s down upon her knees.

"Theer's a mon here," she said, "It's him as we're lookin' fur."

She held the dim little lantern close to the face,--a still face with
closed eyes, and blood upon it Grace knelt down too, his heart aching
with dread.

"Is he------" he began, but could not finish.

Joan Lowrie laid her hand upon the apparently motionless breast and
waited almost a minute, and then she lifted her own face, white as the
wounded man's--white and solemn, and wet with a sudden rain of tears.

"He is na dead," she said. "We ha' saved him."

She sat down upon the floor of the gallery and lifting his head laid it
upon her bosom, holding it close as a mother might hold the head of her
child.

"Mester," she said, "gi' me th' brandy flask, and tak' thou thy Davy an'
go fur some o' th' men to help us get him to th' leet o' day. I'm gone
weak at last. I conna do no more. I'll go wi' him to th' top."

When the cage ascended to the mouth again with its last load of
sufferers, Joan Lowrie came with it, blinded and dazzled by the golden
winter's sunlight as it fell upon her haggard face.

She was holding the head of what seemed to be a dead man upon her knee.
A great shout of welcome rose up from the bystanders.

She helped them to lay her charge upon a pile of coats and blankets
prepared for him, and then she turned to the doctor who had hurried to
the spot to see what could be done.

"He is na dead," she said. "Lay yo're hond on his heart. It beats yet,
Mester,--on'y a little, but it beats."

"No," said the doctor, "he is not dead--yet," with a breath's pause
between the two last words. "If some of you will help me to put him on a
stretcher, he may be carried home, and I will go with him. There is just
a chance for him, poor fellow, and he must have immediate attention.
Where does he live?"

"He must go with me," said Grace. "He is my friend."

So they took him up, and Joan stood a little apart and watched them
carry him away,--watched the bearers until they were out of sight,
and then turned again and joined the women in their work among the
sufferers.

CHAPTER XXXVI - Alive Yet

In the bedroom above the small parlor a fire was burning at midnight,
and by this fire Grace was watching. The lamp was turned low and the
room was very quiet; a dropping cinder made quite a startling sound.
When a moan or a movement of the patient broke the stillness--which was
only at rare intervals--the Curate rose and wen