'I suppose not; I cannot tell.'
Tom explained that all the miners would be making holiday, and the senior Cornishman might safely be left in charge of the works, while he only wished to spend Christmas-day itself in the city, and would be a very short time absent. He blushed a little as he spoke, and Mary ventured to reply to what she gathered of his thought, 'No other day would suit you as well?'
'No, ma'am, it hardly would,' he answered, gravely.
'I will try what can be done,' said Mary, 'unless you would speak to Mr. Ponsonby yourself.'
He looked inquiringly at Mr. Ponsonby's figure some paces distant, and shook his head.
'I will try,' repeated Mary; and then she added, 'These grand hill-tops and blue sky almost make a church—'
'Yes, ma'am,' said Tom, his black eyes lighting at the thought; 'I've felt so sometimes, but 'tis a mighty lonely one after a time. I've taken my book, and got out of earshot of the noise the blacks make; and I do assure you, Miss Ponsonby, the stillness was enough to drive one wild, with nothing but savage rocks to look at either! Not a green plant, nor a voice to answer, unless one got to the mountain echoes, and they are worse—'
'But surely you have the Cornishmen! What do they do on a Sunday?'
'They lie about, and smoke and sleep, or go down to the valley,' said Tom. 'I never thought of them.'
'I think you should,' said Mary, gravely. 'If you are in any authority over them, it must give you a charge over their souls. I think you should, at least, give them the choice of reading the service with you.'