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me, Harry, is your father well?”

      “Very well, Mr. Starr.”

      “And your mother?”

      “She is well, too.”

      “Was it your father who wrote telling me to come to the Yarrow shaft?”

      “No, it was I.”

      “Then did Simon Ford send me a second letter to contradict the first?” asked the engineer quickly.

      “No, Mr. Starr,” answered the young miner.

      “Very well,” said Starr, without speaking of the anonymous letter. Then, continuing, “And can you tell me what you father wants with me?”

      “Mr. Starr, my father wishes to tell you himself.”

      “But you know what it is?”

      “I do, sir.”

      “Well, Harry, I will not ask you more. But let us get on, for I’m anxious to see Simon Ford. By-the-bye, where does he live?”

      “In the mine.”

      “What! In the Dochart pit?”

      “Yes, Mr. Starr,” replied Harry.

      “Really! has your family never left the old mine since the cessation of the works?”

      “Not a day, Mr. Starr. You know my father. It is there he was born, it is there he means to die!”

      “I can understand that, Harry. I can understand that! His native mine! He did not like to abandon it! And are you happy there?”

      “Yes, Mr. Starr,” replied the young miner, “for we love one another, and we have but few wants.”

      “Well, Harry,” said the engineer, “lead the way.”

      And walking rapidly through the streets of Callander, in a few minutes they had left the town behind them.

CHAPTER III. THE DOCHART PIT

       Table of Contents

      HARRY FORD was a fine, strapping fellow of five and twenty. His grave looks, his habitually passive expression, had from childhood been noticed among his comrades in the mine. His regular features, his deep blue eyes, his curly hair, rather chestnut than fair, the natural grace of his person, altogether made him a fine specimen of a lowlander. Accustomed from his earliest days to the work of the mine, he was strong and hardy, as well as brave and good. Guided by his father, and impelled by his own inclinations, he had early begun his education, and at an age when most lads are little more than apprentices, he had managed to make himself of some importance, a leader, in fact, among his fellows, and few are very ignorant in a country which does all it can to remove ignorance. Though, during the first years of his youth, the pick was never out of Harry’s hand, nevertheless the young miner was not long in acquiring sufficient knowledge to raise him into the upper class of the miners, and he would certainly have succeeded his father as overman of the Dochart pit, if the colliery had not been abandoned.

      James Starr was still a good walker, yet he could not easily have kept up with his guide, if the latter had not slackened his pace. The young man, carrying the engineer’s bag, followed the left bank of the river for about a mile. Leaving its winding course, they took a road under tall, dripping trees. Wide fields lay on either side, around isolated farms. In one field a herd of hornless cows were quietly grazing; in another sheep with silky wool, like those in a child’s toy sheep fold.

      The Yarrow shaft was situated four miles from Callander. Whilst walking, James Starr could not but be struck with the change in the country. He had not seen it since the day when the last ton of Aberfoyle coal had been emptied into railway trucks to be sent to Glasgow. Agricultural life had now taken the place of the more stirring, active, industrial life. The contrast was all the greater because, during winter, field work is at a standstill. But formerly, at whatever season, the mining population, above and below ground, filled the scene with animation. Great wagons of coal used to be passing night and day. The rails, with their rotten sleepers, now disused, were then constantly ground by the weight of wagons. Now stony roads took the place of the old mining tramways. James Starr felt as if he was traversing a desert.

      The engineer gazed about him with a saddened eye. He stopped now and then to take breath. He listened. The air was no longer filled with distant whistlings and the panting of engines. None of those black vapors which the manufacturer loves to see, hung in the horizon, mingling with the clouds. No tall cylindrical or prismatic chimney vomited out smoke, after being fed from the mine itself; no blast-pipe was puffing out its white vapor. The ground, formerly black with coal dust, had a bright look, to which James Starr’s eyes were not accustomed.

      When the engineer stood still, Harry Ford stopped also. The young miner waited in silence. He felt what was passing in his companion’s mind, and he shared his feelings; he, a child of the mine, whose whole life had been passed in its depths.

      “Yes, Harry, it is all changed,” said Starr. “But at the rate we worked, of course the treasures of coal would have been exhausted some day. Do you regret that time?”

      “I do regret it, Mr. Starr,” answered Harry. “The work was hard, but it was interesting, as are all struggles.”

      “No doubt, my lad. A continuous struggle against the dangers of landslips, fires, inundations, explosions of firedamp, like claps of thunder. One had to guard against all those perils! You say well! It was a struggle, and consequently an exciting life.”

      “The miners of Alva have been more favored than the miners of Aberfoyle, Mr. Starr!”

      “Ay, Harry, so they have,” replied the engineer.

      “Indeed,” cried the young man, “it’s a pity that all the globe was not made of coal; then there would have been enough to last millions of years!”

      “No doubt there would, Harry; it must be acknowledged, however, that nature has shown more forethought by forming our sphere principally of sandstone, limestone, and granite, which fire cannot consume.”

      “Do you mean to say, Mr. Starr, that mankind would have ended by burning their own globe?”

      “Yes! The whole of it, my lad,” answered the engineer. “The earth would have passed to the last bit into the furnaces of engines, machines, steamers, gas factories; certainly, that would have been the end of our world one fine day!”

      “There is no fear of that now, Mr. Starr. But yet, the mines will be exhausted, no doubt, and more rapidly than the statistics make out!”

      “That will happen, Harry; and in my opinion England is very wrong in exchanging her fuel for the gold of other nations! I know well,” added the engineer, “that neither hydraulics nor electricity has yet shown all they can do, and that some day these two forces will be more completely utilized. But no matter! Coal is of a very practical use, and lends itself easily to the various wants of industry. Unfortunately man cannot produce it at will. Though our external forests grow incessantly under the influence of heat and water, our subterranean forests will not be reproduced, and if they were, the globe would never be in the state necessary to make them into coal.”

      James Starr and his guide, whilst talking, had continued their walk at a rapid pace. An hour after leaving Callander they reached the Dochart pit.

      The most indifferent person would have been touched at the appearance this deserted spot presented. It was like the skeleton of something that had formerly lived. A few wretched trees bordered a plain where the ground was hidden under the black dust of the mineral fuel, but no cinders nor even fragments of coal were to be seen. All had been carried away and consumed long ago.

      They walked into the shed which covered the opening of the

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