ady he
was conscious of something in her that thrilled him. He was awkward, and
his speech did not come readily, in her presence. Whole days he dreamed,
only waking up to find it was "knocking-off" time. There was an hour's
break in the middle of the day, and then he wandered out on the moor.
Its silence soothed him, and he would lie and dream among the rough
yellow grass and the hard tough heather, bathing his soul in the
brooding quietness of it all.

He was now twelve years of age, and longing to get at work down the pit.
It was for him the advent of manhood, and represented the beginning of
his real work.

One night in the late summer, after the pit had knocked off and the
"day-shift" was returning home, he and Mysie were walking as usual
behind the women. He had meant to tell her the great news all day, but
somehow she was so different now, and besides a man should always keep
something to himself as long as possible. It showed strength, he
thought.

"I'm goin' doon the pit the morn, Mysie," he said, now that he had come
to the point of telling her, and speaking as casually as he could.

"Oh, are you?" said Mysie, and stopped, disappointingly, and remained
silent.

"Ay. I'm twelve now, you ken, an' I can get into the pit," feeling a bit
nettled that she was silent in the face of such a happening.

"Oh!" and again Mysie stopped.

"My faither has got a place a week syne that'll fit John an' him an' me.
The three o' us are a' goin' to work thegither. If he could have gotten
yin sooner, I'd hae been doon a month syne. But he's aye been waitin' to
get a place that wad suit us a'," he said, volunteering this information
to see if it would loosen her tongue to express the regret he wanted her
to speak.

But again Mysie did not answer. She only hung her head and did not look
up with any interest in his news.

"It's aboot time I was in the pit now, ye ken. You used to get doon the
pit at ten. My faither was in it when he was nine, but you're no'
allowed to gang doon now till you are twelve year auld. I'm going to
draw aff my faither and John," and he was feeling more and more
exasperated at her continued silence.

Yet still Mysie did not speak, and merely nodded to this further
enlightenment.

"I've never telt onybody except yoursel'," he said, hurt at her seeming
want of interest, and feeling that what he was going to say was less
manly than he intended it to be. Indeed he was aware that it was
decidedly ch