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Wildcat Nigerian gold miners look to regulation in a post-oil future

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elsie was in the street with the rest of the town, talking, as all were talking, of the sight that meaux should see to-morrow. besides jacqueline, there was hardly another person in this great building, six stories high, every room of which had usually a tenant at this hour. she sat by her window, and looked at the dusky town, over which the moon was rising. but her thoughts were far away; over many a league they wandered. once more she stood on the playground of her toilsome childhood. she recalled many a year of sacrificing drudgery, which now she could not name such,for another reason than that which had heretofore prevented her from calling it a sacrifice. she remembered these years of wrong and of extortion,they received their proper name now,years whose mirth and leisure she had quietly foregone, but during which she had borne a burden that saddened youth, while it also dignified it,a burden which had made her hearts natural cheerfulness the subject of self-reproach, and her maiden dreams and wishes matter for tears, for shame, for confession, for prayer. now victor le roys words came to her very strangely; powerfully they moved her. she believed them in this solitude, where at leisure she could meditate upon them. a vision more fair and blessed than she had ever imagined rose before her. there was no suffering in it, and no sorrow; it was full of peace. already, in the heaven to which she had hoped her toil would give him at length admission, her father had found his home. there was a glory in his rest not reflected from her filial love, but from the all-availing love of christ. thendelay the rigor of your judgment!she began,yes, she, this jacqueline, began to count the cost of what she had done. she was not a sordid soul, she had not a miserly nature. before she had gone far in that strange computation, she paused abruptly, with a crimsoned face, and not with tearless eyes. counting the cost! estimating the sacrifice! had, then, her purpose been less holy because excited by falsehood and sustained through delusion? was she less loving and less true, because deceived? and was she to lament that christ, the one and only priest, rather than another instrumentality, was the deliverer of her beloved from the power of death? no ritual was remembered, and no formula consulted, when she cried out,it is so! and i thank thee! only give me now, my jesus, a purpose as holy as that thou hast taken away! but she had not come into her chamber to spend a solitary evening there. turning away from the window, she bestowed a little care upon her person, smoothed away the traces of her days labor, and after all was done she lingered yet longer. she was going out, evidently. whither? to visit the mother of john leclerc. she must carry back the tracts the good woman had lent her. their contents had firm lodgement in her memory. others might run to and fro in the streets, and talk about the corners, and prognosticate with passion, and defy, in the way of cowardice, where safety rather than the truth is well assured. if one woman could console another, jacqueline wished that she might console leclercs mother. and if any words of wisdom could drop from the poor old womans lips while her soul was in this strait, jacqueline desired to hear those words. down the many flights of stairs she went across the court, and then along the street, to the house where the wool-comber lived. a brief pause followed her knock for admittance. she repeated it. then was heard a sound from within,a step crossing the floor. the door opened, and there stood the mother of leclerc, ready to face any danger, the very fiend himself. but when she saw that it was jacqueline, only jacqueline,an angel, as one might say, and not a devil,the terrible look passed from her face; she opened the door wide. come in, child! come in! so jacqueline went into the room where john had worked and thought, reasoned, argued, prayed. this is the home of the man because of whom many are this night offended in the city of meaux. this is the place whence issued the power that has set the tongues to talking, and the minds to thinking, and the hearts to hoping, and the authorities to avenging. a grain of mustard-seed is the kingdom of heaven in a figure; the wandering winds a symbol of the pentecostal power: a dove did signify the descent of god to man. this poor chamber, so pent in, and so lowly, so obscure, has its significance. here has a life been lived; and not the least does it import, that walls are rough and the ceiling low. but the life of john leclerc was not to be limited. a power has stood here which by its freedom has set at defiance the customary calculation of the worldly-wise. in high places and in low the people are this night disturbed because of him who has dared to lift his voice in the freedom of the speech of god. in drawing-rooms odorous with luxury the mans name has mention, and the vulgarity of his liberated speech and courageous faith is a theme to move the wonder and excite the reprobation of hearts whose languid beating keeps up their show of life, to what sufficient purpose expect me not to tell. his voice is loud and harsh to echo through these music-loving halls; it rends and tears, with almost savage strength, the dainty silences. but busier tongues are elsewhere more vehement in speech; larger hearts beat faster indignation; grief and vulgarest curiosity are all manifesting themselves after their several necessity. in solitary places heroes pray throughout the night, wrestling like jacob, agonizing like saul, and with some of them the angel left his blessing; for some the golden harp was struck that soothed their souls to peace. angels of heaven had work to do that night. angels of heaven and hell did prove themselves that night in meaux: night of unrest and sleeplessness, or of cruel dreaming; night of bloody visions, tortured by the apprehension of a lacerated body driven through the city streets, and of the hooting shouts of devildom; night haunted by a gory image,the defiled temple of the holy ghost. did the prospect of torture keep _him_ wakeful? could the man bear the disgrace, the derision, shouting, agony? was there nothing in this thought, that as a witness of jesus christ he was to appear next day, that should soothe him even unto slumber? upon the silence of his guarded chamber let none but ministering angels break. sacred to him, and to him who watched the hours of the night, let the night go! but herehis mother, jacqueline with herwe may linger with these. v. when the old woman saw that it was jacqueline gabrie who stood waiting admittance, she opened the door wider, as i said; and the dark solemnity of her countenance seemed to be, by so much as a single ray, enlivened for an instant

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