MISS ANDREWS ACCEPTS AN INVITATION Life in New River valley, full of as it was, full of the stern, trying struggle for existence, had still its moments of , and in these, as she came to know the people better, the little schoolmistress was summoned to take a part—first in the church “socials,” which Mr. Bayliss organized from time to time in his unceasing efforts to bring the people within his doors and to get nearer to them; then at the informal little which took place at the homes of the wealthier families in the long winter evenings. Wealth is only a comparative term, and a man considered wealthy in the coal-fields may still be close to poverty; but most of them were honest and and open-hearted, and the lonely girl found many friends among them.
 
And they, when they saw her so in earnest, regarded her with an and respect which grew gradually to affection. To the men, roughened by in the mines and by year-long contact with the unlovely side of life, this delicate and gentle girl was singularly attractive, and their voices took a softer tone than usual when they to her. To the women she was a revelation of neatness and , and any suspicion or envy with which they may have regarded her at first was soon forgotten when they found her so eager to help them in every way she could, so free from and selfishness, so willing to give them of her best. Gradually, a keen observer might have , the hats of the women and girls of her acquaintance became less ; gradually dresses of flaming greens and yellows disappeared; slowly certain of good taste began to be apparent. Of all the battles Bessie Andrews waged—and they numbered many more than may be set down in this short history—this one against the for things in dress was not the least heroic, requiring such patience, , and gentle resolution as few possess.
 
It was at a little party one evening at the home of George Lambert, of one of the larger mines, that her host swung suddenly around upon her with a proposition which for a moment took her breath away.
 
“You’ve been here nearly a year now, Miss Bessie,” he began, “and you’ve seen about everything the valley’s got to show. You’ve been on top of Old Nob—”
 
“Oh, yes; Mr. Bayliss and two of the boys took me up there last spring.”
 
“And you’ve been down to the falls?”
 
“Yes; we had a picnic there, you know.”
 
“But there’s one place you haven’t been.”
 
“And where is that, Mr. Lambert?”
 
“That’s back in our mine.”
 
For a moment she did not answer, and Mrs. Lambert laughed a little as she looked at her.
 
“That’s a great honor, Miss Bessie,” she said. “George is very particular about whom he asks to go through the mine. He thinks it’s the loveliest place on earth.”
 
Still she hesitated. It was one of the things she had longed yet feared to do. She had sometimes thought it was her duty to go, that she could not hope to wholly understand this people unless she saw them at their daily toil. But the black openings yawning here and there in the mountain-side frightened her; they called into life imaginings; it seemed so terrible to walk back into them, away from the air and the sunlight.
 
“Why,” laughed Lambert, reading her thoughts in her face, “to look at you one would think you could never hope to get out alive! There hasn’t been an accident—a really bad accident—in our mine for over eight years. It’s safe or I wouldn’t ask you to go. A coal-mine is a interesting thing to see, Miss Bessie.”
 
There was something so encouraging in his eyes and voice, so in his confidence, that her fears slipped from her.
 
“Of course it is interesting,” she said, “and thank you for the invitation, sir. I shall be very glad to go.”
 
“And how about you, Mr. Bayliss?” asked Lambert.
 
“Why, yes; I should like to go, too. I’ve been through the mine three or four times, but it has a great for me.”
 
“That’s good. Suppose we say Saturday morning. Will that suit you, Miss Bessie?”
 
“It will suit me very well, sir,” answered the girl, a little faintly, remembering that Saturday was only two days away.
 
“All right; Mr. Bayliss and I will stop for you. And say—there’s one thing; you want to wear the oldest dress you’ve got—a short skirt, you know.”
 
“Very well,” she smiled. “I think I have a gown that will answer.”
 
Whatever she may have experienced in the meantime, they were not apparent on her face when she came out to meet the two men bright and early that Saturday morning.
 
“That’s the stuff!” said Lambert, looking approvingly at her costume of . “That’s just the thing.”
 
“Yes; I think this will defy even a coalmine,” she answered, laughing. “It has withstood a good many mountain storms, I know.”
 
“Well, if you’re ready we are,” said Lambert, and set off along the railroad track that led to the big .
 
“And you’re going to tell me everything about it?” she asked.
 
“Of course; that’s what I’m for. Mr. Bayliss maybe’ll help me a little if I get hoarse,” he added slyly.
 
“Not I!” cried that gentleman. “In the science of coal-mining I am still in the infant class. I’ll let you do the talking, Mr. Lambert, and will be very glad to listen myself.”
 
Lambert strode on, to himself. He was certainly , if any one was, to tell her “everything.” He had made the mine a study and life-work, and regarded it with pride and affection. Every foot of its many passages was as familiar to him as those of his own home. The men knew that with him in charge the mine was as safe as skill and care could make it; in hours of trouble, which were certain to come at times, his clear eyes and cheery voice, his quick wit and indomitable will, were mighty rocks of refuge to cling to and lean against until the storm was past. As he walked along beside them this bright morning, alert, head , his two companions glanced admiringly at him more than once, knowing him for a man who did things worth doing.
 
“Well,” he said at last, as they reached the great wooden structure stretching above the track, “here we are at the tipple, and we might as well begin here, though it’s sort of beginning at the wrong end. Let’s go up to the top first, though,” and he led the way up a steep little stair. “Now, Miss Bessie, we have come to the first lesson in the book. The coal is let down from the mine on that inclined railway to this big building, which is built out over the railroad track so the coal can be dumped right into the cars without any extra handling. The coal, as it comes down, is in all sizes, called ‘run of mine’—big lumps and little, and a lot of dirt. So it is dumped out here on this screen,—the bars are an inch and a half apart, you see,—and all the coal that passes over it to that yonder is called ‘lump.’ The coal that goes through falls on that other screen down there, with bars three quarters of an inch apart, and all that passes over it is called ‘nut.’ All that falls through is called ‘slack,’ and is hauled away to those big piles you see all around here. Understand all that?”
 
