Dr. Belton went on board with them, and when the last good-byes were said, he declared that Cardo's leaving would cause a great blank in his life, as not only had he been greatly interested in the young man as "a case," but he had also grown much attached to him as a friend.

The bell rang, the gangway was raised, and the Wellingtonia moved from the side of the quay; and when at last they had fairly bid good-bye to Australia, they turned to look at each other, and to realise that another leaf in the book of life had been turned over.

Cardo was full of the brightest hopes, but shaded by anxiety, for he knew now that two whole years had passed away since he bade good-bye to Valmai on the quay at Fordsea. What had been her fate since then? How had she borne his long and unexplained absence and silence? And as he paced up and down the deck he was full of troubled thought, as well as of bright hopes and anticipations.

"She must think me dead, but she will soon hear; in another week she will receive my letter, and, oh! I will make up to her in the future for all she may have suffered. Valmai, my darling! I am coming back to you, to kiss away your tears, and to shield you from every trouble in the future!"



CHAPTER XVII.

HOME AGAIN.

A cold, biting, north wind blew over Abersethin one morning in November, the sea tossed and tumbled its sand-stained waves in the bay, the wind carrying large lumps of yellow foam far up over the beach, and even to the village street, where the "Vicare du" was making a difficult progress towards the post-office, his hat tied firmly on, his hands buried deep in his pockets, and his long, black cloak flapping behind him. He walked on bravely. Every day he tramped over the sandy beach, under the cliffs, and down the village street to the post-office; this was quite a change in his habits, which drew many comments from the gossiping villagers.

"Well, well; he might have been kinder to his son when he had him with him; he'll never have the chance again," said Peggi "bakkare," peering through her tiny, foam-flecked window.

"No," said Madlen, who had come in for a loaf; "having got safe away 'tisn't likely the young man will turn up here again, and small blame to him considering everything."

"No, indeed, Madlen fach; serve the old Vicare right; but 'tis a pity for the poor girl, whatever."

"And where is she, I wonder?"

"Well, now," said Madlen, "Mary, my sister, was coming home from Caer Madoc last week, and on the roadside there was a tent of gypshwns; it was dark and they had a fire, and there, sitting by the fire, was a girl the very picture of Valmai."

"Dir anwl! I daresay it was her, indeed; but yet, I thought she was too much of a lady to join the gypshwns. Well, well; strange things do happen."

And the story of Valmai having been seen in the tent of the gypshwns was spread abroad in the village, not that any one believed it, but it was, at all events, better than no news, and was a little spicy condiment in the daily fare of gossip.

"My papers," said the "Vicare du" laconically to the postmaster. "Is your wife better?"

"Iss thank you, sir, and here is a letter for you—from Australia, I think."

The Vicar took it without any show of feeling, though his heart had given a sudden bound at the postman's news.

"Stormy day," he said, as he passed out of the narrow doorway.

He was longing to get home, but he would not hurry his step. He stopped and looked impatiently as he heard the postman call after him.

"There is another letter from Australia, sir, but I dunno where was I to send it. Here it is, sir." And he touched his hat apologetically as he handed a second letter to him.

"Yes; my son's handwriting, I see. I will take charge of it."

He gasped for breath, though the postman saw no sign of emotion, and, as he bent his head against the wind, he read the address on the second letter.

"Mrs. Caradoc Wynne, c/o Rev. Meurig Wynne, Brynderyn, Abersethin, Cardiganshire, Wales."

"Oh, my God, I thank Thee," were the only words that escaped the Vicar's lips while he hurried home through the brewing storm, the letters clutched in his hand and pressed against his breast; but these words were repeated several times.

At last, in the quiet of his study, he opened his son's letter and hungrily devoured every word of its contents twice over. After its perusal he took up the second letter, and, with visible emotion, poured over every line of the address, turning the envelope over and over, and pondering in deep but silent thought, from which Betto's knock, announcing dinner, startled him.

As he stood for a moment to say grace, before sitting down to his meal, Betto raised her eyes to his face, and was so startled by the changed and softened look that, with round eyes of surprise, she asked:

"Mishtir bach! what is it?"

"Mr. Cardo is coming home."

And Betto, quite overcome, plumped herself down on the sofa, throwing her apron over her head and shedding some surreptitious tears of sympathy; while the Vicar, forgetting his dinner, recounted to her the chief incidents of his son's absence—his long illness, and subsequent loss of memory—Betto following the tale with a running accompaniment of ejaculations.

"And this, Betto," said her master, slowly laying the other letter on the table before her, "look at it—but I forgot you can't read English."

"Howyer bach! not I."

"Well, it is addressed to 'Mrs. Caradoc Wynne.' Did you know anything of this?"

Betto's face exhibited a succession of expressions, which followed each other like dissolving views, astonishment, indignation, fear of her master's displeasure, determination to champion Cardo in any course of combat, all ending in a broad grin of delight as she saw an unaccustomed curve on the Vicar's lips.

"Did I know it? No; if I had, I wouldn't have had words with so many people in the village. Oh! my boy, bach! didn't I always say he was a gentleman!" And her varied emotions culminated in a rain of tears.

"Twt, twt!" said the Vicar, clearing his throat, "no nonsense, Betto; bring me the potatoes."

And that meal was finished with more cheerfulness than had lightened up that dark old room for many a long year.

From that day forth the Vicar seemed to gain strength and gladness with every hour. He took long walks in his parish, and showed more tender sympathy with the ailments and troubles of his ancient congregation. The wonderful change in the "Vicare du" was the subject of remark at many a cottage hearth, and in many a roadside conversation.

