The rough miner’s face was very white and drawn, and he uttered a low moaning sigh as he satisfied himself that the man whom he was watching had gone straight to the Cove, and then he limped back some little distance, and, with a heavy frown settling on his massive face, he seated himself on a rock waiting for Geoffrey’s return, his fingers crooking and clenching into fists, and the ruined mine shaft not far behind.
Chapter Seventeen.
At Gwennas Cove.
Bess Prawle was leaning against the rough granite door-post, very handsome, picturesque, and defiant, as she knitted away at a coarse blue worsted jersey which she was making; looking up from time to time to watch her father, who, pipe in mouth, was weeding the little patch of garden, of which he seemed to be very proud, while every now and then he paused to speak.
Just then the old man raised his nose and sniffed.
“There’s your mother burning again, Bess. Go and see,” he growled.
The girl ran in to find poor old Mrs Prawle evidently greatly exercised in her mind lest a jersey of her husband’s should be put on damp, and hence she was scorching it against the fire.
“Oh, mother!” cried Bess impatiently, “how you frighten me. Pray do take more care.”