Goodlaw helped her to the carriage.

"Will you come with me?" she asked.

He seated himself beside her and they were driven away. There was little that he could say to comfort and a.s.sure her. The shock was too recent. The situation of her son was too perilous.

Darkness was coming on when they reached the scene of the disaster; one or two stars were already out, and the crescent of the new moon was hanging in the west. Great clouds of white smoke were floating away to the east, and where the breaker had that morning stood there was now only a ma.s.s of charred and glowing ruins.

There were many people there, people who talked in low tones and who looked on with solemn faces. But there were no outcries nor lamentations; there was but one person, a boy, shut up in the mine, and he was kin to no one there.

Up at the south-west corner of the pile they were throwing water on the ruins. An engine had been brought up from the city and was pouring a steady stream on the spot where the shaft was thought to be.

Many men were engaged in cutting and pulling away the burned timbers, handling them while they were yet glowing with fire, so eager were they to forward the work of rescue.

The superintendent of the mines was there, directing, encouraging, and giving a helping hand. He saw Mrs. Burnham and came up to her carriage.

"It was a very disastrous lightning stroke," he said; "the property of the company is in ruins, but as yet no lives have been lost. There is but one person in the mine, the boy Ralph; you both know him. We are clearing away the wreckage from the mouth of the shaft as rapidly as possible, in the hope that we may get down there in time to save his life. Our people have directed me to spare no effort in this matter.

One life, even though it is that of an unknown boy, is not too poor a thing for us to try, by every possible means, to save."

"That boy," said Goodlaw, "is Mrs. Burnham's son."

"Is it possible! Has he been identified, then, since the trial?"

"Fully, fully! My dear sir, I beg that you will do all that lies in your power to save this life for your company's sake, then double your effort for this lady's sake. She has no such fortune as this boy is to her."

Mrs. Burnham had sat there pale-faced and eager-eyed. Now she spoke:--

"What is the prospect? What are the chances? Can you surely save him?

Tell me truly, Mr. Martin?"

"We cannot say certainly," replied the superintendent; "there are too many factors in the problem of which we are yet ignorant. We do not know how badly the shaft is choked up; we do not know the condition of the air in the mine. To be frank with you, I think the chances are against rescuing the boy alive. The mine soon fills with poisonous gases when the air supply is cut off."

"Are you doing all that can be done?" she asked. "Will more men, more money, more of anything, help you in your work?"

"We are doing all that can be done," he answered her. "The men are working bravely. We need nothing."

"How soon will you be able to go down and begin the search?"

The man thought for a moment before replying.

"To-morrow," he said, uncertainly. "I think surely by to-morrow."

She sank back into the carriage-seat, appalled by the length of time named. She had hoped that an hour or two at the farthest would enable them to reach the bottom of the shaft.

"We will push the work to the utmost," said Martin, as he hurried away. "Possibly we shall be able to get in sooner."

Goodlaw and Mrs. Burnham sat for a long time in silence, watching the men at their labor. Word had been pa.s.sed among the workers that the missing boy was Mrs. Burnham's son, and their energetic efforts were put forth now for her sake as well as for the lad's. For both mother and son held warm places in the hearts of these toiling men.

The mouth of the shaft had been finally uncovered, a s.p.a.ce cleared around it, and the frame of a rude windla.s.s erected. They were preparing to remove the debris from the opening.

Conway came to the carriage, and, in a voice broken with emotion, told the story of Ralph's heroic effort to save a human life at the risk of his own. He had little hope, he said, that Ralph could live till they should reach him; but he should be the first, he declared, to go into the mine in search of the gallant boy.

At this recital Mrs. Burnham wept; she could restrain her tears no longer.

At last Goodlaw persuaded her to leave the scene. He feared the effect that continued gazing on it might have upon her delicate nerves.

The flashing of the lanterns, the huge torches lighting up the darkness, the forms of men moving back and forth in the smoky atmosphere, the muscular and mental energy exhibited, the deep earnestness displayed,--all this made up a picture too dramatic and appalling for one whose heart was in it to look at undismayed.

Arrangements were made for a messenger service to keep Mrs. Burnham constantly informed of the progress of the work, and, with a parting appeal to those in charge to hasten the hour of rescue, the grief-stricken mother departed.

They drove first to Bachelor Billy's room. Andy was still there and said he would remain during the night. He said that Billy had spoken once or twice, apparently in his right mind, and was now sleeping quietly.

Then Mrs. Burnham went to her home. She pa.s.sed the long night in sleepless anxiety, waiting for the messages from the mine, which followed each other in slow succession. They brought to her no good news. The work was going on; the opening was full with wreckage; the air was very bad, even in the shaft. These were the tidings. It was hardly possible, they wrote, that the boy could still be living.

Long before the last star had paled and faded in the western sky, or the first rays of the morning sun had shot across the hills, despair had taken in her heart the place of hope. She could only say: "Well, he died as his father died, trying to save the lives of others. I have two lost heroes now to mourn for and be proud of, instead of one."

But even yet there crossed her mind at times the thought that possibly, possibly the one chance for life as against thousands and thousands for death might fall to her boy; and the further and deeper thought that the range of G.o.d's mercy was very wide, oh, very wide!

CHAPTER XXIV.

AT THE DAWN OF DAY.

It was not until very late on the morning following the storm that Bachelor Billy came fully to his senses and realized what had happened.

He was told that the breaker had been struck by lightning and burned to the ground, and that his own illness was due to the severity of the electric shock.

He asked where Ralph was, and they told him that Ralph was up at the mine. They thought it wiser that he should not know the truth about the boy just yet.

He thought to get up and dress himself, but he felt so weak and bruised, and the strong metallic taste in his mouth nauseated him so, that he yielded to the advice of those who were with him and lay down again.

He looked up anxiously at the clock, at intervals, and seemed to be impatient for the noon hour to arrive. He thought Ralph would come then to his dinner. He wondered that the boy should go away and leave him for so long a time alone in his illness.

The noon hour came, but Ralph did not come.

Andy Gilgallon returned and tried to divert the man's mind with stories of the fire, but the attempt was in vain.

At one o'clock they made a pretence of sending Mrs. Maloney's little girl to look for Ralph, in order to quiet Bachelor Billy's growing apprehension.

But he remained very anxious and ill at ease. It struck him that there was something peculiar about the conduct of the people who were with him when Ralph's name was mentioned or his absence discussed. A growing fear had taken possession of his mind that something was wrong, and so terribly wrong that they dared not tell it to him.

When the clock struck two, he sat up in the bed and looked at Andy Gilgallon with a sternness in his face that was seldom seen there.

"Andy," he said, "tha's summat ye're a-keepin' fra me. If aught's happenit to the lad I want ye s'ould tell me. Be he hurt, be he dead, I wull know it. Coom noo, oot wi' it, mon! D'ye hear me?"

Andy could not resist an appeal and a command like this. There was something in the man's eyes, he said afterwards, that drew the truth right out of him.