“There was a side shaft in those days to a vein that isn’t worked now; an’ being the nighest to some of their houses the men used to go up and down on it, though the superintendent was sayin’ all he could against their using it, because there wasn’t a very safe way of running it. There was a hand-windlass to the top to work the bucket, an’ a snubbing-post near to give the rope a turn ’round so a man could hold it back.
“Well, the lass used to come every night to watch the men getting out of that shaft, ’cause she knew the foolish father of her would be coming up wearying to see if his bairn that had to be left alone the day through was all safe. So one night she stood watching the first load of night-men going down to the mine, knowing that when the bucket came up the father’d be in it; an’ she watched the men’s faces, going down into the dark, turning up to look at her, an’ one of ’em throwing a joke at her for being like a boy bairn more than a lassie. Poor thing, with only a great rough father, an’ no one to show her the ways of women folks, what shame was it of hers? When they went down from the sight of her, she turns to the man at the rope, an’ what does she see? Just the rope paying itself out an’ no one to hold it back, an’ him grinding his chin into the earth in a fit. She looks quick to see if there is help coming, but never a man was in sight, an’ the rope slipping away. Then she knew the danger they were in, for the old shaft went far deeper than the gallery the rope left them at, an’ when the end of it ran out the bucket would drop down where the water had broken in long ago and forced them to give up the lower drift.
“She hadn’t much time to spare when the loss of a minute would mean death to the men. So what does she do then, do you think, this lassie that had none of the soft ways of a girl bairn? Why, just gives the rope a turn around her waist, an’ then braces her two feet against a stone an’ pulls against the roller, an’ waits for the jerk. An’ there was the men down below not knowing but what Michael held the rope the same as ever, getting off the bucket all safe, an’ the lassie’s own father an’ the other men climbing in an’ giving the signal to be fetched up, not knowing that the heft of ’em was dragging on the body of the poor lass, who was past feeling then, for she had fainted into a dead swoon. That’s the way the new men found her when they came to the shaft to take their turn at going down, an’ her dragged up against the post an’ held there by the weight of the bucket hanging, an’ Michael lying by groaning an’ gripping the ground still.”
“Oh, grandfather! did it kill her?” gasped Phil.
“Better if it had—better if it had!” groaned Mag, raising her bent head, but not turning around.
Grandfather wiped his eyes and cleared his throat once or twice, as if he found the recollection of that time overwhelming; then, after two or three long whiffs at his pipe to keep it from quite going out, began again in a tremulous voice, which grew steadier as he went on.
“I can’t say as ’twould ’a’ been better for her if she had,” said he, apparently heeding Mag’s words more than Philip’s question; “happen it might ha’ saved her worse trouble, but it wasn’t to be. She was mangled though, an’ parson came over when he heard of it, bringing the town doctor with him, an’ they found a deal of the ribs crushed and one shoulder put out of joint; an’ the wives of the men she saved an’ the mothers of them nursed and cared for her, an’ there’s not a man in the mine to this day, nor a woman belonging to him, that wouldn’t stand up for her against the world, an’ well they might. But the best is to come: the papers got the story of it, an’ the greatest gentry in the land got to know of what the little lass did for the men; an’ the Queen, God save her, sent her a gold medal. ‘For the Saving of Human Life’ was writ on to it, an’ some great society sent her another in a velvet case.
“An’ now, Maggie, woman,” said he coaxingly to his daughter, “up and tell the lad who was the little lassie, an’ let him hear no more about her.”
“Nay,” said the woman, rising and turning around with her eyes dry and glistening now, “it’s all to be told; if ye cannot tell it, I must.”
“Save us all, woman dear,” said the old man, rising and patting his daughter soothingly on the arm; “don’t get into such a wax. If the little lad must hear the whole story through, why then he must, an’ who can tell it him better nor me? But there’s no need for his hearing more.”