It stood quite still and black among the corn-fields, its immense heap of slag seen rising almost from the oats.
"What a pity there is a coal-pit here where it is so pretty!" said Clara.
"Do you think so ?" he answered.

"You see, I am so used to it I should miss it.

No; and I like the pits here and there.

I like the rows of trucks, and the headstocks, and the steam in the daytime, and the lights at night.

When I was a boy, I always thought a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night was a pit, with its steam, and its lights, and the burning bank,--and I thought the Lord was always at the pit-top." As they drew near home she walked in silence, and seemed to hang back.
He pressed her fingers in his own.