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and needles, and the little bell of which he had spoken. On my trusting that he would excuse the remark that he had been well educated, and (I hoped I might say without offence), perhaps educated above that station, he observed that instances of slight incongruity in such wise would rarely be found wanting among large bodies of men, that he had heard it was so in workhouses, in the police force, even in that last desperate resource, the army; and that he knew it was so, more or less, in any great railway staff. He had been, when young (if I could believe it, sitting in that hut—he scarcely could), a student of natural philosophy, and had attended lectures; but he had run wild, misused his opportunities, gone down, and never risen again. He had no complaint to offer about that. He had made his bed, and he lay upon it. It was far too late to make another.
    All that I have here condensed he said in a quiet manner, with his grave dark regards divided between me and the fire. He threw in the word, “Sir,” from time to time, and especially when he referred to his youth—as though to request me to understand that he claimed to be nothing but what I found him. He was several times interrupted by the little bell, and had to read off messages, and send replies. Once he had to stand without the door, and display a flag as a train passed, and make some verbal communications to the driver. In the discharge of his duties, I observed him to be remarkably exact and vigilant, breaking off his discourse at a syllable, and remaining silent until what he had to do was done.
    In a word, I should have set this man down as one of the safest of men to be employed in that capacity, but for the circumstance that while he was speaking to me he twice broke off with a fallen colour, turned his face towards the little bell when it did not ring, opened the door of the hut (which was kept shut to exclude the unhealthy damp), and looked out towards the red light near the mouth of the tunnel. On both of those occasions, he came back to the fire with the inexplicable air upon him which I had remarked, without being able to define, when we were so far asunder.
    Said I, when I rose to leave him, “You almost make me think that I have met with a contented man.”
    (I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to lead him on.)
    â€œI believe I used to be so,” he rejoined, in the low voice in which he had first spoken, “but I am troubled, Sir, I am troubled.”
    He would have recalled the words if he could. He had said them, however, and I took them up quickly.
    â€œWith what? What is your trouble?”
    â€œIt is very difficult to impart, Sir. It is very, very difficult to speak of. If ever you make me another visit, I will try to tell you.”
    â€œBut I expressly intend to make you another visit. Say, when shall it be?”
    â€œI go off early in the morning, and I shall be on again at ten tomorrow night, Sir.”
    â€œI will come at eleven.”
    He thanked me, and went out at the door with me. “I’ll show my white light, Sir,” he said, in his peculiar low voice, “till you have found the way up. When you have found it, don’t call out! And when you are at the top, don’t call out!”
    His manner seemed to make the place strike colder to me, but I said no more than, “Very well.”
    â€œAnd when you come down tomorrow night, don’t call out! Let me ask you a parting question. What made you cry, ‘Halloa! Below there!’ tonight?”
    â€œHeaven knows,” said I, “I cried something to that effect—”
    â€œNot to that effect, Sir. Those were the very words. I know them well.”
    â€œAdmit those were the very words. I said them, no doubt, because I saw you below.”
    â€œFor no other reason?”
    â€œWhat other reason could I possibly have?”
    â€œYou had no feeling that they were conveyed to you in any supernatural