hat was a fine time, that of work, of struggle,--the best
part of the engineer's life. Starr re-read his letter. He pondered over
it in all its bearings. He much regretted that just a line more had not
been added by Ford. He wished he had not been quite so laconic.

Was it possible that the old foreman had discovered some new vein?
No! Starr remembered with what minute care the mines had been explored
before the definite cessation of the works. He had himself proceeded
to the lowest soundings without finding the least trace in the soil,
burrowed in every direction. They had even attempted to find coal under
strata which are usually below it, such as the Devonian red sandstone,
but without result. James Starr had therefore abandoned the mine with
the absolute conviction that it did not contain another bit of coal.

"No," he repeated, "no! How is it possible that anything which could
have escaped my researches, should be revealed to those of Simon Ford.
However, the old overman must well know that such a discovery would be
the one thing in the world to interest me, and this invitation, which I
must keep secret, to repair to the Dochart pit!" James Starr always came
back to that.

On the other hand, the engineer knew Ford to be a clever miner,
peculiarly endowed with the instinct of his trade. He had not seen him
since the time when the Aberfoyle colliery was abandoned, and did not
know either what he was doing or where he was living, with his wife and
his son. All that he now knew was, that a rendezvous had been appointed
him at the Yarrow shaft, and that Harry, Simon Ford's son, was to wait
for him during the whole of the next day at the Callander station.

"I shall go, I shall go!" said Starr, his excitement increasing as the
time drew near.

Our worthy engineer belonged to that class of men whose brain is always
on the boil, like a kettle on a hot fire. In some of these brain kettles
the ideas bubble over, in others they just simmer quietly. Now on this
day, James Starr's ideas were boiling fast.

But suddenly an unexpected incident occurred. This was the drop of cold
water, which in a moment was to condense all the vapors of the brain.
About six in the evening, by the third post, Starr's servant brought
him a second letter. This letter was enclosed in a coarse envelope, and
evidently directed by a hand unaccustomed to the use of a pen. James
Starr tore it open. It contained only a scrap of paper, yellowed by
t