After a moment he continued:—
"Oh, no, Uncle Billy; I shouldn't ever do that, I couldn't. You've been too good to me. You've been awful good to me, Uncle Billy—awful good."
Again silence fell. Thick darkness, like a veil, wrapped the unconscious child in its folds. Black walls and winding galleries surrounded him, the "valley of the shadow" lay beyond him, but on his breast he bore the declaration of his birth, and in his heart he felt that "peace of God which passeth understanding."
Down in the darkness the water dripped; up in the earth's sky the stars were out and the moon was shining.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A STROKE OF LIGHTNING.
It was a hot day at Burnham Breaker. The sun of midsummer beat fiercely upon the long and sloping roofs and against the coal-black sides of the giant building.
Down in the engine-room, where there was no air stirring, and the vapor of steam hung heavily in the atmosphere, the heat was almost insupportable.
The engineer, clothed lightly as he was, fairly dripped with perspiration. The fireman, with face and neck like a lobster, went out, at intervals, and plunged his hands and his head too into the stream of cool water sent out from the mine by the laboring pumps.
Up in the screen-room, the boys were sweltering above their chutes, choking with the thick dust, wondering if the afternoon would never be at an end.