upon Roland. His disappointment was very great, and it
showed itself in his face. His Artesian ray had gone down to a distance
greater than had been sometimes estimated as the thickness of the
earth's crust, and the result was of no value. Roland did not believe
that the earth had a crust. He had no faith in the old-fashioned idea
that the great central portion was a mass of molten matter, but he could
not drive from his mind the conviction that his light had passed through
the solid portion of the earth, and had emerged into something which was
not solid, which was not liquid, which was in fact nothing.

All his labors had come to this: he had discovered that the various
strata near the earth's surface rested upon a vast bed of rock, and that
this bed of rock rested upon nothing. Of course it was not impossible
that the arrangement of the substances which make up this globe was
peculiar at this point, and that there was a great cavern fourteen miles
below him; but why should such a cavern be filled with a light different
from that which would be shown by his Artesian ray when shining upon any
other substances, open air or solid matter?

He could go no deeper down--at least at present. If he could make an
instrument of increased power, it would require many months to do it.

"But I will do it," said he to Margaret. "If this is a cavern, and if
it has a bottom, I will reach it. I will go on and see what there is
beyond. On such a discovery as I have made one can pass no conclusion
whatever. If I cannot go farther, I need not have gone down at all."

"No," said Margaret, "I don't want you to go on--at least at present;
you must wait. The earth will wait, and I want you to be in a condition
to be able to wait also. You must now stop this work altogether. Stop
doing anything; stop thinking about it. After a time--say early in
winter--we can recommence operations with the Artesian ray; that is, if
we think well to do so. You should stop this and take up something else.
You have several enterprises which are very important and ought to be
carried on. Take up one of them, and think no more for a few months of
the nothingness which is fourteen miles below us."

It was not difficult for Roland Clewe to convince himself that this was
very good advice. He resolved to shut up his lens-house entirely for
a time, and think no more of the great work he had done within it, but
apply himself to something which he had long neglected,