PHILIP

PHILIP
The Story of a Boy Violinist

By
T. W. O.

Lamson, Wolffe and Company
Boston, New York and London
MDCCCXCVIII

Copyright, 1898
By Lamson, Wolffe and Company
All rights reserved
Press of
Rockwell and Churchill
BOSTON

Contents

Philip
The Story of a Boy Violinist

Chapter I
Philip’s Home

HIS days were nearly all spent in a place where there were great heights and depths, long corridors and galleries, with many people passing to and fro, many chambers above and below, and elevators running up and down. A great hotel, do you say? No, nothing so grand or pleasant as that, but a deep, dark, dismal mine; and there, from dawn till after nightfall, Philip and his mother spent the long, sun-bright days in a sort of living death. It was really like that, for what is life worth in a place where the sun never comes, where there is no grass nor flowers nor trees, where the beautiful blue sky with its snow-white flying cloudlets or great, gray, snow-capped cloud-mountains cannot be seen, and where there is nothing but the darkness of night all the day long!

But Philip was quite accustomed to this strange underground life, and as he knew nothing of anything different or better he was as happy as the day was long. After all, our lives are very much what we make them, and Philip was blessed with a very sweet and cheerful nature, which could make its own sunshine even at the bottom of a deep, dark mine; he had beside a very strong and healthy fancy, and he had peopled the dark recesses of the mine with all kinds of imaginary beings, who were real companions for the lonely child. Instead, however, of creating, as some foolish children would have done, only gnomes and goblins to inhabit the deep caverns and underground chambers, Philip chose rather to pretend that the soft sound of dropping water, which could always be heard if one listened, was the musical language of the coal-fairies who guarded the secrets of the mine, a language which only those who were very pure and good could understand.

There was another sprite who lived in the mine, with whom Philip used to hold long conversations, and who could always reply to him, although the answer was sometimes unsatisfactory; this was the echo of his own voice, and one day the little boy lost his way and caused his mother great alarm by following this mocking voice deep into the intricate windings of an unworked shaft. He found his way out again on this particular occasion by the aid of some other spirit-friends of his, the little lamps or candles which the miners carry in their hats. At a distance these lights, glancing here and there as the men moved about their work, looked exactly like large fireflies, and it was by following these and answering the friendly voices of the miners who shouted directions to him that Philip found his way back to his mother’s side again.

And so you see that Philip led what I suppose most boys and girls would have called a very hard and lonely life, for he had few companions of his own age, and spent most of the time which other children have for play in sober work, yet he was quite happy and contented; and indeed he was much more fortunate than many of the people about him, who did not, like him, come up when the day was over, but who spent days and sometimes weeks or months down in the darkness of the mine, with never a glimpse of the blessed light of day, except what little could be seen from the long well-like shaft, up and down which went the buckets or elevators by which the miners were carried to and from their work. But when Philip’s day in the mine was over he had only to step aboard the rough elevator which carried the miners up and down, and looking upward, as he always did on this journey back to the outer world, he could see the tall derrick which pointed skyward from the mouth of the shaft like a black finger grow gradually more distinct against the blue sky, and then in a moment more he would come out into the daylight once again.

The bright sunshine always hurt his eyes at first, but how pleasant and warm it seemed after the damp twilight down below! And how glorious it was to be able to run straight ahead for miles without being obliged to stoop beneath low, dripping walls, or to squeeze through narrow openings into close, rocky chambers where the stagnant air made one cough and choke! It was almost worth while, Philip thought, to spend eight hours of the day away from this beautiful world of nature in order to come back to it again each afternoon.

“Do ye think, mother dear,” he said thoughtfully, one beautiful summer evening as they were walking home together through a field gay and fragrant with innumerable wild flowers—“do ye think that heaven can be a nicer place than this?”

His mother smiled at her boy’s earnest question, and laid her hard, rough hand on his curly head in a loving way she had. “I reckon it is, my little lad,” she said, “though we can’t quite think of it; but they says the flowers there never wither nor die, and the sky is always blue, not lowering and black as our sky is sometimes—ye mind how it looked before the thunder-storm last night. The pleasures in that land will leave no ugly sting behind them, folks tells us, as they does here ’most always.”

She spoke with a sad wistfulness in her voice which Philip was quick to notice, and he slipped his little hand into hers and looked up into her face with troubled eyes.

“Tell me, mother dear,” he said gently, “why you are always so sad when we cross this field, especially in daisy time. Is it because my father used to walk here with you in the time ye said ye was used be happy?”

How marvellously wise love makes us all! Philip’s mother looked down at him wonderingly.

“However did the lad guess?” she said as though to herself; “for it was in this very field we used to wander in those happy, foolish days. Oh, it would have been far better had we never”—she did not finish the sentence, but broke off quite suddenly, telling Philip to run on ahead; and the boy did as he was bidden, but half reluctantly, for although he seldom spoke of his father, feeling instinctively that the subject was a painful one to his mother, yet he thought about him very often, pondering as children will upon a theme not understood or only half explained. He knew that his father was dead—so much his mother had told him; and many a time he had heard her say that if it were not for her boy she could find it in her heart to wish herself dead too. He also knew that a locket which his mother always wore on a chain about her neck contained a portrait which she had once shown to him, and which she had told him was a perfect likeness of his father. Philip looked wonderingly at the face of the handsome young gentleman, who had clustering curls like his own, but whose clothes were of a cut and texture quite unlike those worn by the men whom Philip saw every day; and then as his glance had fallen upon his mother in her rough dress, he said with a kind of awe, “What fine clothes my father wore, didn’t he, mother dear?”

And his mother had snatched the miniature almost fiercely from his hand, saying proudly:

“Of course he did, lad; your father was a gentleman.”

A gentleman! Philip thought of it often afterward, wondering what his mother could have meant, for the only gentlemen the boy had ever seen lived in fine houses, and their wives rode in carriages and wore silk dresses and fine bonnets, while their home was a humble miner’s cottage, and his mother—and then Philip, half ashamed of the thought, had run and put his arms about his mother’s neck and smoothed the coarse cotton cloth of her dress with his loving hands, telling himself that although she did not wear the fine clothes of a lady, yet she was as sweet and beautiful and good as any lady in the land.

It never occurred to Philip to wonder that Mag (the only name by which his mother was known) could neither read nor write, for the people who lived all about them, and who spent the greater part of their lives in the mine, were of course very ignorant, there being no such things in those days as compulsory education or laws forbidding child-labor in the mines. Philip, therefore, at ten years of age did not know a single letter of the alphabet, and had seen only one or two books in his life. But although his mother was no wiser than her child so far as books went, she seemed somehow to have gained a strange knowledge of life; indeed, no one could look at her without feeling sure that she had loved and felt and suffered much. She was a large, grand-looking young woman, with a face and figure like a Greek statue, and she was almost as silent. Philip had never heard her laugh, and she seldom talked with the miners or joined in their rough merriment and sometimes rather coarse jokes. In reply to their greetings or questions she always gave short, civil enough answers, never voluntarily prolonging the conversation. But her silence was never sullen, and they all seemed to understand her; indeed, there was not one of them who would not gladly have done her a good turn, and she always acknowledged their favors gratefully.

It was often remarked that she seemed to take a sort of fierce pleasure in doing the hardest and roughest kinds of work, labor which usually was given only to the men; but she was still young and very strong, and it may have been that she dreaded the time for thought which idleness might have brought. At any rate, she chose the work and labored faithfully and patiently for the wages which supported her father and child.

Philip was constantly with his mother, and as he was a trifle shy and made few friends among the rough boys and girls of the neighborhood, he seemed to have concentrated all the affection of his warm little heart upon Mag, who loved him in return with a passionate devotion.

Philip and Mag and her old father were happy together in their humble home, which, although it was precisely the same as all the other huts which were huddled together around the opening of the mine, had about it an unusual air of comfort and refinement. There were white curtains at the small windows, a honeysuckle climbed over the porch, and at one side was a small garden, where it was Philip’s delight to work with his grandfather; it was always gay with flowers, which seemed to thrive in spite of the poor soil, and there were vegetables and berries too, which often found their way to the tables of less fortunate neighbors. Within the cottage were a few small comforts not usually to be found in the miners’ dwellings, a square or two of carpet, faded and worn, but warm and comfortable under the feet on cold nights, a red table-cover to replace the white one used for meals (a most unusual luxury), and a lamp with a colored silk shade. There was besides an easy-chair or two, and in one corner a plain oak writing-desk which was regarded by the neighbors with some awe; it was carefully locked, and Philip had often wondered where the key which fitted it might be, but somehow he had always hesitated to ask, feeling, perhaps almost instinctively, that the explanation might cause his mother pain or embarrassment.

Chapter II
Dash

NEXT to Mag and his grandfather Philip loved his dog Dash better than anything else in the world. He was a ragged little terrier with a head much too large for his body, a short stump of a tail, and an awkward way of getting under people’s feet and of tumbling all over himself when he ran; but he was a marvel of faithfulness and affection, and could do a multitude of the clever tricks which Philip delighted to teach him.

He had come to the door of the cottage one wild, stormy night, and had wailed so piteously outside that Mag said at last:

“Go, Philip, lad, unbolt the door; it is likely some poor dog perishing in the storm. We are not so poor but we can give the poor thing food and shelter for the night.”

