to himself at times like the sick child that he
was.

Once he felt that he was going down an inclined way, like a long
chamber; there had been no prop or pillar on either side of him for
many minutes. Finally, his feet touched water. It grew to be ankle
deep. He pushed on, and it reached half-way to his knees. This would
never do. He turned in his tracks to retreat, just saved himself
from falling, and then climbed slowly back up the long slope of the
chamber.

When he had reached the top of it he thought he would lie down and try
not to move again, he was so very tired and sick.

In the midst of all his fancies he realized his danger. He knew that
death had ceased to be a possibility for him, and had come to be more
than probable.

He felt that it would be very sad indeed to die in this way, alone,
in the dark, in the galleries of this old mine; it was not the way
Robert Burnham's son should have died. It was not that he minded
death so much; he would not have greatly cared for that, if he could
only have died in his mother's arms, with the sweet sunlight and the
fresh air and the perfume of flowers in the room. That, he thought,
would have been beautiful, very beautiful indeed. But this, this was
so different.

"It is very sad," he said; "poor Ralph, poor boy."

He was talking to himself. It seemed to him that he was some one else,
some one who stood by trying to pity and console this child who was
dying here alone in the awful darkness.

"It's hard on you," he said, "I know it's hard on you, an' you've
just got to where life'd be worth a good deal to you too. You had
your bitter an' the sweet was just a-comin'; but never mind, my boy,
never mind; your Uncle Billy says 'at heaven's a great sight better
place 'an any you could ever find on earth. An', then, you're Robert
Burnham's son, you know, an' that's a good deal to think of;
you're--Robert Burnham's--son."

For a long time after this there was silence, and the boy did not
move. Then fear came back to him. He thought that the darkness was
closing in again upon him, that it pressed him from above, from right
and left, that it crowded back his breath and crushed his body. He
felt that he must escape from it.

He was too weak now to rise and walk, so he lifted himself to his
hands and knees and began to move away like a creeping child.

There were many obstacles in his path, some of them imaginary, most of
them real. There were old mine caps, piles of d