Yes, I had made a god and worshipped it. Nothing was too good for it, no homage too great to lay at its feet, no sacrifice too worthy to offer at its shrine. Mother, David, Amy, were all as nothing in comparison of this my hero. My dream lasted through my childhood and early youth, then suddenly it vanished. My god was a clay god, my idol was dust.
Owen Morgan still lived. Owen Morgan was coming back to his mother, brother, sister, but my perfect Owen was dead. A man who had sinned, who had brought disgrace on us, was coming home to-day. More and more as the time drew nearer I had shrunk from seeing, from speaking to, from touching, this altered Owen. I was intensely unmerciful, intensely severe, with the severity of the very young. No after repentance, no future deed of glory could wipe away this early stain. I had been deceived—Owen had sinned—and my Owen was dead. As I walked quickly along the barren, ugly coal country, I pictured to myself what my feelings would have been to-day had this not been so. Would mother have sat alone then in her velvet and lace to meet the returning hero? Would I? ah! what would I not have done to-day? I could not think of it. I dashed away another tear or two and walked on. I chose unfrequented, lonely paths, and these abounded in plenty, paths leading up to old, used-up shafts, and neglected mines; paths with thin ragged grass covering them, all equally ugly. At last I came to a huge cinder-heap, which had lain undisturbed so long, that some weak vegetation had managed now to grow up around it. Here I sat down to rest. The cinder-heap was close to the closed-up shaft of an unused pit. In this fortnight I had already learned something of mining life, and I knew where to look for the old shafts, and always examined them with curiosity. As I sat there, I heard the voices of two children, who, evidently quite unaware of my close neighbourhood, were talking eagerly together, at the other side of the cinder-heap. It was a boy’s voice I heard first—high, shrill, passionate.
“Yes, indeed, Nan; they’ll call me a coward. No, Nan; I’ll not be daunted. I will go down on Monday!”
To these words the girl replied with sobs. I heard the boy kissing her; then there was silence, then the same eager voice said—
“Don’t cry, Nan; Monday ain’t come yet. Let’s talk of something pleasant.”
“Don’t talk at all, Miles. Let’s sing.”
“Shall we sing ‘The Cross?’”
“I don’t—no, I do care. Yes, we’ll sing that.” There was a pause, then two sweet, wild voices took up the following words to a plaintive Welsh air:—
“The cross! the cross! the heavy cross!
The Saviour bore for me!
Which bowed Him to the earth with grief,
On sad Mount Calvary.
“How light, how light, this precious cross
Presented now to me;
And if with care I take it up,
Behold a crown for me!”