"Never fear, Tom, we'll find them alive," said the mine boss, cheerily. "I have full faith that we shall. If they're only in the big breast we'll have them out in three days more. Now, men, drive those staples into the wall, make the boat fast to them, and pitch in. As soon as you've cut a shelf to work on, I'll go back for fresh hands. This job's going to be done with half-hour reliefs."

Jack Hobson held the staples in position while Tom Evert, lying on his side, drove them into the wall of solid coal with a dozen blows from his heavy hammer.

These were the blows heard faintly by Derrick Sterling on the farther side of that massive wall; and the welcome sound carried with it new life and hope to him and his fainting comrades.

Dropping the hammer, and seizing his pick, the burly miner struck a mighty blow at the wall, and followed it up with others so fast and furious that the coal fell rattling into the boat, or splashing into the water in glistening showers. The work of rescue was begun.

As he sat there, Jack Hobson's eye lighted on a long, dark object floating near them, and calling attention to it, he said,

"Don't you think, sir, that water trough might be bailed out and used as a sort of boat to establish communication between this point and the foot of the slope? I have been used to canoes, and believe I could manage it."

The mine boss said it was a good idea, and he could try if he wanted to.

So the trough, which was simply a long, flat-bottomed box, was brought alongside, bailed out, and placed in charge of the young man from Black Run. He made a rude paddle, and during the next two days did capital service in ferrying miners and tools back and forth between the opposite sides of the chamber. By this addition to the underground fleet the large boat could be left at the entrance to the heading, where it proved most useful as a landing-stage.

The work was pushed with all possible speed, a dozen of the strongest and most skilful miners, who handled their picks with desperate energy, taking half-hourly turns each at driving the heading. Behind the miner who was thus at work, other men passed out the loosened material from hand to hand, and thus kept the opening clear. Whenever there was no demand for his services as ferry-man, Jack Hobson took his place among these workers, and by his cheering words and tireless energy kept up their spirits and spurred them on to greater efforts.

When they had got about half-way through it was thought best to close the outer end of the heading with an air-tight door, and place another ten feet behind it, thus forming an airlock. Fresh air was forced into and compressed in the heading by means of an air-pump operated from the flat-boat at the outer end. These precautions were taken for fear lest when they broke through into the breast the air in it, compressed by the flood, should rush out with destructive force. It was also feared that, relieved from its air pressure, the water in the breast would rise and cut off the escape of any persons who might be in there.

The position of those engaged in the work of rescue was by no means free from peril. The pumps, running at fullest speed, were barely able to keep the water from rising and flooding the new heading, so great and continuous was the flow into the mine from the soaked earth above it. They did not know but that any moment some fresh and unsuspected accumulation in the old workings might break forth and send a second flood pouring in upon them. Above all there was an ever-present danger from foul gases, which formed so rapidly that at times work had to be entirely suspended until they could be cleared away. Thus every time the relief men went down to their self-imposed labor their departure was watched by anxious women with tearful eyes and heavy hearts.

For a day and a night these stout-hearted men worked without knowing whether they sought the living or the dead. On the afternoon of the second day, during a momentary pause in the steady rattle of the picks, Jack Hobson, who was at the inner end of the heading, thought he heard a knocking. Calling for perfect silence, he listened. Yes, it was! Faint, but unmistakable, it came again.

"Tap, tap, tap; tap, tap, tap; tap, tap, tap," and a pause. Then it was repeated, and its meaning could not be doubted. As plain as human speech, it said,

"Here we are, still alive, but in great distress. We know you are coming, but you must hurry."

From mouth to mouth the joyful news was carried out from the heading, across the sullen waters, up the slope to the anxious waiting throngs, and on throbbing wires throughout the length and breadth of the land.

Mrs. Sterling heard it and lifted her tear-stained face in earnest thankfulness to Heaven. The Halfords heard it in Philadelphia, and Mr. Halford said he could stand it no longer, but must go to Raven Brook and be on hand when the men were rescued. Before another sun rose that faint tapping made in the recesses of the drowned mine by Derrick Sterling with a bit of rock had been heard around the world.