So Philip ran and opened the door, and the little dog ran in and cowered shivering before the fire; he was very wet and dirty, and so thin that the bones in his poor little body stood out in a way that was quite pitiful to see; he had a jagged end of rope about his neck, as though he had broken away from some place of confinement; his feet were cut and bleeding, as though he had travelled a long distance; and he had a general air of being quite done up and exhausted.

Philip brought him some food and water, and you should have seen the look of gratitude in the creature’s eyes as he wagged his poor little stump of a tail, stopping now and then, hungry as he was, to lick the kind hand that fed him. Philip made a comfortable bed for him beside the fire, but next morning when he awoke and sat up in his own little bed, which stood beside his mother’s, there was his small new friend sitting gravely beside him, quietly waiting for him to awake. Later, when Mag missed her little boy from her side, she discovered him, still in his night-clothes, rolling about on the floor, in play with the dog.

“Oh, mother!” he cried when she called to him, “please may I keep him for my very own? Only see how we love each other already!”

And Mag, her great love for her boy shining in her dark eyes, laid her hand kindly on the little dog’s shaggy head.

“Sure, ye may keep the creature, Philip,” she said, “provided his proper owner does na’ call for him.”

But no one ever came to claim him, and from that day Philip and Dash were inseparable, except during the hours when Philip was down in the mine with his mother; there the dog was not allowed to follow his young master, but he would go with him every morning to the entrance of the shaft, and stand looking down, after the car which carried the miners to their work had started on its downward journey. When it was quite out of sight he would turn with a whimper and trot home again with a business-like air, seldom stopping to play with other dogs by the way, and staying very quietly and obediently with the old grandfather for the rest of the day. But at the exact hour when it was to be expected that the car would come up again from the mine, bringing the men, with Philip and his mother, there would be Dash waiting for them, and ready to escort them home each night with as much joy as though he had not seen them for a month. No one ever knew how the little fellow could always be sure of the exact time when Philip might be expected, but he was never known to be late, except on one occasion when his grandfather had gone to a neighbor’s, leaving Dash locked in the cottage. He must have managed to climb out of the window, which was several feet above the ground, for he came galloping down the road just as the miners were saying:

“Ah, Philip, lad, thy friend is failing thee the night.”

Dash came by his name in quite an extraordinary way.

“Ye may depend upon it, such a clever dog has a handle to him already,” said Philip’s grandfather when the boy suggested that his pet should have a name.

“But however could we guess the right one?” said Philip doubtfully. Nevertheless he began to mention over in the little animal’s hearing several names common to dogs, such as Rover, Gyp, Sport, and the like, while his dumb playmate stood before him, wagging his short tail as much as to say:

“I wish I could help you, master, but you haven’t struck it yet, my boy.”

Mag was sitting as usual by the table with the lamp, sewing quietly, but though she said little she would glance up now and then from her work and look lovingly at the little group before the fire. Suddenly she spoke: “I have thought of a name for the dog,” she said. “Perhaps he may be called—Dash.” She spoke the name emphatically, with a slight pause before it, and instantly the dog flew to her side as though she had called him, and stood wagging his tail and looking from Mag to Philip, saying as plainly as a dog could:

“That’s my name—did you call me?”

“Oh, mother!” said Philip, clapping his hands with delight and surprise, “that is his name, I am sure of it—only see how knowing he looks! Here, Dash! Dash!”

“Here, Dash! Dash!” echoed Mag, almost smiling with the pleasure and excitement which she shared with her little son; and the dog ran wildly from one to the other, barking and frisking about for joy, as though delighted to be no longer a stray and nameless cur, but a dog with a name, and therefore with some claim to respectability.

“However did you guess it, mother?” asked Philip afterward.

“I don’t know exactly, myself,” said Mag, “unless it is,” she added slyly, “that your friends the coal fairies whispered the name in my ear.” And Philip blushed, for he was secretly a little ashamed of what he felt to be rather foolish sport for a boy who was earning his four shillings a week in the mine.

From this time on Philip was never conscious of the lack of companionship, which, in the days before Dash came, he had sometimes felt so sadly; for from henceforth he had a constant playfellow, who was always sweet-tempered and eager to frolic and play, yet ready too, at a sign from his young master, to lie quietly down beside him when Philip was tired of playing and wanted to pore over his books; for although the boy could not read, yet it was his chief delight to look at the pictures in some volumes which he had found one day packed carefully away in an old trunk, and which Mag told him had belonged to his father. There were fortunately many illustrations in these books, and he had his own way of enjoying them, by making up stories for the pictures as he went along, to Dash, who was a most attentive listener, and who really seemed to enjoy the recital quite as much as Philip. He would lie quite still before the fire, with his black nose thrust in between the pages of the book, and his sharp, bright eyes fixed attentively on Philip’s face; occasionally he would thump contentedly on the floor with his tail, and at such times Mag would look up from her work to smile lovingly at her boy, as in a low voice he would weave his pretty fancies about the pictures; sometimes, too, she would break in with suggestions.

“I think I could help ye there, Philip,” she would say. “I remember your father told me summat about that picture; it was one he was always over-fond of, an’ sometimes he would try to tell me about what was in the books. I wish I could remember better for your sake, my lad.”

It was really pathetic to see with what attention she had tried to follow the narrative or explanation, and it was quite wonderful how much of the recital she could recall, in almost the exact words in which she had heard it.

“How clever my father must have been!” said Philip thoughtfully, and Mag would reply proudly.

“Of course he was, lad; he could read out of the book just as smooth as talking.”

And then she would usually lapse into silence again, and perhaps say no more that evening. And Philip loved his father’s books, and longed to be able to master their contents.

One of the overseers at the mine, who was regarded as quite a scholar by the ignorant miners, had noticed Philip’s interest in the newspaper which he sometimes brought down into the mine to be glanced over at odd moments when the men were all at work around him and he had little to do but keep a general eye on the others. One day in a burst of kindly feeling he pointed out some of the letters in the head-lines of the paper to Philip, and explained how, when put together, they made words and sentences. Finding the boy an apt pupil and very eager to learn, he became quite interested in teaching him to read, in much the same way as he might have found amusement in training an intelligent dog to fetch and carry, or to stand up and beg. To Philip this opened a whole world of wonder and delight. To be sure he did not learn at once, and sometimes weeks would pass when his friend would find no time to teach him; but the boy waited patiently, and meanwhile he had his own way of enjoying the gradual acquaintance which he was making with the great Alphabet Family, from A, the dignified and rather stern father, and B, the fat, good-natured mother of the flock, down to the youngest letter of the family, funny little crooked Baby Z.

Every evening during the time of those first lessons in the rudiments of learning, Philip could scarcely wait to get home, so anxious was he to tell Dash of the new letters which he had learned from the overseer’s paper.

“Isn’t it funny, Dash?” he would say. “Here is M—him I have known quite well for over a week, and always thought he was a very well-behaved and polite young letter, and here to-day, right in the middle of a page, I find him standing on his head; and—did ye ever see the like?—he’s changed his name and calls himself W. And then here is O—I always knew him the minute I saw him. He seems almost to jump out at me from the page, he’s that round and fat and easy to remember; and now only see here, Dash, they have gone and put a little handle on him, something like your tail, you see, and now he is called Q.”

So Dash and Philip studied the alphabet together, and the little boy, from weaving fancies about the letters and the pictures in his father’s books, came to have long waking dreams, which were so beautiful that he longed to tell his mother about them; but somehow when he tried to put them into words, Mag did not seem to understand, but would only shake her head and say kindly:

“Thy head grows dull, Philip, from sitting so much in the house. Go now an’ have a run with Dash in the fresh air.”

And sometimes when Philip would be loath to leave his book, his mother would shake her head more decidedly, and perhaps push him gently out of the house, closing the door behind him; while Philip, knowing that it was only love which prompted her seeming harshness, would shake himself out of his dreamy mood, and cry, “Come, Dash, mother is right; let’s have a race. One, two, three! Go!” And away they would both scamper.

Chapter III
Philip’s Mother

THE winter that Dash came to the cottage where Philip lived with his mother and grandfather was a very long and hard one. A great political crisis had, in some mysterious way, affected the price of coal; there were long weeks when only half the usual number of men were employed in the mines, and this meant that many little children in the miners’ cottages went often supperless to bed, while the men would gather in groups in the street and talk gloomily of the hard times, which seemed to offer little hope of improvement. There was much illness in the town, too; a season of unusual rain and fog, less fire than usual to keep the chill out of the houses, and constitutions weakened by anxiety and lack of food made ready a fertile soil for the fever which attacked and carried off many scores of victims, especially among the little children and the aged; the good village doctor was kept busy day and night, and his old-fashioned hooded phaeton, with its patient old gray horse which all the children in the village knew and petted, might be seen constantly going back and forth from house to house, sometimes until quite late into the night.

