letters were unlike the rest. The handwriting was irregular, and the sentences were jerky and inconsequent. Sir George had chanced to see one of the two as it lay on the table at my chambers. “Not so well, eh?” said Sir George. He fancied himself as an expert in that direction. And he was right. Temporary indisposition had been the explanation. Lucy herself had said so.
The only letters of my old packet that were not Lucy's were from my father. I had written to tell him of my forthcoming marriage, and he had answered with as much cordiality as I had a right to expect. He trusted that my determination was wise, that my action was not premature, that I saw my course clear before me. The only significant passage was in the nature of a warning: “Above all, my dear boy, let me hope and trust that the woman who is to be your wife and my daughter comes of a good and healthy stock. Living in this country, where natural selection in marriage is hampered by consideration of caste, I see more plainly than ever how terrible are the consequences of heredity, not only in actual physical taint, but also in the countless forms of bad habits that are equivalent to disease.”
I left the Scotch mail at Penrith at three in the morning, but Lucy's home was in the iron district of Cleator Moor, and I had to change at a second junction before reaching the last stage of my journey. This junction was in the heart of the Cumberland hills. Day had not yet dawned when I got there; thick snow lay on the ground, the morning was cold, and I had half an hour to wait for the local train. With the help of a porter I found my way into the waiting room of the little wooden station house. A brisk fire was burning there, and a group of miners were sitting on the benches about it, smoking their clay pipes, with their elbows on their knees, and their lamps hanging from their wrists. They made room for me at the fire, but went on with their talk without regard to my presence. I asked if they were going by the train to Cleator. They answered “Yes,” and that they worked at the Clousedale mines, in the pit known as "Owd Boney." I learned that “Owd Boney.” meant “old bone of contention,” and that the popular nickname had reference to the pit's history. Also I gathered that the men lived in the neighboring town of Cockermouth, and were that morning starting afresh on their fortnightly “shift.”
“But Christmas Eve?” I said. “Surely you take a holiday at Christmas?”
They laughed and answered that all seasons were alike to the miner.
“Sunday or Monday, it's all t' same,” said one. “Th' engine at t' pit head doesna stop for t' church service.”
“And t' boiler at t' bottom is as thirsty as owd Geordie Clous'al hisself,” said another, and then they laughed, and puffed and spat in a chuckling chorus.
The train steamed up and whistled; I got into the same carriage with the miners, and we ran into the mining country. Over the snow covered dales the day was now dawning. The mountains were falling behind us, and we were coming on to a broad stretch of moorland. I could see ahead, in the increasing gray light, the wooden gear of many pit shafts, and the smoke and flame from the squat chimneys of the smelting houses. The snow was thinner at every mile, and the bare ground was red and black, as if with cinders and the refuse of iron ore.
“You spoke of old George Clousedale,” I said. “What is he?”
“A dead man,” said one of the miners.
“What was he?”
“The owner of 'Owd Boney,' and half the pits of Cleator.”
“Any relative of Miss Clousedale of Clousedale Hall?” I asked.
“Lucy?” said several voices together.
“Well, yes, Lucy, if you like.”
“Thirsty owd Geordie Clous'al was Lucy's grandfadder.”
I was curious, but I was also vexed. “Men,” I said, “it's only right to tell you at once that Miss Clousedale is a friend of mine, and that I'm now on my way to visit her.”
They understood me instantly, and made amends with manly simplicity. “No disrespect to Miss Lucy, sure. Nobbut good will to the young lady, sir. We're eating her bread, and we've nowt agen her.”
Nothing further was said until we came within a mile of the village, which I had seen lying on the moor top under a canopy of smoke. Then one of the miners leaned over to the carriage window, and pointed to a house which we were rapidly passing.
“Yon's Clous’al Hall, sir,” he said.
I jumped up and looked out. The house was a large square mansion of modern date and of no particular character, standing deep in its own grounds, behind thick clumps of trees, which were all leafless. The sun had broken out, and a watery gleam lay along the slate roof and part of the grass of the lawn. Smoke was coming from the chimneys, and just at the moment
