the sunlight, and green fields, and long stretches
of yellow grain. It seemed very real to him, so real that he wondered
if he was still lying there in the darkness. He opened his eyes to
see. Yes, it was dark, very dark.

The faint noise of dripping water came to his ears from somewhere in
the mine below him. It reminded him of a tiny waterfall he had once
seen under the shadow of a great rock on the bank of Roaring Brook.
It was where a little stream, like a silver thread, ran down across
the mossy covering of the edge and went drip, dripping into the
stone-walled basin far below. He wondered if the stream was running
there this day, if the tall rock-oak was bending yet above it, if the
birds sang there as gayly as they sang that happy day when first he
saw it.

For a little time he thought that he was indeed there. He found it
hard to make himself believe that he was still in the mine, alone. But
he was not alone; he knew that he was not alone. He felt that friends
were somewhere near him. They were staying back in the shadow so that
they should not disturb him. They would come to him soon, when--when
he should waken.

He did not move any more, his eyes were closed and he seemed to be
sleeping. His breath came gently, in long respirations. The precious
letter rose and fell with the slow heaving of his breast.

Down in the darkness the water dripped as placidly as pulses beat. For
the rest there was no sound, no motion.

Once the boy stirred a little and opened his eyes.

"Is that you, Uncle Billy?" he said. "Come an' sit down an' rest a
little, an' then we'll go out. I think I got lost or--or somethin'."

His Uncle Billy was not there. The darkness about him held no human
being save himself, but the vision was just as real to him, and the
coming was just as welcome as though it had all been true.

"Why, how strange you look, Uncle Billy; an' you're a-laughin' at
me--what! does she? Well, I'll go to her just as soon as I get out,
just as soon. How did she find it out? I was goin' to be the first to
tell her. I'm glad she knows it, though."

After a moment he continued:--

"Oh, no, Uncle Billy; I shouldn't ever do that, I couldn't. You've
been too good to me. You've been awful good to me, Uncle Billy--awful
good."

Again silence fell. Thick darkness, like a veil, wrapped the
unconscious child in its folds. Black walls and winding galleries
surrounded him, the "valley of the shadow" lay beyond him, but on