Mag was one of the few who had steady work, but her wages had been reduced one-half, and with all her clever management it was sometimes difficult to keep the little household warmed and fed. Philip’s earnings had ceased altogether, and although he had more time above-ground, yet he would gladly have exchanged this unaccustomed freedom for the toil which would have brought a few extra comforts into their little home. It made his tender heart ache, too, to see the lines of anxiety grow each day deeper on the faces of Mag and his grandfather; often when he was playing with Dash he would find his mother’s eyes fastened upon them both, with a sad intensity which would sometimes lead him to run to her and put his little arms close about her neck, whispering:

“Don’t worry, mother dear; God will take care of us.” And on these occasions Dash would always join the group, thrusting his cold nose into their faces, and making it so evident that he shared their distress that they would laugh in spite of themselves at his awkward efforts to express his affection and sympathy.

Dearly as he loved her, Philip stood in awe of his silent mother, and he used sometimes to wonder in his childish way why it was that even when work had been plenty and wages high she was still so sad and grave, so unlike her noisy, gossipy neighbors, who he noticed used sometimes to shake their heads as though in kindly pity when she passed their doors on her way to work. Philip had heard the miners, too, say as they looked after her retreating figure:

“Poor lass! Poor Maggie!”

But whatever the sorrow that had darkened her life, she never allowed it to blind her to the troubles of others, and her neighbors seemed to understand this, for if ever sickness or accident befell any of them, who so quick as Mag to help or befriend? Many a blessing followed her that winter as, her work for the day finished, she would hurry from house to house on countless errands of mercy, often going quietly without her supper, that some little delicacy prepared by her own hands might find its way to an ailing neighbor. Philip noticed that when his mother returned from these kind errands she always seemed more contented than usual, and the happiest time in the whole day was when, her bonnet removed and her shawl neatly folded and laid away, she would light the evening lamp and sit quietly down to her sewing, while her father dozed contentedly in his chair before the fire (sometimes, alas! a feeble enough blaze) and Philip and Dash played happily together on the hearth.

Philip never remembered but one occasion when his mother had spoken to him other than very gently, but that once he never forgot. It was an evening when, tired of romping with Dash, the little boy had curled up before the fire with a picture-book which had been loaned to him by the overseer’s child. It was a rare treat, and Philip soon became quite absorbed in this new object of interest. But Dash was determined not to be cheated out of his usual half hour of play with his young master, and after waiting as long as he thought that even the best-behaved dog could be expected to do, he began to pull at Philip’s sleeve as though to say: “Come, old fellow. Time’s up, you know!”

But as Philip paid no attention to this, he began to bark and frisk about him in such a lively and disturbing manner that Philip pushed him away several times, saying, “Down, Dash,” in a vexed and impatient voice; but the little dog persisted in teasing and annoying him all the more for being rebuffed, and at last Philip grew angry, and struck and kicked the dog several times. Dash was so astonished at this unusual behavior that for a moment he stood looking at his master in silent reproach, and then he turned sadly away, and ran, yelping and whining, to Mag. She turned and caught her little son by the arm, holding him so tightly that he cried out in surprise and pain. His mother’s great sorrowful eyes were fixed upon him with an expression so unusual that he remembered it long afterward. She was very pale as she cried:

“Shame on ye, Philip lad, to hurt the brute that loves ye an’ canna’ strike back! Oh, Philip, Philip, ye must keep down that temper, my little lad, or it will bring you to the woe that’s wearing me out.”

She sank into a chair, covering her face with her trembling hands, and rocking herself to and fro as she said softly, and as though speaking to herself:

“Oh, Mag, ye have given your own wicked temper to the child, to be a curse to him as it has been to yourself!”

She dropped her hands at her side and gazed at Philip with such mournful eyes that although he could not understand the meaning of her words, he was frightened and shrank into his corner, his face burning with shame and remorse. Dash had stood looking from one to the other, as though bewildered by such a strange scene, and presently he crept up to Philip, thrusting his nose timidly into the boy’s hand, as much as to say:

“Don’t feel so badly, Philip. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, and it was mean to tease you when I knew you wanted to read. Come, let bygones be bygones—that’s my motto.”

And Philip patted his rough head, and the companions felt that they had been mutually understood and forgiven. But with Mag it was different. She took up her sewing again, to be sure, and went on with her work as usual, but she paid no heed to Philip’s timid efforts to explain and ask forgiveness. Indeed, she seemed not to see him, for her thoughts had wandered apparently far away; and after a while Philip stole off to bed, wondering sadly why his fit of ill-temper should have so strangely moved his silent mother.

The next morning Mag seemed still constrained and unhappy, and went about her work in an absent-minded way, scarcely heeding Philip’s timid efforts at conversation; so shortly after breakfast he stole quietly out of the house with Dash. They did not return until dinner-time, and as they approached the house Philip perceived with a sinking of the heart that the good doctor’s carriage was fastened to the gate-post in front of their little cottage. He flew rather than ran the remainder of the distance, and his mother met him at the door, a warning finger on her lip.

“Hush!” she said; “your grandfather is ill. I saw he was not over-well this week past, and this morning he could not eat; so when I saw the doctor pass, I hailed him in. I fear—it may be—the fever.”

She spoke with a catch in her voice, but she tried to smile as she put her arm around Philip with more than her usual tenderness and drew him into the house. The doctor was coming out of the sick man’s room, and he was looking rather grave; but he said little, only leaving some powders, with directions as to food and other matters, promising to call again later in the day. The old man grew no worse, however, and indeed in a few days he persisted in leaving his bed and coming out to his favorite seat beside the fire; but he seemed to have but little strength, and to have grown much older in those few days of illness.

The first evening that he took his place again in the family circle was a memorable one for Philip. The boy had always been a great favorite with his grandfather, who delighted to ask him questions about what he had seen during the day; there was never much to tell, but Philip had a whimsical fashion of making a great deal of a small adventure in relating it, and often some trifling remark would suggest past events to the old man, and he would tell the boy strange stories of the past, which though often repeated were always new and of absorbing interest to his grandson and to Mag, who was ever an interested listener.

On this particular evening, however, she seemed listless and distraught, and after a while she left her sewing and knelt in front of the fire in a drooping attitude, which made Philip ask at last half timidly (for since the episode with Dash he had not felt quite at ease with his mother):

“Are ye cold, mother dear? Shall I put a few coals on the fire?” She shook her head without replying, and after a moment Philip asked his grandfather for a story; but, to the great surprise of both, Mag suddenly spoke:

“Wait a moment,” she said, “both of ye; it is my turn to tell the story to-night, an’ ye must listen patiently while I tell it, even though it may seem over-long.”

She put her hand to her throat as though something there choked her, and in the flickering firelight her eyes gleamed strangely. Philip was so dumbfounded at the idea of his silent mother telling him a story that he looked from her to his grandfather in amazement. The old man shook his head.

“My poor lass!” he said softly. “Perhaps it will ease the poor troubled mind of ye to tell it to the lad.”

And Mag began her story in a cold, hard voice, with her eyes still fixed upon the fire and her position unchanged.

Chapter IV
Mag’s Story

“LONG ago, aye, very long ago, it seems now, there was a girl with a temper so bad that no one could stand her ways.”

“Oh, lass,” interrupted her father, “don’t ye say that. Let me begin the story for thee.”

Then the old man took it up in the dialect of the miners, which to the readers of this would hardly seem like English, and for their benefit must be put into plainer language.

“Yes, there was a girl,” he began, “an’ the handsomest one ever I saw. Maybe she had somewhat of a temper, but no one could look into her face and think a bit blame for what she said. An’ what a voice she had! There was not a linnet could sing like her, an’ when all went straight she was singing all the time. There was no one to look after this girl, poor lammie, for the mother of her died before she had sense to miss her, an’ left her to the care of a foolish old father, who had small enough knowledge of the proper way to bring up a little lass. He took her down into the mine with him sometimes, but it wasn’t to her taste—the darkness fretted her, she wanted more liberty. If there had been a school at the place it would have been the making of her, for she had a quick mind, an’ it was a great worry to the father that she couldn’t be put to something fitting for a little lass; but he was near daft with the advising of one an’ another. One’s wife would be for having her sent to town to be put to a trade; another’s wife was for having her sent to learn service with some great lord’s housekeeper; an’ there wasn’t a man’s wife of them all but had some plan to drive him crazy with, an’ not one of them telling of a way that had a possibility in it, or that the girl took a liking to, for she’d fly out at all the ones that came advising. Not that she was a bad lass, if you took her fair, but wilful-like, an’, maybe, too quick with her tongue when she took a turn; but that was more the father’s fault, who had never taught her the right ways for a little lass.”

Philip did not find the story as interesting yet as some of the more exciting ones his grandfather told sometimes, of the three or four years he had been at sea when he ran away from home; but he listened patiently for what was to come, glancing anxiously at his mother, who still knelt in front of the fire, with her head bent low on her breast and her hands clasped in front of her. Philip had never seen her cry before, but now, to his surprise, great tears gathered in her mournful eyes, and once he was sure he heard a stifled sob; but the story began to grow more interesting then, and in listening he forgot to watch her.

“Ay, she was a rare lassie!” pursued the old man; “an’ when she was but just at her growth, an’ not half come to her strength, she saved the lives of two of the best men in the mines.”

“Oh, grandfather, how did she do that?” interrupted Philip.

“I can’t be telling ye the whole of it, because one story inside of another spoils the both to the taste; but I’ll give ye a notion of how it was,” resumed the old man.