Now the brave fellows in the heading knew what they were working for, and the blows of their picks fell faster and harder than ever on the glistening wall that still opposed its black front to them.

The excitement at the mouth of the mine was now intense, and every man who came up from it was besieged by anxious inquiries for the very latest news. What was the meaning of the three taps three times repeated? Did it signify that there were nine persons in the breast, or only three? If only three, where were the others? Who were the three? How many were alive? Were any dead? These and a thousand like questions were asked and discussed, but nobody could answer them certainly.

The reports brought up were only regarding the progress of the work. So many feet in an hour, so many yards a day. Now there are only six feet more to cut through; now five, four, three, and now but eighteen inches. The suspense is terrible. To the mothers and wives waiting for the end up in the little village it is almost too great to be borne. To the haggard men behind those eighteen inches of black rock it seems as though the breath of fresh air for want of which they are dying would come too late.

They press eagerly against the wall, and in their feebleness pick vainly at it with their fingers. It will not yield. Even Monk Tooley, who was so fierce and strong five days before, can make no impression on it.

Now but one foot of wall remains, and Tom Evert pauses in his task to dash the sweat-drops from his eyes, and to call, as he has already a dozen times,

"Holloa! Holloa in there!"

Like an echo comes the answer, faint but distinct,

"Holloa! Hurry!"

He only stops to call louder than before, but with a tremble in his voice,

"Is—Paul—Evert—alive?" and with ear held against the wet wall he breathlessly awaits the answer.

"Yes."

The word is enough, and with the fury and strength of a giant he again attacks the wall. He pays no attention to the relief who is ready to take his place. He knows nothing, cares for nothing, save that his boy is waiting for him beyond those few inches of crumbling coal.

At last his pick strikes through. A few more desperate strokes and the barrier is broken away. He springs into the breast. Another instant and his crippled lad, whom he had thought never to see again, is strained to his heart, and the burly miner is sobbing like a child.



CHAPTER XIX

RESTORED TO DAYLIGHT

In the overwhelming joy of the moment, Tom Evert had no thought save for the son whom he had snatched from the very gates of death. He was absolutely unconscious of the presence of another human being in the breast, nor did the broken words of blessing and gratitude uttered by the faint-voiced miners find their way to his ear. His instinct was to get his lad out from that stifling, foul-aired place, and, still holding him in his arms, he crawled back through the heading, was borne swiftly across the waters from which he had snatched their prey, and drawn up the slope.

As he stepped from the car at its mouth, and they saw what it was he bore so tenderly and proudly, a mighty cheer went up from the assembled throng. Another and another. They were wild with joy. The long suspense was over, the terrible strain was relaxed, and they gave way to their feelings.

Suddenly they noticed that the drooping head of the lad was not lifted from the broad shoulder on which it rested. His arms hung limp and lifeless. A great silence came over the multitude. They stood awe-stricken, as in the presence of death, and pressing aside in front of the advancing miner, they made way for him to pass.

Still bearing his burden, unconscious of all besides, and looking neither to the right nor to the left, Tom Evert passed through the human lane thus formed, and went home—home to the rude, unpainted house in which Paul was born, and which, during the darkness and despair of the past five days, had been a constant picture before his mind's eye—home to the mother whose tenderest love has ever been for her crippled boy. Home!

Although Tom Evert, with eyes and ears only for his own, had no thought of the others for whom he had broken open the prison door, there was no lack of warm hearts and willing hands to help them.

Following close after the miner Warren Jones entered the breast, and directly behind him was Jack Hobson. The light from their lamps dazzled the eyes that for three days had lived in a darkness as absolute as though no light existed in the universe. Turning them away from the light, the prisoners listened eagerly for the voices of their deliverers. The first words they heard were from the mine boss, the man on whom they had depended, and who they knew had planned and carried out their rescue.

"Are you all here, men?"

"There's nine of us."

"And all alive?"

"All alive yet, thank God; though Boodle, poor lad, is wellnigh gone."

"Where is Derrick Sterling?"

"Here I am, sir," came a weak but well-known voice from back in the darkness.

