Besides his exceptional grief, he felt the natural pang of a father at the prospect of resigning her to a husband.  Hard is the lot of parents; and, above all, of a parent with one child whom he adores.  Many other creatures love their young tenderly, and their young leave them.  But then the infancy and youth of those creatures are so short.  In a few months the young shift for themselves, forgetting and forgotten.  But with our young the helpless periods of infancy and youth are so long.  Parental anxiety goes through so many trials and so various, and they all strike roots into the parent’s heart.  Yet after twenty years of love and hope and fear comes a handsome young fellow, a charming highwayman to a parent’s eye, and whisks her away after two months’ courtship.  Then, oh, ye young, curb for a moment your blind egotism, and feel a little for the parents who have felt so much for you!  You rather like William Hope, so let him help you to pity your own parents.  See his sad face as he looks at the love he is yet too unselfish to discourage.  To save that tender root, a sickly child, he transplanted it from his own garden, and still tended it with loving care for many a year.  Another gathers the flower.  He watched and tended and trembled over the tender nestling.  The young bird is trying her wings before his eyes; soon she will spread them, and fly away to a newer nest and a younger bosom.

In this case, however, the young people had their troubles too, and their pretty courtship was soon interrupted by an unwelcome and unexpected visitor, who, as a rule, avoided that part, for the very reason that Colonel Clifford frequented it.  However, he came there to-day to speak to Hope.  Mr. Bartley, for he it was, would have caught the lovers if he had come silently; but he was talking to a pitman as he came, and Mary’s quick ears heard his voice round the corner.

“Papa!” cried she.  “Oh, don’t let him see us!  Hide!”

“Where?”

“Anywhere—­in here—­quick!” and she flew into Hope’s workshop, which indeed offered great facilities for hiding.  However, to make sure, they crouched behind the lathe and a huge plank of beautiful mahogany Hope was very proud of.

As soon as they were hidden, Mary began to complain in a whisper.  “This comes of our clandestine m—.  Our very life is a falsehood; concealment is torture—­and degradation.”

“I don’t feel it.  I call this good fun.”

“Oh, Walter!  Good fun!  For shame!  Hush!”

Bartley bustled on to the green, called Hope out, and sat down in Colonel Clifford’s chair.  Hope came to him, and Bartley, who had in his hand some drawings of the strata in the coal mine, handed the book to Hope, and said, “I quite agree with you.  That is the seam to follow:  there’s a fortune in it.”

“Then you are satisfied with me?”

“More than satisfied.”

“I have something to ask in return.”

“I am not likely to say no, my good friend,” was the cordial reply.