“There was a side shaft in those days to a vein that isn’t worked now; an’ being the nighest to some of their houses the men used to go up and down on it, though the superintendent was sayin’ all he could against their using it, because there wasn’t a very safe way of running it. There was a hand-windlass to the top to work the bucket, an’ a snubbing-post near to give the rope a turn ’round so a man could hold it back.

“Well, the lass used to come every night to watch the men getting out of that shaft, ’cause she knew the foolish father of her would be coming up wearying to see if his bairn that had to be left alone the day through was all safe. So one night she stood watching the first load of night-men going down to the mine, knowing that when the bucket came up the father’d be in it; an’ she watched the men’s faces, going down into the dark, turning up to look at her, an’ one of ’em throwing a joke at her for being like a boy bairn more than a lassie. Poor thing, with only a great rough father, an’ no one to show her the ways of women folks, what shame was it of hers? When they went down from the sight of her, she turns to the man at the rope, an’ what does she see? Just the rope paying itself out an’ no one to hold it back, an’ him grinding his chin into the earth in a fit. She looks quick to see if there is help coming, but never a man was in sight, an’ the rope slipping away. Then she knew the danger they were in, for the old shaft went far deeper than the gallery the rope left them at, an’ when the end of it ran out the bucket would drop down where the water had broken in long ago and forced them to give up the lower drift.

“She hadn’t much time to spare when the loss of a minute would mean death to the men. So what does she do then, do you think, this lassie that had none of the soft ways of a girl bairn? Why, just gives the rope a turn around her waist, an’ then braces her two feet against a stone an’ pulls against the roller, an’ waits for the jerk. An’ there was the men down below not knowing but what Michael held the rope the same as ever, getting off the bucket all safe, an’ the lassie’s own father an’ the other men climbing in an’ giving the signal to be fetched up, not knowing that the heft of ’em was dragging on the body of the poor lass, who was past feeling then, for she had fainted into a dead swoon. That’s the way the new men found her when they came to the shaft to take their turn at going down, an’ her dragged up against the post an’ held there by the weight of the bucket hanging, an’ Michael lying by groaning an’ gripping the ground still.”

“Oh, grandfather! did it kill her?” gasped Phil.

“Better if it had—better if it had!” groaned Mag, raising her bent head, but not turning around.

Grandfather wiped his eyes and cleared his throat once or twice, as if he found the recollection of that time overwhelming; then, after two or three long whiffs at his pipe to keep it from quite going out, began again in a tremulous voice, which grew steadier as he went on.

“I can’t say as ’twould ’a’ been better for her if she had,” said he, apparently heeding Mag’s words more than Philip’s question; “happen it might ha’ saved her worse trouble, but it wasn’t to be. She was mangled though, an’ parson came over when he heard of it, bringing the town doctor with him, an’ they found a deal of the ribs crushed and one shoulder put out of joint; an’ the wives of the men she saved an’ the mothers of them nursed and cared for her, an’ there’s not a man in the mine to this day, nor a woman belonging to him, that wouldn’t stand up for her against the world, an’ well they might. But the best is to come: the papers got the story of it, an’ the greatest gentry in the land got to know of what the little lass did for the men; an’ the Queen, God save her, sent her a gold medal. ‘For the Saving of Human Life’ was writ on to it, an’ some great society sent her another in a velvet case.

“An’ now, Maggie, woman,” said he coaxingly to his daughter, “up and tell the lad who was the little lassie, an’ let him hear no more about her.”

“Nay,” said the woman, rising and turning around with her eyes dry and glistening now, “it’s all to be told; if ye cannot tell it, I must.”

“Save us all, woman dear,” said the old man, rising and patting his daughter soothingly on the arm; “don’t get into such a wax. If the little lad must hear the whole story through, why then he must, an’ who can tell it him better nor me? But there’s no need for his hearing more.”

“Yes, father, you can tell it if you will, but ye must tell it all, an’ keep nothing back, or I shall have to tell it myself; for I am determined that my child shall know just what a wicked temper can bring one to, if it’s let to go on and get the mastery.”

As Mag said this she turned wearily to the little stand where her basket of clothes for mending stood, and seated herself by it, but not to sew. Pushing the candle and work away from her, she put her folded arms upon the table and dropped her head upon them, turning her face away from the others.

Philip had become much interested in the story of the heroic girl who had risked so much to save the miners, and he was anxious to hear more about her; but the old man seemed in no hurry to go on with the story. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, refilled it, took an unnecessarily long time in lighting it, and made various delays, till at last an uneasy movement of his daughter made him start off on it at last.

“Well, this lass as I’m telling of,” he began, turning to Phil, “this brave one that the whole of the men was willing to lay down their lives for, got all over her hurts and bruises, and was ’round on her feet again as well as ever. They was feared, they was, both doctor an’ parson, that the spine of her back had gotten a bending that would never get out of it; but no fear for her—when she left her bed (an’ it was all the broken bones could do to keep her in it at all) she was as straight as a Maypole, an’ there couldn’t have been a face more bonny than hers, an’ it grew bonnier every day till it was more trouble than ever to me—to the father, I mean—to know a way to look after one that was like a young queen for beauty.

“She had no liking those times for going down into the mines, or, for that matter, for work of any kind. There was many an honest lad among the workmen that fair doated on the sight of her, but she had no care for one of them; an’ her father was content to have it so, for he was proud of his handsome daughter, an’ secretly he was believing in his heart that there was none quite good enough to be a husband for her.

“Well, just about the time I’m telling ye of there began to be strange stories floating around among the women-folks, about a grand young man who wore fine clothes an’ seemed to have nothing better to do than to hang around the cottage and keep the girl I’m telling ye of from doing her house-work.

“It would have been all right enough most probably, an’ spared a world of trouble to all concerned, if she had only been quite honest and spoken out to her father, telling him about her friend an’ that he meant all fair an’ square by her. But girls is odd an’ shy in their ways sometimes, an’ maybe this girl was afraid her old father would be angry, an’ rough perhaps with the young man, so she said never a word; an’ then one day when the old man came home from his work rather earlier than usual an’ not feeling extra good-humored as it happened, there was the young man just as the neighbors had said, a-sitting quite at home in the cottage, painting away on a bit of cloth stretched on a frame, an’ it took only half an eye to see that it was a picture of the girl he was making. Well, then there was a great row, the old man accusing his daughter of deceiving him, an’ calling the young man some rather unhandsome names; but I must say he kept his temper very well until the girl began to cry an’ her father said something foolish about young gentlemen making love to simple village girls an’ breaking their hearts for their own amusement. At that the young painter turned very white, an’ quick as a flash he walked straight over to the girl an’ putting his arm around her waist he said, ‘Don’t cry, dear, an’ listen to me, for in your father’s presence I ask you to become my wife as soon as the minister can say the words.’

“An’ so they were married, these two, an’ now, my girl, you must tell the rest. I know it is hard for you to do it, but I cannot bring my tongue to it.”

Chapter V
Philip’s Father

BUT she did not go on for full five minutes, and there was no sound in the room but the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the clock on the mantel-shelf. Dash was the first to break the silence, which even he seemed to find oppressive; he got up from his place under the table, and coming over to Mag, gravely put his two paws in her lap and looked up into her face in a coaxing way he had when he wanted something; it was an appeal which Mag never resisted, and she patted him gently on the head, saying, “Good doggie! Lie down here, by the fire where it is warm, an’ I will try and tell Philip more about the gentleman we were speaking of just now.

“His name was Philip; it’s right ye should know that much.”

“The same as mine,” said the boy; “that’s strange. What was the name of the lass?”

“Never mind a name for her,” said grandfather hastily.

Mag went on as if she had not heard the question:

“He worked for his wife, Philip did, with the paints, an’ made pictures to send up to London to be sold, an’ the next year when the baby came, an’ there was more money needing, he worked harder than ever, till he was worn like a shadow. He was very sad and quiet them times, with the weight that was on him of caring for a family, and him not reared with even the thoughts of earning his own living. She, the wife, never noticed how the toil was wearing on him; she wasn’t much more than a child, an’ when he grew so still and weary-like, she fretted for the pleasant words and free-hearted laugh that used to be like music to her. Then she’d scold him, with the evil tongue she had, when things went against her liking, an’ he bore every word like a saint. Once when the money was lacking entirely, an’ she hadn’t the patience to wait for the payment he was looking for from London, she turned on him worse than ever; an’ when he couldn’t be driven to make her an answer, she grew more bitter and ugly, till at last she told him if he was like other men he’d go down to work in the mine. She was frightened after she said it, for it was like an insult to liken a born gentleman to them rough miners; but he made no answer even to that, only just got up from his chair an’ walked out of the house, she following him to the very door an’ flinging rough words after him to the last.”

“Leave it now, Mag,” implored the old man, who, to Philip’s amazement, had been shaking his head and groaning during his daughter’s rapidly spoken narrative.

But Mag went on again as if she had not noticed the interruption. This time, however, she spoke with an effort, as if the words were dragged from her by a force she could not resist.

“The foolish woman repented her of all her wicked words as soon as she lost sight of him at the turn of the road, but the pride an’ temper that was in her kept her back from going after him. The thought wouldn’t leave her the day through, that the jibes of her had sent him off to his hurt in some way, an’ she wasn’t greatly astonished, but her heart was grieved awful, when one of the neighbors told her that she’d seen her husband going down the shaft.

