She stopped and gazed into the fire, seemingly forgetting the boy who sat by her side.  Then she reached forward and placed the last stick on the slowly-dying embers.  As it caught, and the flames leaped into the chimney in response to the wind outside, she continued: 

“The next summer was the last.  I never knew just how it happened exactly; but some way, while making a new side drift in the tunnel, a blast went off prematurely, and he was caught in the falling rocks and crushed to death.  Uncle Joe wrote me the particulars—­all that I ever had.

“He was too badly mangled to be recognized, so even before I knew of the accident his poor, broken body was laid to rest under the pines in Evergreen Cemetery.  The tunnel was closed and locked, and your uncle packed father’s few belongings in the little old trunk I gave you last spring for your own and sent it home—­all that I ever saw again of your father.

“Then followed the terrible fever that nearly took my life.  How I prayed, my boy, that I might die, so great was my sorrow and utter loneliness; but the Great Father saw fit to keep me here, and now I am thankful.  He needed me to help you become a man.  When I was so sick grandfather came and brought us home, and here we have been ever since.”

“But, mother, have you never wanted to go to Colorado?”

“Yes, son, I’ve often thought I would be happier there, but father has never thought so.  I’ve often promised Aunt Lucy we’d come.  I’m afraid she won’t be long for this world, for she has a very serious tubercular trouble.  You must never mention it, son, but your grandfather never had any use for Uncle Joe, and was very much opposed to Lucy’s marrying him, so they slipped off and were married secretly.  She has never felt like coming home since—­not even for a visit.  Father gets very lonely for her, for she was the life of the old home.  I would not be surprised, son, if I should be called to her bedside any time now, for she is very low.”

“Mother, if such a thing should happen, you’d take me with you, wouldn’t you?” eagerly asked Willis.

“Of course I would, my son.”

“And perhaps I could find father’s tunnel.  Say, mother, did you ever hear what became of that Tad Kieser after father’s death?” he inquired.

“No, son, I never heard.  He wrote me one letter, expressing his sympathy, and in that letter I remember he said he had abandoned the tunnel because he was convinced that it was not a safe place to work, and probably it never would have amounted to anything, anyway.”

“Do you suppose he is still prospecting somewhere in the mountains, mother?”

“I don’t know, Willis.  Probably not, for that was ten years ago, you know.”

The remains of the last log dropped between the andirons and rolled over.  Mrs. Thornton rose.

“It’s time we were in bed, son, long ago.”  With that she gently bent, kissed him on the forehead, and slipped off to her own room, leaving him with the dying fire.  He sat still a long time, his eyes wide open and his fists clenched.