Before Mr. Jones could locate it, the young man who had followed him so closely into the breast sprang to the side of the lad, and seizing his hand, exclaimed,

"Derrick Sterling, you are a splendid fellow, and this is one of the very happiest moments of my life!"

"Who are you?" asked Derrick, faintly.

"My name is Allan McClain," was the answer, "and if you will give me your friendship I shall consider it an honor to be proud of."

Trying weakly to return the hand-pressure of the young stranger, Derrick answered,

"He who has come to our rescue at the risk of his own life must indeed be my friend!"

Then the mine boss found them, and saying, "Drink this, my poor, brave lad," gave him a cup of rich warm soup, that had been made nearly an hour before, and kept warm over a spirit-lamp in the boat, just outside the heading.

It filled the boy with new life, and when he and the others had drank of it all that was allowed them, they felt strong enough to crawl out through the heading.

Derrick was the first to go and the first to be drawn up the slope, supported in the car by the young man to whom he had just given his friendship. As they approached the blessed sunlight, and the weary lad caught its first gleam, still far above him, he pressed the hand of his companion, and could do nothing but gaze at it. Could it be the very light of day that he had longed for and prayed for and despaired of ever seeing again? He knew it must be, but it seemed almost too glorious to be real.

When they reached the surface, the light that had roused such a tumult of feeling within him revealed two great tears coursing slowly down through the grime of his hollow cheeks.

The excitement over Paul Evert's appearance was as nothing compared with that aroused by the sight of Derrick Sterling. Had not his name been a household word throughout the land for days? Was he not a brave fellow whom they all loved? Could they cheer loud enough or long enough to do him honor, and testify their joy at his deliverance? It did not seem as though they could; and poor Derrick stood before them, trembling with strong emotion, without knowing which way to turn or look.

The reporters, who were taking mental notes of his appearance, also gazed curiously at the young man who had come up from the mine with him, and on whom he now leaned. He was a miner, of course, for he was dressed in mine clothes, and was as begrimed as the sootiest delver of them all, but who was he? He had somewhere lost his miner's cap, and the yellow, close-cropped curls of his uncovered head had a strangely familiar look.

He noticed their stares, knew what was passing in their minds, and laughingly said:

"Yes, fellows; I'm McClain of the Explorer, and I guess I've got a beat on you all this time." Then to Derrick he said, "Come, Sterling, we must get out of this; there's a mother waiting for you over there."

Just then another car-load of rescued men was drawn up, and again the excited spectators broke forth in a tumult of cheers. Under cover of this diversion, Derrick, half supported by Allan McClain, walked slowly away towards the little vine-covered cottage at the end of the village street. Here his mother awaited him, for she felt that their meeting was something too sacred to be witnessed by stranger eyes.

At the mouth of the slope similar meetings were taking place between others who had less self-control or less delicacy, but who, in their way, showed equal affection and deep feeling. Wives greeted husbands who appeared to them as risen from the dead, and mothers wept over sons whom they had deemed lost to them forever.

As Monk Tooley stepped from the car, the first to hold out a hand to him was his son Bill, leaning on a crutch, and still bearing traces of his illness. His greeting was,

"Well, feyther, we've missed yer sad! Thought maybe yer wouldn't get back no more."

"I'm not dat easy got rid of, lad. Had a plenty ter eat, hain't yer?"

"Plenty, feyther, sich as it was."

"Dat's more'n I have, an' I hope yer've saved a bite fer yer dad. Starvin's hungry work."

Nothing else was overheard; but the tones of the rough man and his equally rough son held an unwonted accent of tenderness. As they grasped each other's hand, one gazed curiously at his father's haggard face, and the other cast a pitying glance at his son's rude crutch.

Not the least interested spectator of these touching scenes was Mr. Halford, who had arrived that morning from Philadelphia. When, after all the rest had been sent safely to the surface the mine boss was drawn up the slope, and was in turn greeted with a rousing cheer, that gentlemen slipped an arm through his, and led him away, saying,

"You have done nobly, Warren, and I am proud to call you brother."

"I could have done nothing, Harold, if these brave fellows had not stood by me as they have."

"And they could have done nothing without your level head to direct them and your splendid example to stimulate them."

