had, so far as the means of his children went,
the best of board as well. He was not a very
old man, but looked ten years older than he
was, and his hand shook through an infirmity
more grievous than age. He was a gin-
drinker. John Drewit had to work very hard
to keep not only his own household in food
and clothing, but also his poor old father-in-
law in drink.

John was a hale young man when first I
knew him, but he soon began to alter. As soon
as it was light he was away to the sand-cliff by
a pleasant winding path through the beech wood
and up the steps which his own spade had cut.
One or two of them he had made broader
than the rest at intervals, where one might
willingly sit down to survey the glory spread
beneath; the low, white, straw-thatched farms
gleaming like light amongst the pasture-lands,
the little towns each with its shining river,
and the great old city in the hazy distance;
the high beacon hills, the woods, and far as
eye could see the mist that hung over the
immense Atlantic. This resting on the upward
path, at first a pleasure, became soon a matter
of necessity, and that, too, long before the
cough had settled down upon him; few men
in Whiteknights have their lungs so whole
that they can climb up to their pits without a
halt or two.

The old man helped his son-in-law
sometimes; he was a good sort of old man by
nature, and not a bit more selfish than a
drunkard always must be. He ground the
rough stones into shape at home, minded the
children in his daughter's absence, and even
used the pick himself when he was sober.
John, too, was for his wife's sake tolerant of
the old man's infirmity, though half his little
earnings went to gratify the old man's
appetite. At last necessity compelled him to be,
as he thought, undutiful. Print after print
vanished from the cottage walls, every
little ornament, not actually necessary furniture,
was sold: absolute want threatened the
household, when John at last stated firmly,
though tenderly, that grandfather must give
up the gin-bottle or find some other dwelling.
Alice was overcome with tears, but when
appealed to by the old man, pointed to her
dear husband, and bowed her head to his
wise words.

For two months after this time, there
were no more drunken words nor angry
tongues to be heard within John's pleasant
cottage. Nothing was said by daughter
or by son-in-law of the long score at the
public-house that was being paid off by
instalments; the daughter looked no longer
at her father with reproachful eyes, and the
children never again had to be taken to
bed before their time—hurried away from
the sight of their grandfather's shame. At
last, however, on one Sunday evening in
July, the ruling passion had again the
mastery; Markham came home in a worse state
than ever; and in addition to the usual
debasement, it was evident that he was
possessed also by some maudlin terror, that
he had no power to express.

Leaving him on his bed in a lethargic sleep,
John sallied forth as usual at dawn; his boys,
Harry and Joe, carrying up for him his
miner's spade and basket. Heavy hearted as
he was, he could not help being gladdened
by the wonderful beauty of the landscape.
His daughter told me that she never saw him
stand so long looking at the country—he
seemed unwillingly to leave the sunlight for
his dark, far winding burrow. His burrow
he had no reason to dread. Poverty never
had pressed so hard upon John Drewit as to
induce him to sell away the fir props that
assured the safety of his life. Often and
often had his voice been loud against those
men, who, knowing of the mortal danger to
which they exposed their neighbours, gave
drink or money in exchange for them to the
foolhardy and vicious. Great, therefore, was
his horror when he went into his cave that
morning, and found that his own props had
been removed. They had not been taken
from the entrance, where a passer-by might
have observed their absence; all was right
for the first twenty yards, but beyond that
distance down to the end of his long toil-
worn labyrinth every pole was stripped
away. Surely he knew at once that it was
not an enemy who had done this; he knew
that the wretched old man who lay stupified
at home, had stolen and sold his life defence
for drink. All that the poor fellow told his
boys was that they should keep within the
safe part of the digging while he himself
worked on into the rock as usual. Three or
four times he brought out a heap of scythe-
stones in his basket, and then he was seen
alive no more.

Harry, his eldest son, was nearest to the
unpropped passage when the sandcliff fell.
When he heard his father call out suddenly,
he ran at once eagerly, running towards the
candle by which the miner worked, but on a
sudden all was dark; there was no light from
candle or from sun—before and behind was
utter blackness, and there was a noise like
thunder in his ears. The whole hill seemed
to have fallen upon them both, and many tons
of earth parted the father from his child.
The sand about the boy did not press on him
closely. A heavy piece of cliff that held
together was supported by the narrow walls
of the passage, and his fate was undetermined.
He attended only to the muffled sounds
within the rock, from which he knew that his
father, though they might be the sounds of
his death struggle, still lived.

To the people outside the alarm had
instantly been given by the other child, and
in an incredibly short space of time the
labourers from field and cave came hurrying
up to the rescue. Two only could
dig together, two more propped the way
behind them foot by foot; relays eagerly