"Oh! it's his son's coming home that has brightened him up so much; and John Jones, postmaster, says he took the other letter as meek as a lamb. But what has he done with it nobody knows. John Jones is saying that it has never been posted again, so he must have got it still."

"Well, well! how can he post it when nobody knows where Mrs. Caradoc Wynne is?"

"Mrs. Caradoc Wynne, indeed! Phrutt!"

* * * * * *

Early in the New Year, when the bare, brown hills had thrown off their mantle of snow, and the blue waters of the bay were glinting in the sunshine, and the starry, golden celandines looked up fearlessly from every bank and hedge, a heavily-laden carriage, drawn by a pair of strong horses, rolled along the dry, hard road from Caer Madoc towards Abersethin. Its occupants looked at every scene with interest, recalling reminiscences of former days at every turn of the road, and looking out eagerly for the chimneys of the village, which lay at the bottom of the valley.

The travellers were Cardo and Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Wynne. As the carriage left the firm, high road, and began to descend one of the stony lanes which led to the shores below, Cardo became silent and thoughtful; he had hitherto been the life of the party. Returning home in perfect health and spirits, he had given the rein to his fancy, and was full of buoyant hopes and joyful anticipations.

The Vicar, apprised of their coming, was watching at the gate—indeed, had been there more or less since breakfast, and it was now nearly noon.

Betto flew about with amazing agility, considering her size and weight, dusting a chair, smoothing her apron, shading her eyes with her hand, and peering towards the brow of the hill for some signs of their coming.

At last they arrived, and it would be useless to try to describe that happy meeting. The Vicar seemed overwhelmed with joy, not only to receive once more his beloved son, but also to clasp the hand of the brother whom he thought had been estranged from him for ever!

It was quite an hour or two before they had all calmed down.

"We sha'n't keep this fellow long with us," said Lewis Wynne, indicating Cardo with a jerk of his thumb; "he can scarcely take his eyes off that ramshackle old house up there on the cliff; naturally he is longing to see his wife. You must make no objection, Meurig."

"None. I have no wish to do so."

"Nellie and I," continued his brother, "are quite looking forward to see our niece—of course we make all allowance for the rhapsodies of a lover; but discounting all that, I really think, Meurig, he has found a pearl in that old, rough oyster-shell of a house."

"Wait a moment, Cardo," said his father, as he saw his son hunting about for his hat. "I am afraid I have a disappointment in store for you," and from his breast-pocket he drew out, and handed to Cardo, his own letter to Valmai.

Cardo's face blanched, as with trembling fingers he turned the envelope round and round.

"What is the meaning of this, father?" he asked at last an angry flush rising to his pale face, "Did I count too much upon your forgiveness when I asked you to give this to Valmai?"

"No, my dear boy, I would gladly have given it to her, and I grieve for your disappointment, but she has left this neighbourhood many, many months, and nobody knows where she has gone."

"Gone!" was all Cardo could exclaim, as he flung himself into a chair and hid his face in his hands.

"Yes. Much has happened since you left, and you may as well know it now. There is nothing to hide from your uncle and aunt?"

"No, no, tell me at once."

"Well, much had happened before she left."

Here Cardo started up excitedly.

"Why, she has gone to her Uncle John, of course. Where else should she go, dear innocent, without another friend in the world?"

The Vicar shook his head.

"She is not there, Cardo, for he died some months ago and left all his money to his niece."

But Cardo heard not the latter information. He was stunned by the news of old Captain Powell's death; he had never thought of this possibility, and was thrown into despair by the blow. Valmai wandering about the world friendless and alone! The thought was distracting, and in desperation he rushed out of the house.

"Poor fellow," said Lewis Wynne, "this is a terrible blow to him."

"Yes, yes, indeed! Perhaps he will be able to get some clue in the village."

Cardo flew over the beach and up the well-known path to Dinas. Shoni was standing in the farm-yard.

"Caton pawb! wass it you, Cardo Wynne?" he said. "Well, I was swear to make you feel the weight of my fist; but if the news is true that Valmai is marry to you, I will shake hands instead."

Cardo wrung his hand.

"Yes, yes, man, she is my wife, safe and sound—but where is she? Tell me for heaven's sake where has she gone?"

"Well, indeed, that I donno—Essec Powell donno—an' nobody know. You look here now," said Shoni, "an' if you listen to me you will see everything quite plain. After you gone away Valmai wass go down to Fordsea to take care on her uncle, John Powell. He wass broke his leg, and when he cum better Valmai cum back to Dinas."

"Well," said Cardo, "what then? Tell me in Welsh, you'll get on quicker."

But Shoni indignantly declined to give up the language which he considered he had so completely mastered.

"What then!" he continued severely, "you know very well what then. It wass three or four months before she cum back from Fordsea, and she wass look pale and thin and every day more like a spirit angel. Well, everybody see very soon what wass the matter with her, and at last somebody told Essec Powell. It was just the same time Captain Powell died, and when Essec Powell cum home from the funeral and find out his brother leave all his money to Valmai he go to chapel and somebody tell him about Valmai—"

"What about Valmai?" said Cardo.

"That she was gone, like many another, over the side of the path."

"For heaven's sake, tell me what are you driving at?"

"I am telling you if you wass quiet and let me alone. That night Essec Powell cum home from chapel in a devil of temper, and he call Valmai a thief to steal his brother's money from him, and worse names than that, an' he turn her out of the house that night, pwr thing, pwr thing!"

Cardo groaned and clenched his fists.

"Well! the wind wass blowing, and the snow wass fallin' shockin', and I could not let her carry her big bundle of clothes and she in the condition she wass—"

"Condition?" gasped Cardo, "what do you mean?"

