The white man stood bowed for a moment; then, straightening up, he threw his head back. “I’ll take it, Nelse; but you shall have every cent back, even if I have to sell my body to a medical college and use a gun to deliver the goods! Good-bye, Nelse, God bless you! good-bye.” “Good-bye, Mas’ Tom, but don’t talk that way; go home. The South is changed, an’ you’ll find somethin’ to suit you. Go home—go home; an’ ef there’s any of the folks a-livin’, give ’em my love, Mas’ Tom—give ’em my love—good-bye—good-bye!” The Negro leaned over the proffered hand, and his tears dropped upon it. His master passed out, and he sat with his head bowed in his hands. After a long while Eliza came creeping in. “Wha’ ’d you do to him, Nelse—wha’ ’d you do to him?” There was no answer. “Lawd, I hope you ain’t killed him,” she said, looking fearfully around. “I don’t see no blood.” “I ain’t killed him,” said Nelse. “I sent him home—back to the ol’ place.” “You sent him home! how’d you send him, huh?” “I give him my Sunday suit and that money—don’t git mad, ’Lizy, don’t git mad—that money I was savin’ for your cloak. I couldn’t help it, to save my life. He’s goin’ back home among my people, an’ I sent ’em my love. Don’t git mad an’ I’ll git you a cloak anyhow.” “Pleggone the cloak!” said Mrs. Hatton, suddenly, all the woman in her rising in her eyes. “I was so ’fraid you’d take my advice an’ do somethin’ wrong. Ef you’re happy, Nelse, I am too. I don’t grudge your master nothin’—the ol’ devil! But you’re jes’ a good-natured, big-hearted, weak-headed ol’ fool!” And she took his head in her arms. Great tears rolled down the man’s cheeks, and he said: “Bless God, ’Lizy, I feel as good as a young convert.” AT SHAFT 11 AT SHAFT 11 Night falls early over the miners’ huts that cluster at the foot of the West Virginia mountains. The great hills that give the vales their shelter also force upon them their shadow. Twilight lingers a short time, and then gives way to that black darkness which is possible only to regions in the vicinity of high and heavily wooded hills. Through the fast-gathering gloom of a mid-spring evening, Jason Andrews, standing in his door, peered out into the open. It was a sight of rugged beauty that met his eyes as they swept the broken horizon. All about the mountains raised their huge forms,—here bare, sharp, and rocky; there undulating, and covered with wood and verdure, whose various shades melted into one dull, blurred, dark green, hardly distinguishable in the thick twilight. At the foot of the hills all was in shadow, but their summits were bathed in the golden and crimson glory of departing day. Jason Andrews, erstwhile foreman of Shaft 11, gazed about him with an eye not wholly unappreciative of the beauty of the scene. Then, shading his eyes with one brawny hand, an act made wholly unnecessary by the absence of the sun, he projected his vision far down into the valley.