“No,” said John Baker, gravely.

“No,” said Walter; “what then?”

“It’s trouble.”

“Trouble,” said Walter, puzzled.

“Ay, my poor young master,” said Baker, tenderly—­“sore trouble, such trouble as a father’s heart won’t let me, or any man break to you, while he lives to do it.  I know my master.  Ever since that fellow Bartley came here we have seen the worst of him; now we shall see the best of him.  Go to him, dear Master Walter.  Don’t waste time in talking to old John Baker.  Go to your father and your friend.”

Walter Clifford cast a look of wonder and alarm on the old man, and went down at once to the drawing-room.  His father was standing by the fire.  He came forward to him with both hands, and said,

“My son!”

“Father,” said Walter, in a whisper, “what is it?”

“Have you heard nothing?”

“Nothing but good news, father—­that you approve my choice.”

“Ah, John told you that!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did he tell you anything else?”

“No sir, only that some great misfortune is upon me, and that I have my father’s sympathy.”

“You have,” said the Colonel, “and would to God I had known the truth before.  She is not Bartley’s daughter at all; she is Hope’s daughter.  Her virtue shines in her face; she is noble, she is self-denying, she is just, she is brave; and no doubt she can account for her being at the Lake Hotel in company with some man or other.  Whatever that lady says will be the truth.  That’s not the trouble, Walter; all that has become small by comparison.  But shall we ever see her sweet face again or hear her voice?”

“Father,” said Walter, trembling, “you terrify me.  This sudden change in your voice that I never heard falter before; some great calamity must have happened.  Tell me the worst at once.”

“Walter,” said the old man, “stand firm; do not despair, for there is hope.”

“Thank God for that, father! now tell me all.”

“Walter, there has been an explosion in the mine—­a fearful explosion; the shaft has fallen in; there is no getting access to the mine, and all the poor souls confined there are in mortal peril.  Those who are best acquainted with the mine do not think that many of them have been destroyed by the ruin, but they tell me these explosions let loose poisonous gases, and so now those poor souls are all exposed to three deadly perils—­choke-damp, fire-damp, and starvation.”

“It’s pitiable,” said Walter, “but surely this is a calamity to Bartley, and to the poor miners, but not to any one that I love, and that you have learnt to respect.”

“My son,” said the Colonel, solemnly, “the mine was fired by foul play.”

“Is it possible?”

“It is believed that some rival owner, or else some personal enemy of William Hope, bribed a villain to fire some part of the mine that Hope was inspecting.”