Shoni looked at him with keen, searching eyes.

"Cardo Wynne," he said, "I wass ussed to think you an honest, straightforward man, though you wass a churchman, and are you mean to tell me now that you donno that Valmai Powell have a small child on the 30th June last year?"

"As God is my witness, Shoni, this is the first breath I have heard of such a thing; but she was my wife, why then should her uncle have turned her out?"

"But she nevare tell us that, see you, she nevare speak a word about that, and only now lately Betto have told that the Vicare wass tell her she was marry to you! and everybody is wonder why she didn't tell before, instead of bear the nasty looks and words of the women. Oh! I can tell you Gwen here look pretty flat when she hear the news she wass married, and I did laugh in the corner of my mouth, 'cos she bin so nasty to Valmai. Well! I went with her over the Rock Bridge, and we go to Nance's cottage, and she cry, and Nance cry, and there I leave them, and the next morning before the sun is thinking to get up, I take her box and the rest of her clothes over in a boat, and she and Nance kom out early to meet me—and for long time nobody knew she wass there—and there her small child wass born. Here, sit down, sir, on my wheelbarrow; this news is shake you very much, I see."

Cardo felt compelled to take the proffered seat on the wheelbarrow, so completely overcome was he by Shoni's information.

"Go on, Shoni," he said, "make haste."

"Well! she wass walk up and down the shore, and always looking out over the sea; the sailors wass often watch her. 'She may look and look,' they say, 'but he will nevare kom back!' And at last her child die."

"Oh, God," said Cardo, "Valmai to suffer all this and I not with her!"

"Where wass you, then?" said Shoni, "and why you not kom back?"

"Because I was ill in hospital. I caught typhoid fever, and I had concussion of the brain, and I lay unconscious for many long weeks, nay, months. As soon as I came to myself, Shoni, I came home, and I often wished I had the wings of the birds which flew over the ship, and would reach land before us!"

"Well, well, well," said Shoni, "I dunno what wass that illness you had, but it must be very bad by the name of it; but whatever, my advice to you is, go to Nance, perhaps she will tell you something, though she won't tell nobody else."

"Yes, yes, I am going at once. Thank you, Shoni; you have been kind to her, and I can never forget it." And he jumped up and unceremoniously left his companion staring after him.

"Diwx anwl!" said Shoni, returning to his Welsh, "he goes like a greyhound; good thing I didn't offer to go with him!"

Cardo made short work of the green slopes which led down to the valley, and shorter still of the beach below. He jumped into a boat with a scant apology to Jack Harris, the owner, who with a delighted smile of recognition, and a polite tug at his cap, took the oar and sculled him across.

"I am looking for my wife, Jack, so don't expect me to talk."

"No, indeed, sir, I have heard the strange story, and I hope you will find her, and bring the pretty young lady back with you, sir; she was disappear from here like the sea mist."

Nance was perfectly bewildered when Cardo appealed to her for information, and her delight at his return to clear her darling's name knew no bounds. She brought out her best teacups, settled the little black teapot in the embers, and gradually drew her visitor into a calmer frame of mind.

His questions were endless. Every word that Valmai had said, every dress she had worn, every flower she had planted in the little garden were subjects of interest which he was never tired of discussing.

But of deeper interest than flowers or dresses was Nance's account of the tiny angel, who came for a short time to lighten the path of the weary girl, and to add to her difficulties.

"And she gave it up so meekly, so humbly, as if she could see the beautiful angels who came to fetch it. It laid there on the settle in its little white nightgown, and she was sitting by it without crying, but just looking at it, sometimes kissing the little blue lips. Dr. Francis was very kind, and did everything about the funeral for her. It is buried up here in the rock churchyard, in the corner where they bury all the nameless ones, for we thought he had no father, you see, sir, and we knew it was unbaptised. She would not have it christened. She was waiting for you to come home, for she would not tell its name, saying, 'Baby will do for him till his father comes home,' and 'Baby' he was, pertws bach."

Cardo sat listening, with his hands shading his eyes.

"And now, here's the directions, sir," she said, as Peggi Bullet returned from the well. "Here you, Peggi fach, you are so nimble, you climb up the ladder and bring the old teapot down."

And the nimble woman of seventy soon laid before them the old cracked teapot, out of which Nance drew the same faded address which she had once shown to Valmai.

"It is horribly faint," said Cardo, a fresh tremor rising in his heart.

"Here it is now," said Nance, placing her shrivelled finger on the paper. "This is where she went from here, when all this trouble came upon her, and everybody pointed the finger of scorn at her; and when she had given up the hope that you would ever come back, sir, she turned to her sister, dear child!"

"I never knew she had a sister!"

"No, nor she didn't know much about her; but I knew, and I told her. Born the same time they were, and a grand lady, who was lodging at Essec Powell's at the time, took the sister away with her, and brought her up as her own daughter, and we have never heard of her since. 'But I will find her, Nance,' she said. 'I will find her! I know I will!'"

"But have you never heard from her?"

"Well, indeed, there was a letter," said Nance, "came soon after she left. Dr. Francis read it to me, and I think I put it in that teapot, but I am not sure; indeed, perhaps Peggie has thrown it away."

"And what did she say?"

"'Oh!' she said, 'I have found my sister, Nance, and you must not be unhappy about me, everybody is so kind to me. If anyone comes to ask for me, say I am here,' but she didn't say where!"

"But the address was at the top of the letter," said Cardo.

"Oh, anwl! I daresay it was. I never thought of that! There's a pity now; but try again to read that—she read it."

