"
The boy did not open his eyes, but his lips moved.
"Did you call me, Uncle Billy?" he asked. "Is it mornin'? Is it
daylight?"
"It'll soon be daylight, lad, verra soon noo, verra soon."
He had fastened his lamp in his cap, placed his arms gently under the
child's body, and lifted him to his breast. He stood for a moment
then, questioning with himself. But the slope was the nearest and the
way to it was the safest, and there was no time to wait. He started
down the air-way on his journey to the outer world, bearing his burden
as tenderly as a mother would have borne her babe, looking down at
times into the still face, letting the tears drop now and then on the
paper pinned to the boy's breast.
He stopped to rest after a little, holding the child on his knees as
he sat, and looking curiously at the letter, on which his tears had
fallen. He read it slowly by the light of his lamp, bending back the
fold to do so. He did not wonder at it. He knew what it meant and why
the boy had fastened it there.
"Ye s'all gae to her, lad," he said, "ye s'all gae to the mither. I'm
thankfu', verra thankfu', that the father kenned the truth afoor he
deed."
He raised his precious burden to his heart and began again his
journey.
The water in the old sump had risen and flowed across the heading and
the air-way and far up into the chambers, and he was compelled to go
around it. The way was long and devious; it was blocked and barred;
he had often to lay his burden down and make an opening through some
walled-up entrance to give them room for passage.
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