San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1886-07-09
This story was commenced June 1871
TIE
Master of the Mine.
BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

hreSlde, starting at the sound of foot with
out or knock at the door, but otherwise
showing little or no interest in the affairs Of
life.
Poor Annie noticed the change, and Sc
cretly reproducing herself as the cause, was
ever watchful To attend his slightest wish,
to answer his most careless look. Her moth
er's sternneSs panied her, after all, infinitely
less than the sad endurance of one who had
ever been the tenderest of fathers. And the
change reflected herself in her; so that no
one would have recognized, in the pale, suf-
fering woman the happy, gentle girl who
had once been the light of n humble home.
All thi. troubled me greatly, and made me
naturally anxious TO leave the scene of so
much pain. Had been able in any way to
heal the wounds that misfortune had made,
had | even been able to speak with free
heart of the trouble which, in one shape or
another, was weighing upon us all, ii might
have been different; but was utterly help
less Combined with my great grief, came
Oftentime great dread-leSt Others should
discover what was still an unSpOken secret
between my uncle and myself. So, in my
despair Of being OF any service, could not
help counting the hours till the day came
when was to leave st. GurIott's and repair
TO my new place in the adjoining country.
was anxious, too, to get away from the
district, where the engagement between
Madeline Graham and George Redruth was
a matter of common gossip; where | was
tOrmented. dozen times day, by rumors
of what was going on up at the great house.
After our farewell described in the last
chapter when my last hope left me, and
there was nothing for it save to resign my
self to the inevitable | saw nothing more of
Madeline; but day or two later heard
that she had gone, accompanied by Redruth
and his mother. to London, and knew, i'm
some distant way, that the Journey meant
further preparations for the marriage. All
this made me chafe and fret like man i'm
chains; eager to breathe other air. and to put
solid earth between himself and his sources
of torment
had lost Madeline forever, that was clear;
indeed | had never had any hope or chance
of gaining her; but the dead, cold certainty
of my loss was uncomfortable. II was to live
on, must exercise all the powers of my
manhood and endcavOT to forget what had
been, at the best, only a foolish dream. So
long as | remained in the nCighbOrhOOd
haunted by so many sweet memories and
trOuOlOuS associations, fOrgctfuneSS was of
course impossible.
The evening before the dav fixed for nv
departure, the gloom in the little cottage was
greater than ever. All our hearts were full.
Although was only going away a little dis
lance, and although had promised to revisit
my old home whenever an opportunity Of
fered, it seemed like parting with the old life
forever. Ever since | was boy, i had
dwelt there, with those good people, who
had stood 10 me in the place of father and
mother; my little world had been St Cur
lofts, my only home that humble cottage;
and should have been made OF hard stuff
indeed, if had failed to feel the parting.
We sat together round the fire. | tried TO
assume cheerful tone, and talked hopeful
ly of the future; but it was no use. Eager
as | was to get away, was no voluntary
exile. Where had lived so long, would
have chosen to have lived and died.
My aunt. who was buSiIy knitting some
stockings to form part of my wardrobe, list
ened to my bold talk, and doleiUIly shook |
her head.
"'TiS well to ha' light heart" she said, |
land It's easy when one is young. But they |
tell me Gwrndoycy be a lawneSOme place" |
Not bit OF IT. answered, laughing. |
Not half 50 lonesome as st. Gurlptt's."
And it be so far-'ts bad as going across |
the sac"
AT this laughed again.
"Why, It's only seventy miles away as the |
crow flies! A man might galOp it on good |
horse in few short hours. Then, as to the |
mine itself! It's different t" being under
ground, and, what's worse. under salt water.
It's open to the sky, and cheerful as sunshine |
isn't it, unclc?'
My uncle, who occupied his usual place by |
the ingle, looked found vacantly, and rod |
ded.
'Iss, lad, that be truer'
Sunshine, did zee say?' said my aunt |
"Therell be nav sunshine for Inc or father, |
when our lad be gone. l dawn't knaw what |
father will do with hiSSen, when yOu'm gone. |
You ha' been his right hand ever sim you |
was but child; and now he be breaking |
like, he'll miss thee more and more. But | |
dawn't blame zee, lad! YOum right to seek |
your fOrtin'; and this be poor place, Lord |
knows, for bold lad like your
Hugh will come back, mother" cried An |
ME, who stood behind her fathers chair.
ale is only going for awhile"
"Of course" exclaimed "OT, better still, |
l shall make my fortune, as you say, and you |
will come over and live with me-"
TOO late for that" returned my aunt |
I'VE be avid folk nav, and our time be nigh |
come. When he comes back, TWIN likely |
be to our buryin'."
Nonsense, amtr'
81 could ha' died content, Hugh, if had |
seen zee happy man, wi childer at your |
knee" she said, glancing at Annie, and re- |
the old plans-which had fallen
long before, like house of cards.
81 shall never marry" | replied, darken-
ing in spite Of myself.
There was long silence. My aunt's words
had struck painful chord, and we were all |
more or less uneasy. To break the spell of |
gloomy thought, / rose and gazed from the |
window. 1t was fine night, with full |
moon.
1--WE shall have fine weather." 1 said.
THE wind has gone up into the north"
As spoke, the kitchen door opened, and |
John Rudd entered, hat i'm hand. He greet |
ed us all round, and at my aunt's request, |
took a seat by the fire. After smiling silent |
ly for some minutes, he felt in his pockets, |
and produced some of his usual presents, |
brought that day from Falmouth.
"Gawin' away tomorrow, Measter HughP'
he asked presently.
"Yes, John. start after breakfast"
"Dear, dear! A-harseback, Measter |
Hugh?"
"No; am going to tramp ii right across |
the moor. l shall take it easy, you know; |
divide the journey into two days, and sleep |
one night on the way"
at be a middlin' long walk, measter. Folk |
tell me there be SHAW out on the moor. ] |
wish zee were going my way, I'd gle thee a
lift, and welcome"
Thank you, John" said.