"Well, let me see," said Cardo, taking the faded paper to the window.

"Mrs. Besborough Power?"

"That's it!" said Nance.

"Carew?"

"No; that's not right."

"Carne?"

"Yes; that's what she called it."

"Montgomeryshire?"

"No; she wrote there and the letter was sent back."

"Then it must be Monmouthshire!"

And with this scant information, and a very heavy heart, Cardo left the cottage, and, telling Jack Harris to meet him at the other side of the island, he made his way up the path which led to the little burying-ground behind the Rock Church.

"Poor fellow!" said Peggi Bullet, looking after him, "you can't measure sorrow by the length of a man."

He stepped over the low wall which divided it from the coarse grass of the cliffs, and immediately found himself in a sunny corner. The little grassy mounds were numerous, few had headstones; but one, marked by a little white cross, had evidently received much care and attention. The grass was soft and fine as velvet. Cardo approached it with sorrowful reverence; he stooped to read the inscription.

"In memory of Robert Powell ——. Born, June 30th. Died, August 30th."

The blank space puzzled him for a moment, but, as he stood with folded arms looking down at the little mound, a sudden revelation seemed to flood his mind and enlighten him more thoroughly than all that he had hitherto heard and done. She had kept faithfully—ah, too faithfully—her promise to hide the secret of their marriage until he should come himself to reveal it. How selfish, how thoughtless he had been. Was it possible that his first letter to her, as well as his last, might have miscarried? What had she not suffered? Alone, friendless, disgraced in the eyes of the world. Motherhood, death, the bitterness of feeling herself deserted—all—all had been tasted by her for whom he would willingly have laid down his life; and he registered a solemn vow that the devotion and love of his whole life should henceforth shield her and guard her from every sorrow as far as in him lay.

He turned away from the little grave with a curious yearning in his heart. His own and Valmai's child! Strange and new feelings awoke within him as he crossed the rocky ridge running through the island, and began his way down to the other side to the scattered fishing village, where Jack Harris met him and quickly rowed him across to Abersethin.

Here his first visit was to the stone-cutter's.

Morris Jones received him with the usual exclamations.

"Howyr bach! well, well! there's glad I am to see you, sir!" And he shook Cardo's hand vigorously. "And, oh, dear, dear; there's sorry I am you didn't come sooner, sir, before the poor young leddy went away. She was broke her heart too much to stop after her small child was buried—and a beautiful boy he was too, sir, the very picture of you."

"You cut that inscription on the little cross, Morris?"

"Iss, sir, I did; with my own hands, and I don't think you get it better done—no, not in Paddington itself."

"No—it is excellent. But the gap after 'Robert Powell'; you must add 'Wynne' to it at once."

"That's it, sir, that's it! before next Sunday it shall be done. I hope you will find the young leddy, sir."

"My wife, Morris."

"Iss, iss, sir; there's glad I was to hear that."

And, as Cardo left, and passed through the rest of the village, the same warm wish followed him from many a cottage window, and from every group of fishermen whom he passed on the way.

"He has not forgotten his pleasant manners, whatever," said the men, as he greeted them all with his usual frank and genial smile.

"No; nor he hasn't lost his good looks," said the women. "Though, indeed, his heart must be heavy now, druan bach." [1]

"Well," said the Vicar next morning, as Cardo drove off to Caer Madoc to catch the train at the nearest station, "I mustn't grumble at losing him so soon; he is doing the right thing, poor fellow, and I hope in my heart he may find his wife and bring her home. What a happy party we shall be! The only thorn in my flesh will be Essec Powell; I don't think I can ever get over my dislike to that man."

"Oh, nonsense," said his brother, "let us all three go up there to-day, and take the bull by the horns, and make friends with him."

And after breakfast, the Vicar, though with a bad grace, buttoned up his long black coat, and took his way, accompanied by his brother and his wife, up the steep path to Dinas.

It was an early hour certainly, not yet eleven o'clock; but "calling" was unknown at Abersethin, and it was not the unseasonableness of the hour which made Shoni stare as the three visitors entered the "clos" or farm-yard.

"Well, diwedd anwl!" he said, barely escaping an oath, "here's the 'Vicare du'! I know him by his coat tails, and his tallow face, and no doubt that is Lewis Wynne and his wife with him;" (for village gossip had already spread abroad the news of the arrivals at Brynderyn). "Well, indeed," he continued, "the preacher on Sunday night told us the end of the world was coming, and now I believe it!" and he put down his wheel-barrow, and stood stock still while the visitors approached.

"Borau-da!" [2] said the Vicare, in a constrained voice.

"Borau-da," was all Shoni's answer, and seeing a dogged look come into his face, Lewis Wynne took the lead in the conversation.

"How are you, Shoni? Do you remember the jolly day we had, you and I, out fishing when we ought to have been at school?"

"Yes, I do indeed, sir, and the lot of fish we caught."

"Yes, and the thrashing we got for it afterwards! But we want to see your master, Shoni."

"Essec Powell?"

"Yes—Essec Powell, is he too busy?"

Shoni hid his face behind his sleeve, while he indulged in a cackle.

"Has he company, then?"

"Oh, very good company—plenty of company! he got Taliesin—Owen Glyndwr—Iolo Morganwg and all the rest of them! and he's quite happy in their company. But once he comes down to live with us he's as rough and prickly as a birch-broom. Indeed he wass nevver used to be like this whatever; 'tis ever since his brother John die, and leave all his money to Valmai."

"You must try to call her Mrs. Caradoc Wynne now, Shoni," said the Vicar, with a smile.

