But Robert Burnham saw something besides this in the child's face; he
saw a likeness to himself that startled him. Men see things in moments
of sublimity to which at all other times their eyes are blinded. He
thought of Craft's story; he thought of the boy's story; he compared
them; a sudden hope seized him, a conviction broke upon his mind like
a flash of light.

This boy was his son. For the moment, all other thoughts, motives,
desires were blotted from his mind. His desperate errand was lost to
sight. The imperilled miners were forgotten.

"Ralph!" he cried, seizing the boy's hand in both of his; "Ralph, I
have found you!"

But the child looked up in wonder, and the men who stood by did not
know what it meant.

The carriage struck the floor of the mine and they all stepped off.
The shock at stopping brought Burnham to himself. This was no time,
no place to recognize the lad and take him to his heart. He would do
that--afterward. Duty, with a stern voice, was calling to him now.

"Men," he said, "are you ready? Here, soak the aprons; Ralph, take
this; now then, come on!"

Up the heading, in single file, they walked swiftly, swinging their
safety-lamps in their hands, or holding them against their breasts.
They knew that up in the chambers their comrades were lying prostrate
and in pain. They knew that the spaces through which they must pass to