So the great colliery disaster was happily ended, and in Raven Brook village great sorrow was turned to great joy.

As the two gentlemen sat talking together in the room that the mine boss called his den, that evening, Mr. Halford said,

"By-the-way, Warren, I did not take this trip wholly out of curiosity to witness your rescue of the miners. I want to learn something of this young Sterling. Did you know his father?"

"Yes, he was one of my warmest friends."

"Was his name Gilbert?"

"Yes."

"Do you know whether he ever lived in Crawford County?"

"That is where he came from; he was born and raised there."

"Did you ever hear him speak of owning any property there?"

"I have heard him mention a little old rocky farm that was left to him; but he always spoke of it as being too poor to have any value. In fact he once told me that it was not worth the taxes he paid on it."

"I declare, I believe it is the very place! If these Sterlings turn out to be the people you lead me to think they are, Warren, there's a small fortune awaiting them."

"What! a fortune awaiting the widow Sterling and Derrick? It can't be! Why, they haven't a relative in the world."

"That may all be, but what I tell you is true. If this Gilbert Sterling was a son of Deacon Giles Sterling of Newfields, in Crawford County, his heirs are the owners of one of the most valuable bits of property in the State. Why, man, this little old rocky farm you speak of, if it is the same—and I am inclined to think it must be—lies in the very centre of the richest oil district that has yet been discovered. The best-paying well owned by our company is located on its border. For a clear title to that farm I am authorized to offer twenty-five thousand dollars cash, and a one-fifth interest in whatever oil may be taken from it."

The next morning Mr. Jones called at the Sterlings', and was amazed to find Derrick already showing signs of recovery. A splendid constitution and a determined will, aided by twelve hours of sleep and an abundance of nourishing food, were already beginning to efface the traces of hunger and suffering.

The boy gave his visitor a cheerful greeting, and tried to express something of his gratitude in words, but they failed him utterly.

The other said, "Don't try, Derrick. It's over now, and we all have cause for the most profound gratitude; but each of us understands the other's feelings, and there is no need of words between us."

Mrs. Sterling's eyes were filled with happy tears as, sitting beside her son, she tried to tell something of the pride she felt in him. After a while she said,

"I know it's wrong, but I can't help trying to look ahead a little, and, I confess, with some anxiety. I want my boy to do what is right, and I do not want him to remain idle; but oh! Mr. Jones, I cannot let him go down into that awful mine again. It has nearly killed him; and I am sure I could not survive another such experience."

"I don't blame you for feeling as you do," said the young man, "and I think perhaps some other arrangement can be made. One reason for my calling this morning was to ask if I might bring a gentleman to see you who is greatly interested in Derrick, and desirous of making his acquaintance. Are you willing that I should, and do you think Derrick is strong enough to receive visitors?"

"Certainly I am," said Mrs. Sterling; and Derrick answered for himself that he felt strong enough to see any number of gentlemen who were interested in him.

So Mr. Jones left them, and shortly afterwards returned with Mr. Halford, who soon won his way to the mother's heart by saying pleasant things about her boy, and to Derrick's by thanking him for his kindness to Mrs. Halford and Miss Nellie. He said that he had been especially commissioned by his daughter to inquire concerning the welfare of her bumping-mule, and was glad to hear from Derrick that that knowing animal was rapidly recovering from his injuries.

The conversation was led on from one thing to another, until Mr. Halford was satisfied that he had really found the family of whom he was in search. Then he told them of the good-fortune in store for them, provided they could prove their ownership of the little Bradford County farm.

Trembling with excitement, Mrs. Sterling brought out a box full of her husband's papers, among which was found a deed for the farm, and receipts for taxes paid up to the time of his death.

Having satisfied himself of the correctness of these, Mr. Halford made them the offer of which he had spoken to Mr. Jones the evening before. Then he left them, saying he knew they would want some time to consider his proposition, and that he would call the next day to learn their decision.

After their visitors had gone, Derrick and his mother gazed wonderingly at each other. Could it all be true? Were their days of poverty really over? Was the overworked mother to have a release from the toil and the bitter anxieties that made her look so thin and careworn? Were Derrick's dreams of a college education and a profession about to be realized?

