You ken fine your man or yoursel’ wadna’ hae the name o’ stealin’.  But they steal every day o’ their lives, only they ca’ it business.  That’s the difference.  It’s business wi’ them, but it wad be dishonest on oor pairt.  Awa’, woman!  It’s disgraceful to think aboot.  Naebody should eat wha disna work, an’ I dinna care wha hears me say it,” and the flashing eyes and the indignant voice gave token of her righteous wrath.

“That’s a’ richt, Nellie, but it has aye been, an’ I doot it’ll aye be.  We just canna help it,” would come the reply.

“I tell you it’s everybody’s duty to work for better times.  We’ve no richt to allow the things that gang on.  There’s nae guid in poverty and disease an’ ill-health, an’ we should a’ try to change it; and we could if only you’d get some sense into your held, an’ no’ stand and speak as if you felt that God meant it.”

“Ay, Nellie, that’s a’ richt, but it’s the Lord’s will, an’ we maun put up wi’ it.”

At this juncture Mrs. Sinclair’s patience would become exhausted, and she would flare up, while the neighbor would suddenly break off the discussion and go off home.

Her children were taught that it was a disgrace not to resent a wrong, and Robert, though only a boy, was always sturdily standing up against the things he considered wrong at the pit-head.

Robert dreamed and built his future castles.  There was great work ahead to do.  He never mentioned his longings and visions to anyone, yet Mysie’s sweet, shy face was creeping into them always, and already he was conscious of something in her that thrilled him.  He was awkward, and his speech did not come readily, in her presence.  Whole days he dreamed, only waking up to find it was “knocking-off” time.  There was an hour’s break in the middle of the day, and then he wandered out on the moor.  Its silence soothed him, and he would lie and dream among the rough yellow grass and the hard tough heather, bathing his soul in the brooding quietness of it all.

He was now twelve years of age, and longing to get at work down the pit.  It was for him the advent of manhood, and represented the beginning of his real work.

One night in the late summer, after the pit had knocked off and the “day-shift” was returning home, he and Mysie were walking as usual behind the women.  He had meant to tell her the great news all day, but somehow she was so different now, and besides a man should always keep something to himself as long as possible.  It showed strength, he thought.

“I’m goin’ doon the pit the morn, Mysie,” he said, now that he had come to the point of telling her, and speaking as casually as he could.

“Oh, are you?” said Mysie, and stopped, disappointingly, and remained silent.

“Ay.  I’m twelve now, you ken, an’ I can get into the pit,” feeling a bit nettled that she was silent in the face of such a happening.

“Oh!” and again Mysie stopped.