There was something peculiarly torturing in the idea of men caught in a mine; they were directly under one’s feet, yet it was impossible to get to them, to communicate with them in any way! The people on top yearned to them, and they, down below, yearned back. It was impossible to forget them for even a few minutes. People would become abstracted while they talked, and would stand staring into space; suddenly, in the midst of a crowd, a woman would bury her face in her hands and burst into tears, and then all the others would follow suit. Few people slept in North Valley during those two nights. They held mourning parties in their homes or on the streets. Some house-work had to be done, of course, but no one did anything that could be left undone. The children would not play; they stood about, silent, pale, like wizened-up grown people, over-mature in knowledge of trouble. The nerves of every one were on edge, the self-control of every one balanced upon a fine point. It was a situation bound to be fruitful in imaginings and rumours, stimulated to those inclined to signs and omens--the seers of ghosts, or those who went into trances, or possessed second sight or other mysterious gifts. There were some living in a remote part of the village who declared they had heard explosions under the ground, several blasts in quick succession. The men underground were setting off dynamite by way of signalling! In the course of the second day Hal sat with Mary Burke upon the steps of her home. Old Patrick lay within, having found the secret of oblivion at O’Callahan’s. Now and then came the moaning of Mrs. Zamboni, who was in her cabin with her brood of children. Mary had been in to feed them, because the distracted mother let them starve and cry. Mary was worn out, herself; the wonderful Irish complexion had faded, and there were no curves to the vivid lips. They had been sitting in silence, for there was nothing to talk of but the disaster--and they had said all there was to say about that. But Hal had been thinking while he watched Mary. “Listen, Mary,” he said, at last; “when this thing is over, you must really come away from here. I’ve thought it all out--I have friends in Western City who will give you work, so you can take care of yourself, and of your brother and sister too. Will you go?” But she did not answer. She continued to gaze indifferently into the dirty little street. “Truly, Mary,” he went on. “Life isn’t so terrible everywhere as it is here. Come away! Hard as it is to believe, you’ll forget all this. People suffer, but then they stop suffering; it’s nature’s way--to make them forget.” “Nature’s way has been to beat me dead,” said she. “Yes, Mary. Despair can become a disease, but it hasn’t with you. You’re just tired out. If you’ll try to rouse yourself--” And he reached over and caught her hand with an attempt at playfulness. “Cheer up, Mary! You’re coming away from North Valley.”