before by that distracted waif of
the world, fleeing from the pain of life.

An ample star of rare brilliancy came stealing up over the trees
against the sky-line, twinkling and brimming with light.

"No," she said, as though in reply to an inner voice, "there's nothing
for me--nothing. I have missed it all." Her hands clasped her breast in
pain, and she threw her face upwards. But the light of the star caught
her eyes, and her hands ceased to tremble. A strange quietness stole
over her.

"My child, my lost beloved child," she whispered.

Her eyes swam with tears now, the lines of pain at her mouth relaxed,
the dark look in her eyes stole away. She watched the star with
sorrowful eyes. "How much misery does it see!" she said. Suddenly, she
thought of Rudyard Byng. "He saved my life," she murmured. "I owe
him--ah, Adrian might have paid the debt!" she cried, in pain. "If he
had only been a man to-night--"

At that moment there came a loud noise up the valley from the pit's
mouth--a great shouting. An instant later two figures ran past her. One
was Jasmine, the other was a heavy-footed miner. Gathering her cloak
around her Al'mah sped after them.

A huddled group at the pit's mouth, and men and women running toward
it; a sharp voice of command, and the crowd falling back, making way
for men who carried limp bodies past; then suddenly, out of wild
murmurs and calls, a cry of victory like the call of a muezzin from the
tower of a mosque--a resonant monotony, in which a dominant principle
cries.

A Welsh preaching hillman, carried away by the triumph of the moment,
gave the great tragedy the bugle-note of human joy and pride.

Ian Stafford and Brengyn and Jim Gawley had conquered. The limp bodies
carried past Al'mah were not dead. They were living, breathing men whom
fresh air and a surgeon's aid would soon restore. Two of them were the
young men with the bonny wives who now with murmured endearments
grasped their cold hands. Behind these two was carried Rudyard Byng,
who could command the less certain concentration of a heart. The men
whom Rudyard had gone to save could control a greater wealth, a more
precious thing than anything he had. The boundaries of the interests of
these workers were limited, but their souls were commingled with other
souls bound to them by the formalities; and every minute of their days,
every atom of their forces, were moving round one light, the light upon
the hearthstone. These men wer