"Yes, indeed, sir," said Shoni, quickly thawing; "there's nobody in Abersethin but won't be glad to see Val—Mrs. Wynne home again; it bin very dull here without her, ever since she gone away."

Meanwhile Mrs. Wynne had knocked at the door and had been confronted by Essec Powell himself, who presented such an extraordinary appearance that she had some difficulty in composing her face to a proper degree of gravity. His trousers of brown cloth, burnt at the knees into a green hue, were turned up above each ankle, exhibiting his blue woollen stockings and a tattered pair of black cloth shoes, his coat was of black cloth, very much frayed at the collar and cuffs, his white hair flew about in all directions, as the draught from the back door swirled in when the front door was opened. He had his finger in the leaves of an old book, and with a far-away look in his blue eyes, all he could say was a bewildered, "Eh!"

"The Vicar is coming to see you, Mr. Powell—"

"What Vicar? What, the 'Vicare du'?" and at this moment the Vicar appeared, and held out his hand.

Essec Powell stared in astonishment, and carefully exchanging his book from his right to his left hand, and glancing to see that his finger was on the right passage, he rather ungraciously shook hands with his visitor.

"Well," he said, "there's a thing I never thought I would do in this world."

"Oh, well, come," said Lewis Wynne's jovial voice. "You meant to do it in the next world evidently, so we may as well begin here."

"Will you come in?" and the old man awkwardly ushered them into the little back parlour, which Valmai's busy fingers had transformed from its original bareness into a cosy home-room.

"Oh, what a dear little room," said Mrs. Wynne as she entered.

The table was littered with books and papers, a gleam of sunlight shining through the crimson curtains giving a warm glow to the whole room.

"Yes," said Essec Powell, looking round with the air of a stranger, "it has nice bookshelves, and a nice light for reading; but I miss that girl shocking, shocking," he repeated; "got to look out for every passage now, and I was used to her somehow, you see; and I haven't got anybody else, and I wish in my heart she would come back again."

"That, I am afraid," said the Vicar, "can never be; perhaps both you and I, Mr. Powell, have forgotten too much that, while we are going down the stream of life, the young people are going up, and are building their own hopes and interests; and I called to-day to see whether we could not agree—you and I—to think more of the young people's happiness for the future, and less of our own ease or our own sorrows."

"It's very well for you to talk," said Essec Powell. "You are a rich man—I am poor; everything you see here belongs to Shoni, and it is very hard that Valmai should have all my brother's money, and I be left with none."

"I think it is hard," said Mr. Lewis Wynne, "and as my nephew will be a very wealthy man, I am certain that he and his wife will be willing to pay you every year the amount which you lost by your brother's will."

"You think that?" said Essec Powell; "150 pounds a year—you think they would give me that?"

"I am sure they would; in fact, I can give you my word for it."

"Well, indeed," he said, laying his book upside down carefully on the table, "that will make me a happy man. I can soon pay off Shoni, and then I can sleep at night without feeling that my servant is my master; and, more than all, I can give all my time to my book that I am writing."

"What is it?" said the Vicar, no longer able to restrain his interest in the old books which littered the table.

"Well, it is the history of our own county from as far back as I can trace it; and, oh! you wouldn't believe," he said, "how many interesting facts I have gathered together. I was not meant for a preacher, and I am getting too old and worn-out to travel about the country. I would like to give up preaching and spend all my time with my books. And with 150 pounds a year! Why, I would be a prince indeed!"

"Well, you may tell your congregation next Sunday," said Lewis Wynne, "that they had better take heed to their own ways now, for that you are going to retire from the ministry."

"And thank God for that," said Essec Powell; "it will be enough for me to look after my own wicked ways. Indeed, I feel I am not fit to teach others ever since I turned Valmai out of the house."

"I see you have here 'Mona Antiqua,'" said the Vicar. "I have a copy in very good preservation, and I am sure I might be able to give you a good many interesting facts for your book gathered from some old MSS. which I found stowed away in the old church tower."

"Can you, now? can you, indeed?"

And the two antiquarians bent with deep interest over the musty books on the table.

Two hours slipped away very pleasantly to the two old men before the visitors took their departure.

At the door Essec Powell held Lewis Wynne's hand for a moment.

"Do you think the little gel will forgive me? and do you think the young fellow will find her?"

"Yes, I think he will; and if all he says of her be true, I am sure she will forget and forgive the past. Of course, you had some excuse, in the mystery and doubt surrounding her at the time."

"Two hours you bin there," said Shoni, as they passed him in the yard. "I wass just kom in to see if you wass all asleep. Good-bye, sir."

He touched his hat respectfully to the Vicar; and as he returned to the house to dinner he muttered to himself several times:

"End of the world! I am sure of it! End of the world!"



[1] Poor fellow.

[2] Good-morning.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE VELVET WALK.

"Are you going out so late, dear?" said Mrs. Power, as she crossed the hall, where Gwladys was reaching a wrap from some hooks on the wall.

"Yes, auntie, such a lovely evening—quite like spring; I can't resist it. I will put on the cloak Valmai left, and I shall be quite warm."

"Yes, and the very image of her," said Mrs. Power, looking after her through the glass of the front door.

It was one of those tender evenings that visit us sometimes at the beginning of the year to remind us that spring is not far distant, and to make us forget that the cold March winds are yet in store for us. Gwladys drew the red hood over her head and walked briskly in the direction of the lake, which lay buried in the fir wood behind the house.

The path which led towards it was called "The Velvet Walk," being overgrown with a carpet of moss. The sun had just set, and the pale blue sky was cloudless and serene as on a summer evening; but here, in the shadow of the trees, the darkness was falling fast.

