“My dear little woman, I want to lay on you a great responsibility.”
“I am ready, brother,” I said, looking up, bravely. “Gwladys, there is something not quite right with the mine. I am going down there to-night with Miles. I cannot look for Owen to-night. If all goes well, as I hope, I may be up in the morning. I want you, Gwladys, to try and keep all knowledge of where I have gone from mother, until the morning. She heard me say I would look for Owen; let her suppose this as long as you can.”
“And you—you are going into danger!”
“I hope not. I hope I am going to prevent danger; but there is doubtless a possibility of my being too late.”
“Then, David,” rising selfishly, clinging to him cowardly; “dear David—dear, dear David, do not go.”
“What!” said David, holding me from him, and looking into my face. “No, my dear; that is not your real counsel, when I may save the lives of others.” Then, seeing that I began to sob again, that I was trembling and broken with grief. “Come with me, darling; I should like to see the little lad before I go away.” I led the way upstairs. The baby was lying on my bed—his nursery was used by Gwen. The moonlight—for it was evening—flooded the white bed, and lit up the pale check. This time last night I heard Gwen soothing him into his last earthly slumber; but now, how sweetly did Jesus his shepherd make the baby sleep; the dark-fringed eyes were hardly closed, the lips were smiling.
“He sees at last, my little lad,” said David, stooping down and kissing him—he was about to say something more, but checked himself; two tears splashed heavily down on the happy little face, then he went away to my writing-table, and taking out a pen, ink, and paper, wrote hastily a few lines, folded up the paper, and brought it back to me.
“Whenever Owen returns, give him that at once!”
Then he was gone.