“When Jesus I shall see,” he repeated, under his breath, looking at the girl as he spoke. As the children looked at each other they seemed to have forgotten my presence.
“What’s the cross you’ve got to bear? Nan,” I asked.
An old-fashioned, troubled, anxious face was raised to mine; but it was Miles who answered.
“’Tis just this, Miss Morgan: ’tis nothing to fret about. I’ve got to go down into the mine to work on Monday. I’ve never been into the mine before, and little Nan’s rare and timmersome; but I says to her that she’s faithless. She knows, and I know, that the Lord’ll be down in the mine too. ’Tis none so dark down there but He’ll find me h’out, and take care on me.”
“He didn’t find out Stephie,” sobbed Nan, all her composure giving way. “He took no care on Stephie.”
“What is it?” I said; “do tell me about it; and who is Stephie? Miles.”
“Stephie is dead, Miss Morgan. There’s only us two now—only us and father. Mother died arter Stephie went; she fretted a good bit, and she died too; and then there was Nan, and me, and father. We lives near Ffynon Mine, and father’s deputy; and we’re none so rich, and father works rare and ’ard; and he don’t get much money, ’cause the times is bad; and I’m fourteen, and I’m very strong, and I says I should work.”
“No—no—no!” here screamed the girl, forgetting, in a perfect paroxysm of fright and grief, the presence of the stranger. She clasped her arms round the boy’s neck, and her white lips worked convulsively.
“There it is,” said Miles; “she’s sure set agen it, and yet it must be.” Then bending down and speaking in a low voice, in her ear. “Shall I tell the lady about Stephie? Nan.”
“Yes,” said Nan, unloosing her hold, and looking up into his face with a sigh. She had the scared look in her wild, bright eyes, I have seen in the hunted hare, when he flew past me—dogs and horsemen in full pursuit. Now she buried her head in her brother’s rough jacket, with the momentary relief which the telling of Stephie’s story would give to the tension of her fears.