“When it comes near night she took up the baby an’ walked over to the mine, ready to throw herself on her knees to Philip before them all when he come up out of it, an’ beg him to forgive the temper of her that drove him to take her at her words an’ go down to seek for work that was ill-fitting a gentleman. There was a crowd coming over from the shaft, early as it was, an’ as she come nearer she saw some of the men carrying one between them that looked, by the way the hands hung, as if he had no life in him. There was no need to tell her who it was, there was no call to tell her how it happened, for she knew that it was Philip before they brought him a step nearer. It was no use for the women to come around to comfort her, to tell her ’twas an accident that took the life that was a hundred times better worth saving than her own. Her heart told her ’twas herself killed him by the rage that drove him to take her at her word, an’ it turned to lead in her bosom, an’ ever since she has waited for the punishment that is coming, for she knows that her life will be taken as his was. The same way that others long for life, she longs for death; an’ she dare not take her life with her own hands, or many a time she would have done it, for waiting an’ waiting is a part of her punishment, an’ she will shirk none of it. But, oh! it’s a weary, weary life, an’ it takes patience to bear it.” She rose at the last words, which were uttered in a sort of moan, and, opening the cottage door, walked out into the cloudy darkness, which was not even lighted by stars. Philip, excited by her strange manner and the story he had heard, sprang up as if to follow her, but his grandfather stopped him.

“Let ’er be, lad,” he said; “she goes out often that way nights after you are sleeping, an’ she comes back the better for it, so I never try to hinder her. That was a hard story for her to tell, an’ I’d spared her if she’d let me.”

“But why did she tell it, an’ why did she say I must hear it sometime?” asked Philip, almost in a whisper.

“It was folly in her, sheer folly,” was the answer. “But she had the notion to tell thee; an’ now it is said, thee needs to think no thought about it again.”

“But did I ever see the lass?” persisted the boy curiously.

“If thee did, thee wouldn’t know it,” was the unsatisfactory answer.

“I think she was a rare one to save the men that time,” said Philip.

“Ay, was she, true enough,” said the old man proudly.

“What became of the baby?” asked Philip.

“From the day,” said his grandfather, “that they took the dead body of her husband out of the door to bury him, the poor young widow went down to the mine to work along with the men, an’ till the boy was old enough to run she took him on her back with her, tied in a big shawl. She has a strange notion that she is to meet a violent death down there, the same as her man did. Some folks say she’s crazed with the trouble; but however it is, no one can put her off from believing that, sooner or later, her life must go to pay for his.”

Philip was deeply moved by what he had heard, and very gradually he began to understand that the story was a true one, and that it concerned him and his parents very closely; his mother had come in and resumed her drooping attitude before the fire, and presently he went timidly over to her and laid his cheek close to hers. “Mother,” he said softly, “I think I can guess who the brave girl was who saved the men’s lives, and, mother dear, if my father loved her so very much, would he lay it up against her that she spoke a bit too quickly just that once?”

With a quick cry Mag gathered her little boy into her arms, breaking into sobs and tears which were the relief her sad heart needed.

“Oh, father!” she murmured, “to think he knows it all, an’ yet he does not hate his poor, wicked mother.”

“No, no,” cried Philip, weeping too. “I love ye more than ever, my own dear mother, an’ I mean to try and fill my father’s place, an’ take such good care of ye, mother dear.”

“Bravely spoken, little lad,” said grandfather, his brown wrinkled face beaming satisfaction on the group by the fire. “I always told ye, Mag, that ’twould be far better the boy should be told, an’ besides he had a right to know about his father, who was a real gentleman, an’ one for his son to be proud of, though I may be a little late in saying so, God forgive me! You see I was so over-fond of your mother, boy, that if an angel from heaven had wanted to marry her I would have thought him scarce good enough; an’ then, too, I had a foolish pride about our being such ignorant folks, an’ he so learned and able to paint all them wonderful pictures, that I was feared he’d feel scorn of us.”

The old man sighed penitently, and Mag laid her hand lovingly on his knee.

“I’ll not deny ye was a little hard on my husband,” she said tremulously, “but it was all meant kindly enough, an’ as my little Philip said just now, perhaps now he understands it all.”

“I am sure of it,” said Philip softly, patting her cheek.

After that Mag talked more freely to the boy of his father, and indeed it seemed to afford her both relief and pleasure to speak at last upon a subject which had so long lain heavily on her heart. She told Philip of her first meeting with the handsome young artist, who was staying then in the neighborhood at a large house now vacant, which Philip remembered to have seen on a memorable visit to a neighboring town, and which belonged to the family of his father’s dearest friend and college chum, Frederick Ashden. The two friends had come to Ashden for the summer vacation, and Philip Norton, who had really a marked talent for painting, was quite enraptured with the opportunities for sketching which he found in the picturesque mining village.

It was in the course of one of his long rambles about the country in search of subjects that the young artist had met the handsome village girl, whose dark beauty he at once proceeded to transfer to canvas. Mag was easily persuaded to pose for a series of sketches which prolonged their intercourse through many a long summer afternoon, when her father was away working in the mine and the motherless girl was free to do as she pleased. They were as happy as birds, and with scarcely more thought for the future; and then it was that the neighbors began to shake their heads, and to gossip about the handsome gentleman who was far too fine for the daughter of a poor miner. After a while their hints and whisperings reached the ears of the girl’s father—and the rest we know.

But there was much that Philip did not learn until long afterward, and which even Mag did not understand, for she never more than dimly guessed that in marrying her, Philip Norton had literally given up everything which had hitherto made his life worth living. His parents had died when he was very young, and he had been adopted by his uncle and aunt, a childless couple who had set their entire affections and hopes upon their promising young nephew. His hasty and unsuitable marriage had wellnigh broken their hearts, and immediately upon hearing of it they wrote to him imploring him, as he was not yet of age, to have the marriage annulled, offering to settle a comfortable allowance upon his wife if she would consent to live apart from him. It is needless to say that Philip Norton rejected their offers with scorn, and as they would not receive his wife, he requested that in future all communications between them should cease. His monthly remittances, which were forwarded to him as usual, he returned unopened, too proud to accept the aid which he so sorely needed; for his pictures sold but slowly and brought pitifully small prices. Indeed, his work at this time was sadly lacking in inspiration, for he no longer worked with the love of his art, which had once been the motive power of his labor, but with the painful effort born of a wearing anxiety to earn the money which should free him from the galling dependence upon his hard-working father-in-law which became day by day more unbearable.

He felt keenly, too, the separation from his friends, and especially did he miss the companionship of Frederick Ashden; yet he had himself insisted upon a cessation of their intercourse.

“I know what you will say of my marriage,” he wrote to his friend, “and as I do not wish to hear it from you, I think it best that in future we should not meet. Our paths in life will henceforth diverge very widely. I have chosen mine and am happy in the choice; may yours be equally happy. God bless you, and farewell!—Philip.”

Mag realized in a dim way that her husband had given up much in abandoning his career and settling down to the narrow life with her and her father in their humble home; but, passionately as she loved him, she was able to enter into but few of his thoughts, and he soon began sadly to realize this, and many other things which he would scarcely confess to himself. He was harassed, too, by fears for the future; Mag shared his anxiety, and then one day she spoke the fatal words of reproach which had driven her young husband to his death, and for which her life since that day had been one long, vain regret.

There was one thing which Philip learned from his mother which troubled him greatly. His father’s uncle and adopted father, a clergyman, had, within two years, received the appointment to a neighboring parish, and shortly after his arrival he had written very kindly to Mag, as indeed he had done before, begging that she would let bygones be bygones, and allow him to assist her in any way in his power, especially in the education of her son. Mag had treated this as she had done the former offers, with silent disdain; but when she told Philip he flushed painfully.

“I am sure my father’s people meant it kindly,” he said timidly, “and oh! mother dear, if only they could know ye I am sure that they would love ye like everyone else.”

But Mag stopped him almost angrily.

“Hush, Philip!” she said; “not for the whole world would I have those proud people know what a poor, humble, ignorant woman my Philip had chosen for his wife. No, I will not accept help from such as them; so never speak of it again.”

And Philip, remorseful and abashed, never did.

Chapter VI
A New Friend

PHILIP’S grandfather never regained his strength after the attack of fever, and he grew gradually more and more feeble until at last he was not able to leave his bed; and one morning when Mag went softly into his room to see if the old man needed her, she found that he had passed quietly away during the night.

It was a deep grief to his daughter, but she had scarcely time to mourn for her father, when Philip was stricken down with the same fever, and for many days he hovered between life and death. The fever fed remorselessly on his plump body, which had scarcely lost the rounded curves of babyhood, and Mag felt something tighten round her heart as she looked at the wasted face upon the pillow.

The doctor, busy as he was, came every day, for he knew something of Mag’s sad history, and had a warm place in his heart for her and her little boy; and when the fever broke at last, and he could say, “The worst is over now, and the little lad will pull through after all, please God,” his eyes were moist with pleasure and relief, and as he gathered up the reins to hurry on to his next case, he muttered:

“I wish the Rev. Henry Seldon and his wife could see that fine child and his mother; I believe they would have a mild surprise.”