Over the fir tree tops one golden star hung like a jewel in the sky. Gwladys walked with face upturned and eyes fixed upon its sparkling brilliancy, and so lost was she in admiration of its beauty, that she was quite unconscious of a hurrying figure who followed close upon her steps.

It was Cardo, who, as he walked along the drive towards the house, had caught sight of a gleam of scarlet between the fir trees.

"Valmai!" he said, with a bound of the heart, and a flood of love and happiness taking the place of the anxious doubts which had filled him since his return home.

He hastened past the front of the house and entered "The Velvet Walk" to find the scarlet cloak but a little way in front of him, and Valmai, as he thought, walking with gaze upturned to the brilliant evening star.

"At last, my darling!" he said, but softly, for he would surprise her. He would approach nearer and call her name, and then she would turn, and he would see the love-light in those starry eyes, of which he had dreamed at night and longed for by day. He was close upon her, but his footsteps made no sound on the velvet carpet.

"Valmai!" he said at last, and stood with wide-open arms and a rapturous smile on his lips.

But at the sound of his voice the girl darted forward a few steps before she turned round and faced the stranger. Her first look was of astonishment and fright, immediately followed by one of indignation.

"Valmai, my darling, I have frightened you," he said, but dropping his arms and the smile dying out of his face; for before the girl had opened her lips to speak, he saw the flush of indignation and the haughty look which passed over her face.

"Back!" she said, holding up her hand as if to keep him away; "not a step nearer. And what if I am Valmai? What is she to you after all these months of cruel neglect?"

Cardo stood still. Was this the meeting he had pictured to himself a thousand times? Had her troubles unhinged her mind? Was she distraught?

"What is it, Valmai, my darling, that has changed you so? What is that cold, haughty look on your face? I am Cardo, dearest—your own Cardo! come back to explain everything to you, and to clasp you in his loving arms," and again he approached as if to embrace her.

"Stand back," said Gwladys once more. "If you come a step nearer, I will call for help from the house."

"No, no," said Cardo, "do not do that. I will obey you, dearest; but tell me what is the meaning of this change in you? Oh, Valmai! has your love indeed perished? Have you forgotten the happy past, the walks by the Berwen, the fortnight at Fordsea? I have been ill, dearest—have lain unconscious for months in a hospital; but I swear that, from the moment I left you until now, every conscious thought, every fibre of my being, every chord of memory has been faithful to you, and to you alone! Come and sit on this bench. Five minutes will explain all to you, and I will not believe that my Valmai can have become the cold and heartless girl you seem to be."

But Gwladys continued standing, and looking at him with eyes in which scorn and contempt were but too plainly visible.

"Good heavens, Valmai!" said Cardo, with clenched hands, the cold sweat breaking out on his face; "do you remember it is a man's very soul you are trifling with? Do you know what a man's heart is? what his love means—such love as mine?"

"Such love as yours!" said Gwladys coldly. "Such love, indeed! that could lead an innocent girl into the path of deceit and dishonour; that could leave her then to bear desertion and the cold scorn of the world, alone and friendless; and now to return, and expect to find her unchanged and still blinded to the truth!"

"Valmai!" said Cardo, his hot Welsh blood suffusing his dark face with passion, "you could never have loved me. Do the strong bonds that united us count for nothing? Does that little green mound in the churchyard count for nothing? No! you never could have loved me; and yet—you did!"

"If I ever did," said Gwladys, "the love is dead. I feel no more interest in you now than I do in yonder ploughman."

"Girl, you are my wife," said Cardo, who was trembling with a mixture of anger and wounded love. "You are mine by every law of God and man, and I will not let you go." Then suddenly changing into a tone of excited entreaty, he said, "Come, darling, trust me once more, and I will bring back the light of love into those frozen eyes, and I will kiss back warmth into those haughty lips."

"Away!" said Gwladys.

"Do you wish, then, never to see me again?"

"Never!" she said. "My greatest wish is never to see you or hear of you again!"

Cardo sank on the garden seat, feeling himself more perfectly unmanned than he had ever been before. He had built such fair castles of hope, the ruin was so great; he had dreamt such dreams of happiness—and the awakening was so bitter!

Gwladys saw the storm of feeling which had overwhelmed him, and for a moment her voice softened.

"I am sorry for you," she said; "but I have given you my answer."

The slight tone of tenderness in her voice seemed to restore Cardo to life. He crossed the velvet path, and, laying hold of her hands, which she in vain tried to wrest from his grasp.

"You are mine!" he said, "and I challenge heaven and earth to take you from me!"

"It is base and dishonourable," said Gwladys, still struggling in his grasp, "to frighten a friendless girl and force your presence upon her."

But Cardo's grasp was suddenly relaxed. Dropping his arms at his sides, and going back a step or two, he stood aside to let her pass. His long-tried temper had over-mastered him, as with a scornful voice he spoke for the last time.

"One word before you go—dishonourable! not even you shall call me that twice. Some strange cloud is over you—you are not the same Valmai that walked with me beside the Berwen. You cannot kill my love, but you have turned it to-night into gall and bitterness. I will never intrude my presence upon you again. Go through life if you can, forgetting the past; I will never disturb the even tenor of your way. And if, in the course of time, we may cross each other's paths, do not fear that I, by word or sing, will ever show that we have met before."

"I hold you to that promise," said Gwladys haughtily. And she passed on in the deepening twilight, under the fir trees, Cardo looking after her with an aching heart.

She met Mrs. Power on the stairs.

"You have been a long time, dear; I hope you haven't taken cold."

