About twelve hours after the explosion Burnley detected Hope and his daughter eating, and moistening their lips with the tea and a spoonful of brandy that Hope had poured into it out of his flask to keep it from turning sour.
"What, haven't you a morsel for me ?" said the ruffian, in a piteous voice.
Hope gave a sort of snarl of contempt, but still he flung a crust to him as he would to a dog.
Then, after some slight hesitation, Grace rose quietly and took the smaller can, and tilled it with tea, and took it across to him.
"There," said she, "and may God forgive you." He took it and stared at her.
"It ain't my fault that you are here," said he; but she put up her hand as much as to say, "No idle words." * * * * * Two whole days had now elapsed.

The food, though economized, was all gone.

Burnley's lamp was flickering, and utter darkness was about to be added to the horrors which were now beginning to chill the hopes with which these poor souls had entered on their dire probation.

Hope took the alarm, seized the expiring lamp, trimmed it, and carried it down the one passage that was open.

This time he did not confine his researches to the part where he could stand upright, but went on his hands and knees down the newest working.