by the sense of touch, and
lighted it. He always carried matches; they had done him good service
in the mines before this. He was very thankful too, that he had
thought to bring the oil-can. Without it he would have been long ago
in the power of darkness. He was still hungry, and thirsty too, very
thirsty now, indeed.

He arose and tried to walk, but he was so dizzy that he had to sit
down again. He felt better after a little, though, very much better
than before he had taken his rest. He wondered how long he had slept,
and what progress was being made, if any, toward his rescue. He went
down to the opening in the wall, and held his lamp up to it. Threads
of smoke were still curling in through the slate and culm, and the air
that crept in was very bad. Then, for a little time, Ralph sat there
and listened. He thought that possibly he might hear some distant
sound of rescue. But there was no noise; the silence was burdensome.

His thirst increased and he was hot and feverish.

At last he rose with the determination to carry out his plan of
searching for the old slope.

He knew that it would be worse than useless to stay here.

Besides, he hoped that he might find a stream of water on the way at
which to quench his thirst.

He thought of the letter in his pocket, and the desire grew strong
within him to read it again. He took it out, unfolded it, and held it
close to the light, but there seemed to be a mist before his eyes and
he could not distinguish the words. He knew what it contained, though,
and that was sufficient for him. He was Robert Burnham's son. His
father had been brave and manly; so would he be. His father would have
kept up heart and courage to the end, no matter what fate faced him.
He determined that the son should do no less. He would be worthy of
his parentage, he would do all that lay in his power to accomplish his
own safety; if he failed, the fault should not be his.

He folded and replaced the letter, picked up his oil-can, fastened
his lamp to his cap and started down the chamber. He felt that he was
strong with the strength of inspiration. It seemed to him, too, that
he was very light in body. It seemed almost as though he were treading
on air, and he thought that he was moving very fast.

In reality his steps were heavy and halting, and his way down the long
chamber was devious and erratic. His fancied strength and elasticity
were born of the fever in his blood.

He came to the headin