"Oh! no, I will be down directly; it must be near dinner-time."

She walked steadily up the broad staircase, and into her own room; but once there, she threw herself on the couch, and buried her face in the cushions.

"Oh! Valmai, my sister!" she sobbed, "what have I not borne for you to-night! I have kept to my determination; but oh! I did not know it would be so hard! You shall never more be troubled with this man; you are beginning to find peace and joy in life, and you shall never again be exposed to his cruel wiles. But oh! Valmai, having seen him I forgive you; he can pretend to be passionately and truly in love with you! but he is false, like every other man! He left you in despair and disgrace; or what did he mean by 'the little mound in the churchyard'? Oh! Valmai, what have you suffered? But now I have saved you, darling, from further temptation from him. God grant my cruel deception may bear good fruit for you, my sister!"

It was late on the evening of the next day when Cardo reached Caer Madoc, and, hiring a carriage from there, was driven over the old familiar road to Abersethin. The wind blue keenly over the brown, bare hills, the grey clouds hurried from the north over the pale evening sky, one brilliant star shone out like a golden gem before him. Once he would have admired its beauty, now the sight of it only awoke more poignantly the memory of his meeting with Valmai in the "Velvet Walk," and with a frown he withdrew his gaze from it. Here was the spot where he had first seen her! here was the bridge upon which they had shared their ginger-bread! and oh! cruellest of all sounds, there was the Berwen gurgling and lisping below, as though there were no breaking hearts in the world!

On the brow of the hill they saw the lights of Brynderyn.

"I will get out here," he said; "you need not drive down these rough roads; I shall enjoy the walk." And as he paid his fare, the driver wondered "what had come to Mr. Cardo Wynne, who was used to be such a jolly young man! That voyage to Owstrallia done him no good whatever!" And as he turned his carriage round, he muttered to himself, with a shake of his head, "I heard some odd story about him and that purty young niece of Essec Powell's the preacher."

Arrived at Brynderyn, Cardo found his father and uncle and aunt seated round a blazing fire in the old parlour, which had not looked so cheerful for years. They had been recalling old memories and events of the past, and when Cardo's footsteps were heard in the passage, they turned with expectant eyes towards the door. When he entered the room, pushing his fingers through his hair as was his habit, he was silent and grave.

"Well, well!" said the whole party at once, "have you found Valmai?"

"Yes, father, I have found my wife," he answered, in measured and serious tones; "but she is unforgiving, and refuses to have anything more to say to me. In fact, I have heard from her own lips that she no longer loves me! There is nothing more to be said. I have come back to my old home, to work again on the farm, to try to pick up the threads of my past life, and to make your life happier for my presence."

"Cardo, my dear boy," said the old man, rising as if in reverence for his son's grief, "is this possible? I do indeed feel for you."

"Oh, nonsense," said Lewis Wynne, "it is only a lover's quarrel; you will make it up before long. I will go to the girl, and make it all right for you."

"If you wish to do me a kindness, uncle, and you, too, dear aunt, you will never mention the subject to me or to anyone else. It is a thing of the past; let us bury it out of sight and hearing."

"We will do what you wish, my dear boy; but I am afraid, amongst these gossiping villagers, you will often hear the subject alluded to in joke or in earnest."

"Oh! I quite expect that," said Cardo, with an attempt at a laugh, but it was a sorry attempt. "I am not going to play the role of a love-sick swain, my grief will be buried too deep for a careless touch to reach it, and I hope I shall not forget I am a man. I have also the comfort of knowing that my sorrow is the consequence of my misfortunes and not of my faults."

Soon things seemed to fall into the old groove at Brynderyn, as far as Cardo and his father were concerned, except that that which had been wanting before, namely, a warm and loving understanding between them, now reigned in both their hearts, and sweetened their daily intercourse. The west parlour and all the rooms on that side of the house, which had been unused for so many years, were opened up again, and delivered over to the care of Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Wynne, who kept their own establishment there, thus avoiding the necessity of interfering with Meurig Wynne's eccentric habits, and still enabling them to meet round the cheerful hearth in the evening, or whenever they chose.

As for Cardo, he threw all his energies into the busy work of the farm—the earliest in the field in the morning, the latest to leave it at night, nothing was too small for his supervision, no work was too hard for him to undertake; and though he declared he was well, quite well, still, it was evident to those around him that he was overtaxing his strength. The flashing light had gone out of those black eyes, the spring from his gait, the softness from his voice. He paid frequent visits to Nance's cottage, always returning across the corner of the churchyard. The stone-cutter had kept his promise, and had added the surname of "Wynne" on the little cross, and Cardo read it over and over again, with a sort of pleasurable sorrow. The banks of the Berwen he avoided entirely, the thought of wandering there alone was intolerable to him. Every bird which sang, every flower that nodded at him, the whispering river, everything would ask him, "Where is Valmai?" And what answer could he give to his own aching heart which echoed the question, "Where is Valmai? Gone—worse than gone! changed, she whom I thought was the counterpart of my own unchangeable nature. No, no, anywhere but by the banks of the Berwen!" And he plodded on at his work, doing his best to regain the placid calmness, though not the bright joyousness of his life, before he met Valmai. But in vain; the summer found him languid and depressed in spirits. It was Shoni who first suggested to him the idea of a change of scene and companionship. A strange friendship had grown up between these two men. Shoni had been kind and tender to Valmai in her sorrow, and seemed to belong to the bright, happy past which was gone for ever.

"Where that Mr. Gwynne Ellis wass ussed to be with you at Brynderyn? Very good sort, indeed! Why you not go and stop with him a bit, and bring him back here with you?"

