And glorious it was.  I was happy in myself, happy in my thoughts of my friend, happy in the physical enjoyment of the air, the woods, the sun, the shade.  Let me dwell on that ride.  I have not had many happy days, but that was one which had its fulness of content.  And I succeeded in putting Mr. Hammond’s letter into the Catlettsburg post-office, made my little purchases, and turned my horse’s head homeward, reaching the end of my journey before my father or step-mother had time to be anxious for me, and having a chance to whisper, “All right,” to Tom Salyers, as he took my horse from me at the door of the store.

The long-expected rise came, and the strike came,—­Jim Foushee heading it, and standing sullen and determined in the midst of his party.  Mr. Hammond was prepared for them.  The malcontents came to him in the store, where he was filling Tom’s place; for he had sent Tom to Catlettsburg, avowedly to prepare the boats there to meet the rise, really to have him out of the way.  Their first word was met coolly enough.

“You will not work another stroke, unless I give you higher wages, I understand, Foushee?  And these men say the same thing?  You are their spokesman?  Very well, I am satisfied; you can quit work to-morrow.  I have other hands at the mouth for the boats there, and there is no hurry about the coal that lies here.”

Foushee burst out with an oath,—­

“That damned Salyers is the traitor! mean, cowardly rascal!”

But Mr. Hammond would not tell me more of what passed; perhaps he was afraid of frightening me.  This only he told me that night, when thanking me with glance, voice, and pressure of the hand for all I had done for him.  The blood rushed quick and hot through my veins, I was delirious with an undreamed-of happiness, which took away from me all power of answering, of even raising my eyes to his face, and the same delirium followed me to my pillow.  He had called me his friend, his little Janet, who was so quick and ready, so fertile in invention, so brave in execution:  what should he have done without me?  I repeated his words to myself till they lost all their meaning; they were only replete with blissful content, and filled me with their music till I dropped asleep for very weariness in saying them over.

The next morning, before I waked, George Hammond had gone.  He had left for Catlettsburg to direct the new hands.  The works lay idle, the men (those who had been dismissed) lounged around gloomy and sullen, and so passed the week.  Then came the news that Mr. Hammond and Tom Salyers had gone to Cincinnati, and would not return for the present, and that such men as were satisfied with the former wages were to be put to work again.  Readily did the miners come back to their duty, all but a few of the Sandy men, who returned to their own homes, and all fell into the usual train.

And I?  There was first the calm sense of happy security, then the impatience to test again its reality, then the longing homesickness of the heart.  As weeks passed on and I saw nothing of him, as I heard of his protracted stay, as I saw Miss Hammond make her preparations to join him, as I watched the boat which carried her away, my sense of loneliness became too heavy for me, and the same pillow on which I had known those happy slumbers was wet with tears of bitter despondency.