Philip came out from his sick-room a pale and languid image of his former self; he had grown considerably taller, as often happens in such cases, and his face had gained a certain delicate refinement of expression which caused even the rough miners to turn and look after him admiringly, as in the early spring days he began to walk about a little with Dash in the warm sunshine.

The good doctor had peremptorily forbidden that he should return to work in the mines, and this was a great disappointment to Philip, who was anxious to help his mother with his earnings. Nevertheless he could not deny that it was extremely pleasant to wander about the country with Dash, in the sweet spring weather, spending long, blissful days in the woods and fields, sometimes returning home only just in time to have the fire kindled and the kettle boiling against Mag’s return from her work in the mines.

One beautiful day in May, when Mag was not to be expected home until later than usual, Philip and Dash started off, as they often did, for a long, happy day in the country. Philip had their dinner in a small basket which was slung over his shoulder, while in one pocket he was careful to put one of his beloved books, and in the other a flute which had been given him by his kind friend the overseer, and upon which he had taught himself to play very sweetly.

It was the boy’s greatest delight to find a secluded spot somewhere in the woods, where he could practise on his flute without fear of interruption; and after a rather longer search than usual, Dash and he found such a nook on this particular morning. In the course of their tramp they had come quite unexpectedly upon a small but beautiful lake, and Philip gave a little cry of delight as he pushed aside the bushes and discovered the sheet of water sparkling and dimpling in the sunlight. Dash expressed his pleasure by diving into the water for a swim, and Philip amused himself for some time by throwing sticks into the lake for the dog to bring ashore in his mouth. After a while, however, they both became conscious of being pleasantly tired and hungry, and then Philip opened the basket which Mag had packed so carefully in the morning, and dined royally on its contents, with refreshing draughts of clear, cool water from the lake. After sharing the meal Dash curled himself up on the grass for a comfortable nap, while Philip took out his flute, and, stretched on his back on a soft bed of moss under the pleasant shade of a great tree, he began to play.

At first the music was very soft and sweet, with here and there a detached note of silvery clearness; it seemed as if the lovely, wordless improvisation told in music of the mimic life of fairyland. Shrill sweet cries of tiny sprites summoning each other to dance within the circle of a fairy ring appeared to be answered by an airy, invisible crowd, and one could easily imagine he heard the sound of tripping feet and rippling laughter. Presently the gossamer host, it might be fancied, fluttered about and danced with a kind of soft gayety, like the whirling of dry leaves on the mossy ground when light breezes stir them. All this, and the sound of flying feet, gently clapping hands, and the light swish of elfin robes were expressed, perhaps unconsciously to himself, in the varying strains that breathed from Philip’s flute.

Then the boy paused for a moment to take breath, and in an instant the fairy crew vanished as suddenly as they had come, and there was no sound but the murmur of the wind among the trees and the soft lapping of water. Then Philip put his flute again to his lips, and now—hark! A bird, high up in the branches over his head, called sweetly to its mate; at first very softly and as though sleepily, and then, as the clear notes of the flute cut more sharply into the still afternoon air, his glad torrent of sound filled the green forest with joyous melody. If any others than Dash (who was fast asleep) had been there to listen, they would doubtless have looked curiously among the branches overhead, expecting every moment to see the flashing of a feathered breast or wing. Once again Philip paused to unpurse his lips, and this time a slight sound of rippling water behind him caused him to turn his head; and great was his surprise to see a small, gayly painted boat drawn up close to the bank on which he lay, and it was the sound of oars, dipped gently now and then into the water to keep the boat from drifting away, which had attracted the boy’s attention. Dash awoke almost at the same moment, with a sleepy bark of inquiry, and Philip sprang at once to his feet, flushed and embarrassed.

There was a gentleman in the boat, and Philip remarked at a glance that he was very tall and distinguished-looking, in spite of the fact that he was dressed in a careless, négligé fashion, and that he was browned as though from much exposure to the air and sun. He gave one the impression, somehow, of being in not quite perfect health, in spite of his coat of tan; and his handsome mouth had a downward droop under its brown mustache which gave his face an expression of weariness. His eyes, however, were full of amusement as he looked at Philip, and he smiled reassuringly, reaching up as he sat in the boat to seize a low-growing limb by which to steady himself.

“I am afraid I have interrupted the concert,” he said pleasantly, in a deep, musical voice. “Perhaps you will think it was not quite fair to have crept up upon you unawares, but the music of your flute drew me from away across the lake, and I confess that I approached as quietly as possible, fearing that the delicious sounds might cease. You play with rare skill, my boy.”

Philip flushed with pleasure to be thus praised by the handsome stranger.

“Do ye really mean it, sir?” he asked eagerly.

“I do, indeed,” said the gentleman; “and may I ask who has been your teacher?”

Philip shook his head. “No one, sir,” he said. “I have just picked it up myself at odd moments.”

The gentleman whistled softly and looked at the boy keenly.

“A veritable infant prodigy,” he said half to himself; and then aloud, with a twinkle in his eye:

“That little dog of yours looks at me a trifle suspiciously. What can I do to establish his confidence in the honesty of my intentions? Here, jump into my boat, both of you, and we will go off for a little row; it will do us all good, perhaps.”

Dash did indeed hesitate for a moment before trusting himself in the stranger’s boat, but when Philip jumped in eagerly and whistled for him to follow, he seemed to think it must be all right and sprang in after him. The stranger pulled out into the lake with long, strong strokes, which Philip watched with a boy’s admiration for manly strength and comeliness; he was too happy to say very much, but he lost no detail of the beauty of the scene, and the oarsman watched the swift changes of the boy’s delicate, expressive face with keen intentness and real pleasure.

“Where did you get your eyes, my boy?” he asked suddenly; and Philip started and blushed.

“I—don’t know, sir,” he said shyly.

“No, of course you do not,” said the other, laughing. “I only asked for the sake of asking, and because I once saw just such a pair in the head of a dear friend, long since dead, poor fellow!”

He sighed and frowned a little, and in an instant Philip’s shyness vanished in a warm rush of sympathy.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” he said; “was it somebody ye loved very much, sir?”

The gentleman looked up quickly.

“It was, indeed, my little man.”

And then, as though to quit a painful subject, he said abruptly:

“But tell me about your music. I play a little myself sometimes, and it is just possible that I might be able to help you in some way.”

Philip clasped his hands ecstatically, and then, encouraged by his listener’s kindly interest, he chattered on quite freely, of himself, of his mother and their life together in the little cottage at the mines, of their underground work, and of his own anxiety to learn to read and to play; and then, quite suddenly, he broke off, reminded by the lengthening shadows of the trees that the afternoon had nearly worn away, that Dash and he had a long walk ahead of them, and that Mag might even then be watching anxiously for their return.

So the boat was turned about again, and when the stranger had set the boy and his dog on shore, he held out his hand with real regret.

“Good-by, my boy,” he said; “you have done more than you know this afternoon. Will you come again soon?”

“Oh, yes!” said Philip eagerly; “and I believe I shall never forget this afternoon.”

“Nor I,” said the other earnestly; “and now, let me see: this is Monday, is it not? Why cannot Dash and you come over again on Thursday for another row, and perhaps some fishing in the lake,” and as Philip would have thanked him for the invitation—

“There,” he said, “no thanks, please; but come on Thursday. And, by the way, what is your name?”

“Philip,” said the boy simply.

“A good name,” said the gentleman, “and one I like—for many reasons. And my name—is Frederick.” He laughed. “You’ll remember it, I hope? And now, good-by, Philip.”

“Good-by, Frederick,” said the boy, and as his new friend pushed off from the shore, he scampered away through the woods towards home, with Dash following closely at his heels.

“Oh, mother dear!” said Philip, as he was going to bed that night, after having talked all the evening about his adventure and his new friend, “oh, mother dear, I wish to-morrow was going to be Thursday!”

And Mag smiled indulgently at her boy’s enthusiasm; but, alas! before the Thursday came, events had occurred which were destined to change quite entirely our little Philip’s history, and which, among other things, were to prevent his keeping his appointment with his new-found friend.

Chapter VII
A Mining Tragedy

WITHIN doors at the pretty Lowdown Rectory everything was even more brightly cheerful than usual for the contrast with the dismal storm outside. The breakfast table, with all its elegant appointments, was waiting in the oak dining-room, and at one of the windows in the same room was a group of young girls waiting, too, for their elders to be ready for breakfast. But they were not early risers at the rectory, and it was nearly ten o’clock before the family and their guests assembled around the table. Mr. Seldon, the old rector, and his wife lived quite alone, but once every year their quiet household was enlivened by a visit from their nephew and his wife and children.

The party had arrived only the day before, and the children were lamenting the storm that seemed likely to keep them in the house.

“I don’t think it’s much of a hardship to stay in such a lovely house as this,” said their mother, looking around the pleasant room and smiling at Aunt Delia, who laughed and nodded back from behind the urn.

“Oh, the house is jolly, and so is aunty,” said Marion, the oldest girl; “but I want to run out and see the ponies and talk with Jim, and take a look at the peacocks and feed the rabbits, and do a thousand things that the rain won’t let me.”

“A thousand is a large number,” said her father quietly.

