San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1886-07-19
Tins story was commenced June Is.l
THE
Master of the Mine.
BY ROBERT nUCHANAN.

THE visions OF the earth were gone and fed
| He saw the giant sea above his head"
Keats EnGymion.
killed your accompIce, the man johnson?
That mans death. rs well as John Pen
dragons lies at your door,
lie started in surprise but conquered him
self in a moment
II had my suspicious" he said; but was
silent, for his daughters sakel fail to see,
however, that am responsible for the mad
act of murderer"
You are the murderer, not he" cried
"NOnsenser' he answered; and still mas
tering himself, he walked away.
turned and looked at Madeline She was
gazing after him. with a face pale as death.
Madeline" said, do not think am
fallen so low as 10 presume upon the hasty
words you spoke just now. l know that
when this sOrTOwful day is over, you will
forget them-yOu must forget them, in duty
to yourself. 1t will be happiness enough for
me to know that when l most needed it, |
had your sympathy; that if had been other
than / am, might have had your love. And
now, shall we say gOOd-byeY'
> held out my hand to her; she gazed at
me as II in wonder.
Then you did not understands she said,
gently. "Or perhaps-you did understand,
and was mistaken in thinking that you
cared for me-SO muchp'
Care for YOU" | repeated, passiOnately.
Ever since can remember, my heart, my
whole life has been yours Ii is not that!
My love, strong as it is, and ever has been, is
not precious enough to purchase yours. DO
not think that am so lost so selfish, as to
think that the distance between us can be
bridged over by your heavenly pity. / am
poor man; you are a rich lady. / know what
that means; have known it from the be-
ginning"
As / spoke, my heart was so stirred that
had to turn my face aside, to hide the gather
ing tears. But she Crcpt close to me, and |
felt the soft touch of her hand upon my arm
Il do not blame you for thinking that"
she said. "A little while ago, | thought so
too; but Hugh, dear-may | call you SO?-
God has opened my eyes. | think always
loved you; but never so much as to-day"
Don't speak of it! 1t can't be! oh,
Madeline, let us say farewellP
Hugh, dear Hugh, listen! You must list
en-! All, do not be unkind?'
"Unkind-tO your | murmured. God
knows would die for youP'
Had you died down in the mine, should
still have been faithful to you; should new
er have loved another man. May tell you
the whole truth? / will, and you will under
stand. When saw you going to your death
going, in your great goodness and noble
courage, to save your enemy's life at the
peril of your OWL knew for the first time
that all my heart was yours did not deter
you, but prayed to God for you, and as
prayed, | SwOre before my God that, If He
restored you to me | would lay my heart
bare to you, and ask you to make me your
wife. God was good; you came back, as
from the grave. And now; will you turn
away from me? Will you refuse Inc the one
thing remaining that can make life sweet
and sacred to me-yOur forgiveness, and
your love%
Ii was too much. The spell of the old pas
siop came upon ME as, sObbing and trem-
bling, took my darling to my heart.
Thus it came to pass that |, Hugh Trelaw-
ney, a man of the people, became the accept.
ed lover of Madeline Graham. Looking back
at it all now, after lapse Of so many years,
it still seems an incredible thing, unreal and
visionary; but raising my eyes from the pa
per wherein these lines are written, see be-
When began the story of my life, | said that
it was also the story of my love. 1t has lasted
50 long; it will last God willing, till death,
and after death.
SIS it not so, my darIng?' She smiles,
and bends over me, to kiss her answer. She
watches the pen as it moves over the paper,
and she waits for the last word, knowing my
tale is almost done.
Love is by nature selfish; and in the first
flush of my new joy almost forgot the sor-
row in our poor home But when | quilted
my darling, and joined the little procession
which followed my poor uncle across the
heath, reprOached myself for having felt
50 happy.
The miners had procured q rude stretcher,
often used when accidents took place in the
mine, and the dead body was laid upon it,
with cloak thrown lightly over il, to hide
the piteOus, disfgured face set in Its sad,
gray hair; but one hand hung uncovered,
and this hand Annie held, as we walked
slowly hOmeward, four of the men carrying
the load. l followed, helping my aunt, who
was simply heartbrOken.
They bore him into the cottage and wO-
men came to do the last sad offices. While
tney we're tnuS occupied, spoke 10 Annie,
trying to console her. White as marble, and
now quite fearless, she seemed like one
whose reason had bereft her, under the
weight of some violent physical blow. But
when we went upstairs together, and. saw
my uncle lying as if asleep, his white hair
decently arranged, his face composed, his
thin hands folded on his breast, his whole
expression one of mysterious peace, she
knelt beside him and kissed his cold brow,
and her tears again flowed freely. My aunt
stood beside her, weeping and looking on.
God has taken himr' said, soemnly.
HE is happy now" 30
"Ay happy VII God" sObbed my aunt.
Forty years we ha' dwelt together i this
house, and he ne'er gave me angry look or
Grass word. He be GAVIN, where I'll soon
gang too. Wait for me, my bonnie man,
wait for me-wait for her that loves zee, and
is coming to zee soonp
Why should finger over this. scene of
sorrow, why should turn to other scenes
which followed it? Time and death have
healed all those wounds; to speak of them,
is TO open them again.