Off somewhere in the distance he could see blue sky, and the tips of
waves glancing in 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.
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