“So it is, but I’ll give up the whole thousand if you’ll take me down into the mine. Papa, I ask you every time we come to see Uncle Seldon, but you never do.”

Dr. Norton looked uncomfortable, glanced at his uncle, who seemed to avoid his eye, and then at his aunt, who, on the contrary, fixed her eyes on his very expressively and sadly, while her lips parted as if she were about to say something. Mrs. Norton kept her attention steadily fixed upon her plate, but the color rushed to her face, and she, too, looked ill at ease.

“Well, what have I said?” said Marion, who was something of a spoiled child. “One would think I had done something out of the way. You all look as displeased as Miss Hiller does when I wipe my pen on my pocket-handkerchief or get a blot on the copy-book.”

“If such are your habits, I don’t wonder your mamma has had to change your governesses so often,” said the rector, seizing the opportunity to change the subject and keep the conversation in his own hands for a few moments.

But Marion might have found an opportunity to repeat her question, had it not been for an occurrence which gave them something else to think of. Peter, the privileged old butler, whose own mother had been the rector’s nurse, and who consequently felt himself to be one of the family, came running into the room without the toast he had been sent for, and, without waiting to be questioned as to his singular behavior, exclaimed, lapsing into the speech of his earlier years:

“Maister! maister! There’s been a falling-in at the mines, and Joe Short he have been up to say there’s been men buried under, an’ the superintendent’s down with ’em, and there’s no one about giving any orders worth taking, an’ he says the skreeling of the women is fit to turn the head of one!”

“There must have been some carelessness with uncovered lamps,” said the rector, rising instantly. “Bring my coat, Peter, and get ready to come with me.”

“I am going with you, too,” said Dr. Norton.

“And I will follow as soon as I can prepare some bandages in case they should be wanted,” said Mrs. Norton, “and some brandy, if Aunt Delia will give it to me.”

“How very thoughtful you are, Grace!” the rector stopped a moment to say. “If you are willing to come over, you might, perhaps, comfort the poor women who will be waiting in agony to know if their husbands and sons are living or dead. But can you bear it, dear?”

“I can answer for her,” said her husband. “Grace is a surgeon’s daughter and a surgeon’s wife, and, delicate as she looks, has nerve enough to be a surgeon herself.”

Half an hour later, Mrs. Norton joined her husband and his uncle at the scene of the disaster. There had been an explosion of fire-damp, and eight or ten more or less severely injured men had been brought up. Others were buried under the fallen wall of the gallery in which the accident occurred, and all the workmen were doing their best to dig them out. The distress of those who feared the worst for their friends was terrible, and Mrs. Norton turned pale as she went through the crowd to her husband’s side. Her arrival was most opportune, and for hours she was actively engaged in assisting him and trying to give some consolation to the women. The overseer was not, as they feared, one of the missing, nor was he even hurt, but was directing the work of rescue below.

At last, after eight hours of digging, word was sent up that they had hopes of speedily reaching those who were buried. Their shouts had been feebly answered, so some at least were still living. It grew dark and late into the night before they were reached, but not one of the party from the rectory would leave the vicinity of the mine.

Old Peter, who had been travelling back and forth all day, brought over a basket of provisions and spread supper for them in one of the miners’ huts. They were all so thoroughly exhausted that they found it a most welcome repast, and it was fortunate they had taken it, for almost before it was finished Dr. Norton was summoned again to the shaft.

They had brought up five men,—two of whom were dead and the others nearly unconscious—a woman, and a boy. Mrs. Norton, already overcome with the labor and excitement of the day, felt for a moment that she could not endure the sight of more suffering, but hearing that a woman was among the victims, she hesitated no longer, and ran quickly to the shaft. She found her husband bending over a woman who had been laid upon a plank covered with quilts, preparations for carrying the sufferers having been made hours before. She was so motionless that they were all sure she was dead, but as the doctor raised his head he said:

“She is alive. Take her to her house and I will follow you instantly. Leave her on the board till I come there.”

Then he turned to examine the others by the light of the lanterns, but Mrs. Norton followed the men who were carrying the woman. They took her into a little hut, no different from all the other houses about, and there they waited as the doctor had asked them to do, keeping her still on the plank. She groaned slightly then, and Mrs. Norton moistened her lips with something she carried in a bottle, but the woman did not seem to be conscious.

Her back was broken, the doctor said upon examination, and she was not conscious of suffering, and probably never would be again. So they laid her upon the bed, and Dr. Norton asked his wife to leave her to his care, with the assistance of some women who had come in with him, and go to the house where they had taken the boy. He had not been working in the mine, it seemed, but had gone down to carry a message before the explosion occurred; he was not injured in any way, but was prostrated by partial suffocation. Mrs. Norton was quite equal to the simple treatment necessary in his case, and after beef tea and stimulants had been administered, a little color began to creep into his face, and he asked feebly for his mother.

The woman on whose bed he was lying shook her head warningly, and Mrs. Norton understood from her gesture that the woman who lay dying in the house near by was his mother. Her heart ached for the poor boy, and, putting her soft cheek close to his, she petted and soothed him as if he had been a child of her own, whispering to him that he must be very still and not ask to see his mother till morning. He was still very weak and seemed to forget that he had asked for any one, and soon dropped asleep with his hand so tightly clasping hers that she feared to withdraw it.

And there she was, sitting silently by his side and studying the pale face, from which she had washed the grimy dust it was covered with at first, and brushed back the thick, fair, waving hair, when the rector came in, and, after looking attentively at the boy for a moment, took a seat by her side.

“Grace,” he said, having first sent the woman of the house out of the room on some trifling errand, “do you know who this boy’s mother is?”

“I have heard them speak of her as Mag, uncle, but I do not know of any other name.”

“She is the wife of your husband’s brother Philip, Grace, and this boy is his son; but she is dying now, and all the hard feelings we had toward her in the past must be forgotten.”

“Oh, uncle, I have always wished to see her; but how dreadful that it should be in this way! Let me go to her now. I can leave this child in old Dorothy’s care.”

“Yes, I want you to go to her if you are willing,” said the rector. “She is anxious to see her boy, and we have promised to take him to her when he awakes. George says she will probably live a number of hours yet. She suffers no pain, and is quite conscious now.”

“Oh, is there no hope of saving her?”

“None whatever,” answered her uncle.

“Does she know she must die?”

“Yes, and she seems to have no desire to live.”

“Poor woman! What a sad life that must be which one is so willing to leave!” said Mrs. Norton, who had been gently withdrawing her hand from the close clasp of little Philip’s, and getting ready to go with her uncle.

They found Mag in a dull, heavy sleep, from which Dr. Norton said she would awake again; and she did, at short intervals, all through the night. As morning dawned, she awoke more fully and asked for a drink. A miner with a sorrowful face brought it in a cup, which Mrs. Norton took from him and held to her lips. She drained it, and then, looking at the tender, pitying eyes fixed on hers, said fretfully:

“What brings a leddy here to look at me? Take her away and bring my boy. And who’s yon?” she asked half fearfully, as Dr. Norton came across the room and laid his finger on her pulse.

“It’s Dr. Norton,” said his wife gently; “your Philip’s brother, you know; and he is doing all he can to make you comfortable.”

“Dr. Norton!” said the dying woman, in a strange, awe-struck whisper. “It was him, then, that told me ’twas a death-blow I’d gotten, when I asked him in the night.”

“Shall I take him out?” whispered the rector, thinking his presence troubled her.

“No, let him be,” said Mag, her voice husky now, but as strong and steady as if the chill of death were not already creeping over her. “Let him stay. I’m fair glad to have him see me lie here broken and mangled the way I am. I don’t ask him to forgive me, but happen it will be a comfort to him to see the one that sent his brother to his death taken the same way herself. Oh, if I had only died long ago, before I brought grief to them all!”

Long ago, when Philip Norton, who had married a girl very far beneath him, met with his violent death, his brother had said that he never could forgive the woman who had been the means of bringing such unutterable misery upon Philip and all who loved him. But as he looked down on her now, all bitterness and malice faded out of Dr. Norton’s heart, and he assured her in earnest, broken words of his entire forgiveness.

“Good words,” she murmured, so low this time that Mrs. Norton, kneeling by her side, could hardly catch them; “good words to hear. Maybe if he can forgive me, the Lord will.”

“Indeed He will,” sobbed Mrs. Norton.

“Do you think He will?” said Mag earnestly. She had no power to move her neck, but she turned her eyes eagerly to the speaker. “I heard it said once, a life ’ill be asked for a life. My life’s poor pay for one like Philip’s. I never was one to know much about church an’ praying, but I’ve asked in a rough sort of way if He would take my life of me if I could have patience to wait till He was ready, for many’s the time I’ve longed to put an end to it myself.”

She slept again after the doctor had given her a stimulant, and her son was brought in. He was weak and pale, and Mrs. Norton held him while the rector tried, as gently as possible, to explain his mother’s condition to him. He received all that was told him so quietly that it was evident the shock and exhaustion of the accident kept him from fully understanding the words.

Again Mag opened her eyes, and this time they fell upon her child.

“Poor lad!” she whispered; “he was always so fond of his poor mother, and I don’t know who’ll care for him now.”

“I will,” said Mrs. Norton quickly. “I am his Aunt Grace, and if you will trust me I will try to take your place with him. And I will not let him forget you.”