“Oh, yes; that’s as clear as it can be.”
 
“That’s good. Now we’ll go up to the mine. Let’s get into this empty car. It’s not as clean as a Pullman, nor as big, but it’s the only kind we run on this road.”
 
They helped her in, and one sat on either side to steady her, as the tipple-hands coupled it to the cable and the trip up the steep grade began.
 
“You see, the loaded cars going down pull up the empty ones,” he said. “We make gravitation do all the work. It’s a simple way, and mighty convenient.”
 
The loaded car, heaped high with coal, passed them midway, and in a moment they were at the mouth of the mine. To her surprise, she saw that there were two openings, one much smaller than the other.
 
“That smaller one’s the ,” said Lambert. “Just inside there’s a big wheel, or fan, made very much like the wheel of a windmill, going around about a hundred times a minute, and blowing about a thousand cubic feet of air out of the mine at every revolution.”
 
“Out of the mine!” exclaimed Miss Andrews.
 
“Yes. The airway is connected with the gangway there, away back at the farthest limit of the mine. So what happens?”
 
He was smiling down at her, intensely this novel chance to test the wits of the school-teacher.
 
“Why,” she began slowly, “if so much air is pumped out, just so much more must rush in to take its place through the other opening.”
 
“The gangway—yes. And since the only open break-through between them is away at the other end of the mine?”
 
“The fresh air must go clear through the mine before it can start out again.”
 
“That’s it—that’s it exactly!” and Lambert slapped his with pleasure at her quickness. “That’s the whole secret, Miss Bessie, of ventilating coal-mines: get your fresh air, and plenty of it, clear back to the end, through every , before it starts out again. So long as you do that, there’s mighty little danger from fire-damp and choke-damp, or any of the other gases the coal is always throwing off.”
 
“But it isn’t always so simple as this, is it?”
 
“No. You see, there are three ways of opening a coal-mine, Miss Bessie, of which this is the very simplest. The river, there, has cut down through the seams of coal and left them exposed, so all we have to do is to hunt up those most favorably located and work right back into them. That sort of entrance is called a drift, and is the cheapest as well as simplest, because every blow of the pick brings down so much coal. That’s the great advantage of all the mines along this river—along almost any river, for that matter. Sometimes the seams don’t come to the surface, and then we have to tunnel in horizontally through earth and rock to reach them; that’s the second way. The third way is where the coal is buried deep in the earth, and a opening called a has to be sunk to it, and the gangways started out horizontally from the shaft-foot. That is the most expensive way of all, and the most difficult. This main entrance is called the gangway or entry, and the side workings from it are called entries. Well, let’s go in.”
 
Just inside the entrance a boy supplied them with little smoking tin lamps with hooks to hold them to their hats, and then the trip into the mine began. The darkness that fell upon them almost instantly the girl for a moment. She felt that every step forward must carry her down into a bottomless abyss. She clutched at her companions; but the feeling passed, and soon she was able to advance with greater confidence. The gangway seemed quite level, though Lambert told her it sloped upward slightly so as to throw out all the water that gathered in the mine, and along either side of it ran a narrow wooden track. On one track the loaded cars were brought out of the mine, and on the other the empty cars were taken back again. furnished the power, and each of them was driven by a grimy boy. The sight of them going ceaselessly back and aroused the old bitterness in her.
 
“I think it is such a terrible thing,” she said, “that children have to work in the mines!”
 
“It’s not pleasant,” her guide, grimly, “but it’s a case of bread and butter—and mighty little butter. They’re not in any danger, though,” he added, “except from being kicked or bitten by the mules. Some of them are vicious , but the boys soon learn how to handle ’em.”
 
The of an approaching “trip” of cars drowned his voice, and they stepped aside to let it pass. For a moment they could see nothing; then the flashed into view, with a boy lying flat on its back to escape the roof, the flame of his lamp streaming thinly out behind; then four loaded cars, rocking and swaying on the narrow track.
 
“You see, the slope of the gangway helps get the loaded cars to daylight,” observed Lambert, “as well as throw out the water—and there’s lots of water in a mine.”
 
That was evident enough. Everywhere about them the black walls were dripping with moisture, and every angle shone bright in the rays of their lamps. From low roof and sides alike gleamed thousands of points, until it seemed almost that they must be in a mine of diamonds. Along the center of the gangway a row of heavy had been placed to support the roof and render it quite safe. As they went on, Bessie Andrews began to think it all some dreadful illusion. Mules up suddenly before her; swarthy faces, with no apparent bodies, gleamed for an instant out of the darkness; a constant of cars was in her ears; the lamps and in the strong air-current, and seemed each instant about to go out and leave them in darkness—such a darkness as exists nowhere else. On they went,—miles, as it seemed to her, but really only a few hundred yards,—and came at last to a door, beside which a small boy sat. He jumped up and opened it for them, and they passed through. For a moment they walked on between two narrow walls which opened suddenly before them.
 
“Now we are in a chamber,” said her guide. “Here we will see the miners at work.”
 
Far ahead she could see dimly four lights bobbing about in a seemingly senseless way. Suddenly three of them came toward her; she heard somewhere in the distance the cry of “Fire!” repeated over and over. The three lights disappeared; the fourth drew rapidly near, then disappeared also. She felt Lambert catch her by the arm to steady her; there was a sudden beating of the air against her face, the dull rumble of an explosion, the crash of falling coal, and then a moment’s breathless silence.