Long and earnestly they talked, but not as to what answer they should give Mr. Halford. They had decided that almost before he left. They talked with grateful and loving hearts of the Heavenly Father who had so ordered their ways as to turn their very darkness into brightest light. As she thought over her mercies, the wonderful promises that had sustained the widowed mother through so many an hour of trial came back to her with their fullest force.

That afternoon Derrick felt strong enough to walk out, and went to the Everts' to see his dear friend and recent companion in suffering. He found Paul able to see and talk to him, but in bed, and very weak and languid.

"If I could only get away, far away from it all, Dare," he said. "The horror of the mine hangs over me all the time, and I'd almost rather never get well than go down into it again."

Then Derrick bent down and whispered something that brought a new light into the crippled lad's eyes and a faint flush to his pale cheeks.

"Oh, Dare!" he exclaimed. "Is it true? Really! Do you mean it?"

Derrick answered that it was true, and he meant every word of it.



CHAPTER XX

GOOD-BY TO THE COLLIERY

What Derrick whispered to Paul Evert as he bent over him was: "You needn't ever go down in the mine again, Polly. I want you to go to Philadelphia with me to learn to be an artist. The money's ready, and it's all fixed that I'm to go; and if you only say the word it will be fixed for you to go too. I'm only waiting for you to get strong to tell you the whole story. Don't say a word about it yet, though, for it's a secret."

A hope like this was a wonderful medicine to the delicate lad, and when, an hour later, his father came in, he was astonished at the change for the better that had come over him.

"Why, Paul lad, an hour since I was thinking I'd saved thee for naught but to die, after all," said the miner. "Now I find thee bright and smiling, and chipper as a tomtit. Whatever's happened?"

"Derrick's been to see me, father."

"Ay; I might ha' know'd it. No other could cheer thee like him. He's a noble lad, and a true friend o' thine, Paul. I doubt if another would ha' gone back i' t' face o' t' skirling waters on chance o' saving thee."

"I'm sure not, father."

While Paul was thus talking of Derrick, Derrick was talking of Paul.

He had gone home full of a newly formed plan. In fact plans had formed themselves so rapidly in his mind since Mr. Halford's visit that they were already trying to crowd each other from his memory. The one now uppermost was in regard to Paul.

Going to his own room, he took out from a small drawer, where he kept his choicest treasures, the sketch of the underground picnic party that Paul had drawn down in the mine, and given him while they were imprisoned together in the darkness. It was soiled and a little torn, but every spot of grime upon it was a memento of that terrible experience; and though the picture was of recent origin, associations were already clustered so thickly about it that to Derrick it was a priceless treasure.

Showing it to his mother, he asked what she thought of it.

"I think it is capital!" she exclaimed.

Then Derrick told her the story of the sketch, of Paul's longing to be an artist, and his dread of going into the mine again. He ended by saying, "Now, mother, when I go to Philadelphia to prepare for college, can't Polly go with me and study to be an artist? He won't be very expensive, and I'm sure we're going to have money enough for all."

"Of course he can, Derrick. I would much rather you had a companion than to go alone, and I know you two will enjoy much together, and be of great help to each other. As for the money, dear, I would rather remain poor all my life than not have you willing to share whatever you have with those who need it. The longer you live, Derrick, the more fully you will realize that the greatest pleasure to be gained from money is by spending it for the happiness of others."

So it was settled that Derrick and Paul should go to Philadelphia together, and Paul made such haste to get strong, so as to hear the whole story, that it had to be told to him that very evening.

By the next morning, when Mr. Halford called upon the Sterlings to receive their answer to his offer, they had already in imagination spent so much of the money they expected to receive from him that it would have been impossible for them to say anything but "Yes," even if they had wanted to.

Mr. Halford was greatly pleased with the plans made for Derrick and Paul, and promised to look out for them in Philadelphia, secure a pleasant boarding-place for them, and see that they got into the best schools in the city. He said they ought to start as soon as possible, for the autumn terms were about to begin. Before he left he handed Mrs. Sterling a check for a larger amount of money than she had ever in her life possessed. He said she might find it convenient for immediate use while the necessary steps for the transfer of the little Crawford County farm to the great oil company were being taken.