Mag’s face darkened with the look of gloomy reserve that it had worn for so many years.

“He must forget me,” she said, “if he’s to be with his father’s people. The very thought of me would keep him from being fit for them.”

“Give him to us,” said Dr. Norton, who had exchanged a few whispered words on the subject with his wife while Mag slept, “and we will educate and rear him as Philip’s child should be.”

“No,” said the rector, who had been weeping silently while they spoke, “give him to me, that I may have the opportunity of repairing my neglect of him and you. I have not realized till now the duty I have owed you both. Philip was like a darling son to us, and his boy will take his place in our hearts. I can speak for my wife, for she has urged me to do this before, though I was wicked enough not to heed her.”

Mag had watched them all keenly. “Let him be Philip over again if ye can make him so, and do with him as ye please,” she said, not making any decision as to which of his relatives should take him. She lay quite still for some time after that with her eyes closed, and when she opened them again she looked about fearfully as though alarmed at the sight of so many strange faces. “If the ladies and gentlemen wouldn’t mind,” she said, “could I have just a word alone with my little lad?”

In tearful silence they all left the room, but through the thin partition they could hear Mag’s low voice growing gradually fainter until it ceased altogether, and the sound of Philip’s heart-broken sobbing filled the room. Mrs. Norton stole quietly in, and kneeling beside the bed gathered the boy gently in her arms.

“Oh, mother, mother, whatever will I do without ye?” he sobbed; and the old clergyman, coming in at this moment, laid his hand on the boy’s fair curls.

“I pray God to forgive me for having so long neglected that noble woman,” he said solemnly, “and with His help I will try to be a father to her boy.”

Chapter VIII
A Great Change

AFTER the victims of the disaster had been buried in the village churchyard, Philip bade farewell to the little cottage which he had called home, and a great lump gathered in his throat as he turned from the scene of so many happy days, realizing that the past was now a closed book, and that he belonged henceforth to his father’s people. He lay back listlessly in the carriage beside Mrs. Norton, his eyes closed, and a great round tear rolling now and then down his pale, sad little face. Dash, who was his greatest comforter, lay snuggled up close beside him on the seat, his watchful eyes fastened[107] intently on his young master, whose grief he seemed fully to understand and appreciate. Mrs. Norton said but little to the sorrowful boy, but she made him as comfortable as possible with cushions and shawls, and once or twice she pressed his hand with tender sympathy. There had been some discussion as to where Philip’s home should be henceforth, but Aunt Delia had urged her claim for her dear dead nephew’s boy so warmly that it was decided that for the present at least he should stop at the rectory.

The surprise of Marion Norton and her sisters was unbounded when they had heard as much of Philip’s story as it was thought best to tell them, and great was their curiosity to see this new cousin, of whose existence, even, they had never heard before, and who was suddenly to be introduced to the family circle. They held many discussions among themselves concerning him.

“He is just about your age,” said Marion to Rose and Lillie, her two younger sisters.

“Then he is eleven,” said Rose, with dignity.

“Yes, but what do you think? Peter says he does not know how to read.”

“How very stupid he must be!” remarked Rose, with an air of superior knowledge. “I shall not play with him.”

“But mamma said we must be kind to him,” said Lillie, “and love him.”

“I shall be kind to him of course,” said Marion; “but I can never love him, because I consider him a disgrace to the family. I am so thankful that he is to live here instead of with us, as mamma thought at first that he might do. I wouldn’t have people in town know that we had such a relative for the whole world.”

Rose was much impressed by Marion’s sentiments, but Lillie looked troubled. Her mother had told them that the little orphan was sick and sad, and her tender heart ached for him. He had been carried into the house and straight to the little room which Aunt Delia had prepared for him next her own; but Dr. Norton did not think him well enough to see his young cousins yet; so Lillie begged a little nosegay from the gardener, and, arranging it herself with the greatest care, sent it to him by Peter, charging him to say that one of his little cousins sent it with her love. For several days the graceful act was repeated, and Philip, lying on the lounge in his pretty little room, learned to watch and wait eagerly for the daily token of this unknown cousin’s thoughtfulness. He endured no pain, but suffered greatly from nervous prostration caused by the great shock he had undergone. For hours he would lie with his eyes closed, and so still that Aunt Delia thought him sleeping; but his brain was active, and at such times he was thinking of his past life, and of the strange, hardly to be understood change in his circumstances.

He had been provided with clothes befitting his new condition in life, and when, after a few days’ confinement to his bed, he was able to put them on and lie on the lounge, Aunt Delia wanted to bring the little girls in to make his acquaintance; but the proposal threw him into an agony of shy terror. He was full of curiosity to see them, but the idea of facing strangers was insupportable; so his elder relatives decided that it would be best to let him have his own way for the present, hoping that, as he grew stronger, his desire for solitude would disappear.

One day when Mrs. Norton, who had been sitting by him, was called away, he fell, according to his custom, into one of his dreamy reveries, from which he was startled by a sound so wonderfully strange and sweet that in his ecstatic surprise he thought he must have died and gone to heaven. Forgetting his shyness and weakness, he rose from the sofa, and, following the sound that attracted him, went through several rooms to the drawing-room, where Marion sat playing a plaintive Scotch air upon the piano.

It was an old instrument and rather out of tune, and Marion was not a skilful performer; but to Philip’s ears the music was heavenly. He had never even heard of a piano, and the only instrument besides his flute which he had ever listened to was a violin cruelly ill-used in the hands of one of the miners. The genius which in his father had developed into a talent for painting had in Philip taken the form of a passion for music, and now as the girl, unconscious of a listener, played fragments of waltzes and snatches of airs for her own amusement, he sank upon his knees and buried his face in the cushions of an easy-chair, unable to stand, and scarce knowing whether it was pain or pleasure that thrilled through him and shook his frame with convulsive sobs.

It was Aunt Delia’s voice that roused him from his trance of emotion, and startled Marion into the knowledge that he was in the room. The dear old lady had come in to see if it was by her father’s permission that Marion was playing, as hitherto the house had been kept perfectly quiet on the invalid’s account.

“Oh, Marion dear,” she said, “are you sure the playing won’t disturb your little cousin? But, dear, dear, what’s this?” she exclaimed, almost falling over Philip in the half-light of the room.

“Oh, please,” said the boy, lifting a tearful face, “don’t stop her, and do please let me stay and hearken to her.”

But Aunt Delia saw that his strength was gone, and was firm in insisting upon helping him back to his room, where he lay upon the lounge entirely overcome by his effort and excess of emotion.

From that time he began to mend rapidly, and instead of the dreary musings that had absorbed him, memory fed his poetic fancy with rapt recollections of the wonderful harmony and the beautiful young girl, like an angel she seemed to him, who from the strange unmusical-looking instrument drew such wonderfully melodious sounds. He begged so hard for more music that every day while they stopped with their uncle the sisters played, and if it was only the practice of their scales and other exercises to which he listened, his delight was unbounded.

He no longer resisted Aunt Delia’s desire to make him acquainted with his cousins, and so they were brought into his room by their mother. Marion, to gratify her curiosity, came eagerly when first permitted, and being, in spite of her mother’s wise training, excessively fond of admiration, vastly enjoyed the dazzled adoration of poor Philip for her beauty and accomplishments. But after the novelty of that wore off she began to show some of the unlovely traits of her nature, and to assume a cold and forbidding manner toward her cousin, who, she had decided on first learning of his existence, was a disgrace to the family.

Rose, who systematically copied her elder sister as nearly as possible, followed her lead in her treatment of Philip, and became, after the first, cold and haughty to him in the same proportion.

So it was left to Lillie to show him how loving and lovable a cousin may be. To atone for her sisters’ slights, which his utter ignorance of the world kept him from fully comprehending, she devoted every spare moment to his amusement. She talked to him for hours of her home and of the life she and her sisters led there—of their books, their studies, their amusements, and every detail. It was like a fairy tale to the boy—so much of whose short life had been spent under-ground. His lips were sealed about that dark past, which some instinct of his sensitive nature forbade his mentioning in the new sphere in which he found himself.

Perhaps it would have been better if, instead of burying thoughts, feelings, and experiences in his heart, he had frankly thrown himself upon the sympathy of his cousin Lillie, who, without receiving any confidence from him, felt the tenderest pity for the lonely orphan, and tried in every way in her power to make him forget the shadows that had overcast his young life.

One day her mother and sisters had gone to drive, leaving Lillie, by her own request, to sit with Philip. She came smilingly into his room after watching the carriage drive off, but Philip was not there.

Not much surprised, as lately he had walked about the house when he felt disposed, she sat down to wait for his return. Presently she heard the piano in the drawing-room touched gently and uncertainly, as if by an unaccustomed hand, then more confidently and firmly, and at last with energy—not at random, but harmoniously. She went to the door, and from there, unseen by him, she saw Philip seated at the instrument, his head turned bird-like upon one side, and his fingers actually bringing music from the keys. As she listened in surprise—for she knew he was playing for the first time in his life—she heard him say to himself, in a half whisper:

“Oh, it sings for me! it sings for me!”

He did not, as far as she could tell, attempt any tune, but the notes that he struck were in harmony, and in a sort of cadence, very different from what the usual performance of a child without instruction would naturally be.