Mrs. Burnham had sat there pale-faced and eager-eyed.  Now she spoke:—­

“What is the prospect?  What are the chances?  Can you surely save him?  Tell me truly, Mr. Martin?”

“We cannot say certainly,” replied the superintendent; “there are too many factors in the problem of which we are yet ignorant.  We do not know how badly the shaft is choked up; we do not know the condition of the air in the mine.  To be frank with you, I think the chances are against rescuing the boy alive.  The mine soon fills with poisonous gases when the air supply is cut off.”

“Are you doing all that can be done?” she asked.  “Will more men, more money, more of anything, help you in your work?”

“We are doing all that can be done,” he answered her.  “The men are working bravely.  We need nothing.”

“How soon will you be able to go down and begin the search?”

The man thought for a moment before replying.

“To-morrow,” he said, uncertainly.  “I think surely by to-morrow.”

She sank back into the carriage-seat, appalled by the length of time named.  She had hoped that an hour or two at the farthest would enable them to reach the bottom of the shaft.

“We will push the work to the utmost,” said Martin, as he hurried away.  “Possibly we shall be able to get in sooner.”

Goodlaw and Mrs. Burnham sat for a long time in silence, watching the men at their labor.  Word had been passed among the workers that the missing boy was Mrs. Burnham’s son, and their energetic efforts were put forth now for her sake as well as for the lad’s.  For both mother and son held warm places in the hearts of these toiling men.

The mouth of the shaft had been finally uncovered, a space cleared around it, and the frame of a rude windlass erected.  They were preparing to remove the debris from the opening.

Conway came to the carriage, and, in a voice broken with emotion, told the story of Ralph’s heroic effort to save a human life at the risk of his own.  He had little hope, he said, that Ralph could live till they should reach him; but he should be the first, he declared, to go into the mine in search of the gallant boy.

At this recital Mrs. Burnham wept; she could restrain her tears no longer.

At last Goodlaw persuaded her to leave the scene.  He feared the effect that continued gazing on it might have upon her delicate nerves.

The flashing of the lanterns, the huge torches lighting up the darkness, the forms of men moving back and forth in the smoky atmosphere, the muscular and mental energy exhibited, the deep earnestness displayed,—­all this made up a picture too dramatic and appalling for one whose heart was in it to look at undismayed.

Arrangements were made for a messenger service to keep Mrs. Burnham constantly informed of the progress of the work, and, with a parting appeal to those in charge to hasten the hour of rescue, the grief-stricken mother departed.