In two weeks after Mr. Halford's departure everything was in readiness for that of the boys, and the time had arrived for them to start for the great city.

Harry Mule, whose leg had been so well mended that it could be taken out of splints, was to be left in charge of Bill Tooley. Bill was to be allowed to hire him out to the mine boss as soon as he was able to work, and that gentleman had promised them both a job at hauling waste cars over the dump. Thus neither of them would be obliged to go down into the mine again.

Bill Tooley was now able to walk without his crutch; but his leg would always be stiff, and he would never be free from a limp in his gait. As Harry Mule had the same peculiarity in his, they became known in the colliery as the two "Stiffies." Under this title they acquired considerable fame for their fondness for each other, and for the wisdom of one of them.

The first of October was a glorious autumn day, and even the ragged colliery village looked pretty, after a fashion, in the golden haze through which the rising sun shone down upon it.

As Derrick, and Paul, accompanied by Mrs. Sterling, Helen, the mine boss, and burly Tom Evert, walked down to the little railway-station, the miners of the day shift were gathering about the mouth of the slope, and preparing to descend into the recently pumped-out workings. From them came many a rough but honest farewell shout to the boys who had endeared themselves to all the village.

"Tak' care o' thysels, lads!" "We'll not forget ye, an' ye'll bear us in mind!" "Whene'er thee's tired o' city, coom back, an' ye'll find a welcome!" "Mind t' fire-damp i' t' city, lads, an' use naught but safeties!" "Good-by!"

As long as they were within hearing the boys, shouted back such answers as, "We'll try to!" "Thank you, Ike! We won't forget you; never fear!" "Good-by all!"

Then the train came along. A few loving words were hastily spoken, and they were off. The hard, grimy, perilous life of the breaker and the mine was left behind, and a new one of study, ambitious dreams, and successes was opening broadly before them.



At first the boys were inclined to feel very homesick, and their conversation was only of the dear ones whom they had just left. Gradually the feeling wore off, as their attention was attracted by the grand scenery through which they were travelling.

Paul revelled in the gorgeous coloring of the autumnal foliage which covered mountain, hill, and valley with splendid mantles of crimson and gold. As the train, following the picturesque windings of the Lehigh, crept along some mountain-side hundreds of feet above the low-lying bottom lands, his delight at the vast expanse of exquisite scenery unfolded before them knew no bounds.

"I didn't know the world was so beautiful," he said to Derrick, with a sigh of deep content, as the vivid pictures of the grand panorama flashed rapidly by.

Derrick shared this enthusiasm, though to a less extent. He was more interested in the various forms of mining operations which were to be seen on all sides. His continued exclamations of, "Oh, Paul! look at that new breaker," or, "Isn't that a capital idea for a slope?" at last attracted the attention of a middle-aged gentleman who, with a lady, occupied the seat immediately behind them.

Finally he leaned forward, and, speaking to Derrick, said, "Excuse me; but as you seem to be familiar with mining operations, perhaps you will kindly tell me what the great black buildings, of which we now see so many, are used for?"

"Why," answered Derrick, somewhat surprised that anybody should be ignorant regarding what to him were among the commonest objects of life, "those are breakers." Then seeing that the other was still puzzled, he explained, simply and clearly, the uses of breakers, and in a few minutes found himself engaged in earnest conversation with the stranger upon mining in general, and coal mining in particular.

At last the gentleman said, "You seem to be as well informed on the subject as a miner."

"I am, or rather I have been employed in a mine until very recently," answered Derrick.

"Indeed! It must be a most interesting occupation, but I should think a very dangerous one. I have a son who visited one of these coal-mines at the time of a disaster that threatened a number of lives, and his accounts of what he saw and experienced at the time are very thrilling. It was, I believe, at a place called Raven Brook."

It was now Derrick's turn to be interested, and he said, "Why, that's where we have just come from! Raven Brook is the station at which we took the train."

