needless to say that the inhabitants of Coal Town were proud of
their place. They rarely left their laboring village--in that imitating
Simon Ford, who never wished to go out again. The old overman maintained
that it always rained "up there," and, considering the climate of the
United Kingdom, it must be acknowledged that he was not far wrong. All
the families in New Aberfoyle prospered well, having in three years
obtained a certain competency which they could never have hoped to
attain on the surface of the county. Dozens of babies, who were born at
the time when the works were resumed, had never yet breathed the outer
air.

This made Jack Ryan remark, "It's eighteen months since they were
weaned, and they have not yet seen daylight!"

It may be mentioned here, that one of the first to run at the engineer's
call was Jack Ryan. The merry fellow had thought it his duty to return
to his old trade. But though Melrose farm had lost singer and piper it
must not be thought that Jack Ryan sung no more. On the contrary, the
sonorous echoes of New Aberfoyle exerted their strong lungs to answer
him.

Jack Ryan took up his abode in Simon Ford's new cottage. They offered
him a room, which he accepted without ceremony, in his frank and hearty
way. Old Madge loved him for his fine character and good nature. She in
some degree shared his ideas on the subject of the fantastic beings
who were supposed to haunt the mine, and the two, when alone, told each
other stories wild enough to make one shudder--stories well worthy of
enriching the hyperborean mythology.

Jack thus became the life of the cottage. He was, besides being a jovial
companion, a good workman. Six months after the works had begun, he was
made head of a gang of hewers.

"That was a good work done, Mr. Ford," said he, a few days after his
appointment. "You discovered a new field, and though you narrowly
escaped paying for the discovery with your life--well, it was not too
dearly bought."

"No, Jack, it was a good bargain we made that time!" answered the old
overman. "But neither Mr. Starr nor I have forgotten that to you we owe
our lives."

"Not at all," returned Jack. "You owe them to your son Harry, when he
had the good sense to accept my invitation to Irvine."

"And not to go, isn't that it?" interrupted Harry, grasping his
comrade's hand. "No, Jack, it is to you, scarcely healed of your
wounds--to you, who did not delay a day, no, nor an hour, that we owe
our