“Hallo!”
“Hallo, Father Prawle!” he cried, and he went down, Bessie retiring into the cottage as he came into sight, “What’s the news about the mine?” said the old man.
“Bad,” was the reply. “Don’t go away, Miss Bessie. How is your patient?”
“Not well, Mr Trethick,” she said, coming back and standing before him with the baby in her arms, and gazing firmly and unshrinkingly in his face.
“I’m sorry. Poor lass!” he said. “May I come in?”
Bessie drew back, and he stooped and entered the room, where poor invalid Mrs Prawle was seated; and half an hour after the affair was so far decided that he had been referred to old Prawle himself to settle terms.
The old man had descended the rock-hewn steps to his bit of a cavern, from which came up the loud crackling of wood, while a ruddy glow shone out on the darkened rocks.
“Ahoy, there!” shouted Geoffrey.
“Ahoy!” echoed the old man. “Come down.”
Geoffrey descended, to find a ruddy fire burning, and a quaint old copper kettle singing in the hottest place.