"If I had known that we were to stop there," said the gentleman, "I believe my wife and I would have got off and waited over one train, for we have been very curious to see the place. We have been on a trip to the West," he added, by way of explanation, "and our son's accounts of his experience came to us by letter. Besides, we read much of that disaster in the papers."

"It was awful," said Derrick, simply.

"Then you were in the village at the time? Perhaps you know a brave young fellow named Derrick Sterling?"

A quick flush spread over the boy's face as he answered, "That is my name."

"What!" exclaimed the gentleman; "are you the young man who went back into the mine and risked his life to save a friend?"

"I expect I am," answered Derrick, with burning cheeks; "and this is the friend I went to find."

"Well, of all wonderful things!" cried the stranger. "To think that we should meet you of all persons. Wife, this is Derrick Sterling, the brave lad that Allan wrote to us about, and whose name has been so much in the papers lately."

"You don't mean to say," exclaimed Derrick, "that you are Allan McClain's father?"

"I am," answered the gentleman; "and this is his mother. We are both very proud to make the acquaintance of the Derrick Sterling of whom our boy writes that he is proud to call him friend."

Paul received an almost equal share of attention with Derrick; and during the rest of the journey their new-found friends did everything in their power to make the time pass quickly and pleasantly to them.

Both Mr. and Mrs. McClain gave the boys an urgent invitation to make their house their home, at least until they selected a boarding-place, and were greatly disappointed to learn that this was already provided for them.

Nothing could exceed Allan McClain's amazement when, upon meeting his parents at the railway-station in Philadelphia, he found them in company, and apparently upon terms of intimate acquaintance, with two of his friends from the Raven Brook Colliery. He was delighted to learn that Derrick and Paul had come to the city to live, and promised to call the next day and arrange all sorts of plans with them.

Mr. Halford, who was also at the station, was almost equally surprised to see them with the McClains, who, he afterwards told Derrick, were among the best families in the city. His carriage was at the station, and in a few minutes more the two boys, who but a short time before had been only poor colliery lads, were ushered into a handsome house, where Mrs. Halford and Miss Nellie were waiting to give them a cordial welcome.

Two days later they were established in pleasant rooms of their own, had begun their studies, and, above all, found themselves surrounded by a circle of warm friendships.

* * * * *

Very nearly five years after the date of this chapter, just before sunset of a pleasant summer's day, a barge party of gay young people rowed out over the placid Schuylkill from the boat-house belonging to the University of Pennsylvania. In the stern of the barge, acting as coxswain, sat a young man of delicate frame and refined features. His pale, thoughtful face showed him to be a close student, and the crutch at his side betrayed the fact that he was a cripple.

On each side of the coxswain sat a young lady, both of whom were exchanging good-natured chaff with the merry-faced, stalwart fellow who pulled the stroke oar.

"I don't believe rowing is such hard work after all," said one of them, "though you college men do make such a fuss about your training and your practice spins. I'm sure it looks easy enough."

"You are quite right, Miss Nellie," answered the stroke; "it is awfully easy compared with some things—cramming for a final in mathematics, for instance."

"Oh, Derrick!" exclaimed the other young lady, "you can't call that hard work. I'm sure it doesn't seem as though you had spent your time anywhere but on the river for the past two months. If you can do that, and at the same time graduate number one in your class, with special mention in mathematics, the 'cramming,' as you call it, can't be so very difficult."

"All things are not what they seem," chanted Derrick. "It may be, sister Helen, that there are some things in heaven and earth not dreamt of in your philosophy, after all!"

"Oho!" laughed Nellie Halford. "Pinafore and Shakespeare! What a combination of wit and wisdom! It's quite worthy of a U. P. Senior."

"He's not even a U. P. Senior now," said the coxswain, from the stern of the barge. "He has gone back in the alphabet, and is only an A. B."

"An idea for your next cartoon, old man," cried Derrick. "The downfall of the Seniors, and their return to the rudimentary elements of knowledge. By-the-way, Polly," he added, more soberly, "do you remember that to-day is the anniversary of your entering upon the career of breaker-boy five years ago?"

"It is a day I never forget, Dare," answered Paul Evert, gravely, as he gazed into the handsome sun-tanned face in front of him, with a look in which affection and pride were equally blended.

THE END