And it was not till next morning that Brant, her brother,
called to her, as she went upstairs after breakfast, in a voice
which brought her running back. He had a paper in his hand,
and he held it to her.
"What is it, Brant? Something bad?"
"Yes," he said, breathing fast. "Awful. It's going to make
you feel badly, for you liked him--poor old Johnny McLean."
"Johnny McLean?" she repeated. Brant went on.
"Yesterday--a mine accident. He went down after the entombed men.
Not a chance." Brant's mouth worked. "He died--like a hero--
you know." The girl stared.
"Died? Is Johnny McLean dead?"
She did fall down, or cry out, but then Brant knew. Swiftly he
came up and put his big, brotherly arm around her.
"Wait, my dear," he said. "There's a ray of hope. Not really
hope, you know--it was certain death he went to--but yet they
haven't found--they don't know, absolutely, that he's dead."
Five minutes later the girl was locked in her room with the paper.
His name was in large letters in the head-lines. She read the
account over many times, with painstaking effort to understand
that this meant Johnny McLean. That he was down there now, while
she breathed pure air. Many times she read it, dazed.
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