters, suddenly frightens herself with the fear they may again be upon her, and, therefore, though unpursued, again takes madly to flight.

CHAPTER III.

IN WHICH THE REVEREND HORACE JONES DISCOVERS

HE IS AN ORATOR.

THE little church of Brynnant, in South Wales, stands at the very mouth of a winding valley, that is seen high up, emerging from behind and between two mountain-crests, then rapidly descending, accompanied by the music of its own wild stream, till it debouches through the churchyard, as if that were its own particular gateway, on to the broad marshy plain, which here skirts the seashore, protected by a line of sandbanks far as the eye can reach.

Noble mountains are on either side, whose majestic bulk and contour dwarf everything about them, and seem to reduce all but themselves to utter insignificance. Even the broad sea, in this its hour of peaceful repose, seems but as a grander moat to these sublime natural fortresses.

It is Sunday afternoon, and people are slowly gathering towards the church, stopping as they meet, in groups, to discuss the all-important event of last night, the dangerous illness of Mr. Jehoshaphat Williams, the oldest living communicant, the founder of their schools, the employer of the bulk of their labouring poor.

And is he really given over by the doctor? Will the curate pray for him? Will he speak of him in his sermon? Does old Mrs. Jehoshaphat, his wife, know? Will she be at church presently?

So runs the ceaseless flow of questions which no one attempts to answer, but which is instantly arrested as an aged and infirm woman enters the churchyard, her right hand grasping a strong stick, her left resting on the arm of a rustic-looking youth, whose vacant face and limp whitish diseased-looking hair, from which all traces of vitality seem discharged, imply degradation of race, and offer a significant commentary on the bold peasantry, their country's pride, of which the poet speaks.

He moves mechanically, just as she impels him, seeming, indeed, to have no business whatever in creation but to hold that trembling arm-do as it bids him, by the language of hasty jerks or pulls-and move on, with lips apart, and eyes that would be full of wonder at what is now passing, but that their natural power does not extend quite so far.

As man and wife have long been divided, in homes as well as hearts, the whole parish knows of the sad state of the relations between this aged, tottering, but still defiantlooking woman, and the unhappy man, now stricken so low in his solitary dwelling on a spur of the mountainheight. But if their relations had been ever so secret, it would, if we may judge from her present behaviour, have mattered little to Mrs. Jehoshaphat, who is stopping to speak to one of the men as he is going towards the church porch.

"What, Israel Mort come to church once more!'

'So it seems,' responded Israel, confronting her with a. calmness that made the old lady irritable.

'And when were you here last? Shall I tell you?'
'As you please, Mrs. Jehoshaphat.'

'Never since you came with him, my husband, when he was what you still are, an Overman on six-and-twenty shillings a week.'

'It's very likely,' said the imperturbable Israel, who seemed rather interested than offended by her attack.

'Very likely!' repeated the shrill and angry voice of the old lady, which then sank low, almost to a whisper before she went on. 'Hark you, Israel Mort-was it also very likely that you who was then his only friend, should try to trip him up, and get his place?'

'He thought it uncommon likely,' said Israel, with a grim something passing over his features, that looked like. a shadow, but might be his sardonic smile. I know, ma'am, he laughed confoundedly when he found it out, and owned he should ha' done just the same.'

Ay, and he made you his slave ever since, by way of

c 2