Cardo thought the matter over silently, while Shoni whittled a stake for a hay band.

"I think I will, Shoni; I feel I must go away from here for a time."

"Yes, you so rich there's no need for you to work like you do."

"No—that's the worst of it," said Cardo; "I feel my hard work is benefiting nobody."

"Iss, benefit you, cos it help to fill your mind."

"Yes, but I am tired of myself," and Cardo heaved a deep sigh. "Well, it's no use grumbling and grunting, Shoni, and if you don't see me about next week you will know where I am gone to."

"Yes—but, indeed, I am thinking Essec Powell will miss you. He think now s'no one like you in the world, 'he help me a lot, Shoni,' he say, 'with his Latin and his Greek,' and the Vicare, he says, 'it wass wonderful how many books he got on his shelfs!' and indeed I think," continued Shoni, "the two old men will live much longer now they got their noses over the same old book so often!"

"I hope so," said Cardo, "and I am glad to think that the provision we have made for him has taken the sting out of his brother's 'will.'" And he went homewards as broad-shouldered and as handsome as ever, but not whistling or humming as was his wont.

His father, who saw how utterly his son was failing in his endeavour to regain his peace of mind, fell in with his proposal of a visit to Gwynne Ellis with great willingness.

"The very thing, Cardo, and bring him back with you if you can; he was a nice fellow on the whole in spite of his radical ideas."

Once more Cardo took his way from Caer Madoc to the little wayside station which connected that secluded neighbourhood with the busy, outside world. He had written to Gwynne Ellis to inform him of his coming, and had received a warm and welcoming answer to his letter.

"Come, my dear fellow; I shall be delighted to receive you in my diggings, and bring some of the poetry and charm of your lovely neighbourhood with you if you can, for this place is flat, and dull, and gray. But, by the by, I haven't told you I am likely to be removed very soon to a good, fat living, old boy, near Monmouth—but I will tell you all about it when we meet."

Gwynne Ellis's present abode was on the borders of Gloucestershire, and here Cardo found him waiting for him at the station.

"It's only a mile, and I thought you would like a walk, so I have told the boy to fetch your luggage in the donkey cart."

"A walk will be very acceptable after sitting all day cooped up in a railway-carriage."

"Well, now, tell me all about your wife. You know I have heard nothing since that one letter you wrote after you turned up again. What adventures you have had, my dear fellow! and wasn't Valmai overjoyed to see you back again?"

"No, Ellis, and that is all I can say to you now. It is a long story, and I would rather wait until later in the evening."

"All right, old fellow, in the smoking-room to-night."

And in the smoking-room that night they sat late, Cardo opening his heart to his friend, recounting to him the tale of his unfortunate illness in Australia, his return home, and the unexpected blow of Valmai's unrelenting anger and changed feelings towards him, culminating in her utter rejection of him, and refusal to live with him.

"Astounding!" said Gwynne Ellis, "I will not believe it. It is a moral impossibility that that loving nature and candid mind, could ever so change in their characteristics, as to refuse to listen to reason, and that from the lips of one whom she loved so passionately, as she did you."

"That is my feeling," said Cardo, "but alas! I have her own words to assure me of the bitter truth. 'If I ever loved you,' she said, 'I have ceased to do so, and I feel no more love for you now, than I do for yonder ploughman.' In fact, Ellis, I could not realise while I was speaking to her that she was the same girl. It was Valmai's lovely outward form, indeed, but the spirit within her seemed changed. Are such things possible?"

Ellis puffed away in silence for some seconds before he replied:

"Anything—everything is possible now-a-days; there is such a thing as hypnotism, thought transference—obsession—what will you? And any of these things I will believe sooner, than that Valmai Wynne can have changed. Cheer up, old fellow! I was born to pilot you through your love affairs, and now here's a step towards it." And from a drawer in his escritoire he drew out an ordnance map of the county of Monmouth.

"Now, let me see, where lies this wonderful place, Carne Hall, did you call it? I thought so; here it is within two miles of my new church. In a month I shall be installed into that 'living,' and my first duty when I get there shall be to find out your wife, Cardo, and to set you right in her estimation."

"Never," said Cardo; "she has encased herself in armour of cold and haughty reserve, which not even your persuasive and cordial manners will break through."

"Time will show; I have a firm conviction, that I shall set things straight for you, so cheer up my friend, and await what the wonderful Gwynne Ellis can do for you. But you look very tired."

"Yes, I will go to bed," said Cardo.

"And to-morrow we'll have a tramp round the parish, and visit some of the old fogies in their cottage. A mongrel sort, neither Welsh nor English; not so interesting as your queer-looking old people down at Abersethin. Good-night."



CHAPTER XIX.

THE MEREDITHS

There is no part of Wales more rural and unspoilt by the inroads of what is called "civilisation" than some of the secluded valleys lying between the Radnorshire hills. Here Nature still holds her own, and spreads her pure and simple charms before us. Large tracts of moor and rushy fen are interspersed with craggy hills, rising one behind another in lovely shades of purple and blue; and far from the haunts of men, or at all events of town men, many acres of uncultivated land are still tenanted by the wild mountain pony and the picturesque gipsy. On the edge of one of these moors stood a quaint old family mansion, surrounded by extensive grounds and woods. In front lay a descending plain of varied beauty, green meadows, winding streams, and placid lakelets; behind it, the wild vales and moor stretched up to the brown and blue hills.

Colonel Meredith had lived there all his life, his ancestors before him, and here it was that Valmai had found a home as companion to the delicate eldest daughter of the family, who was delighted to find in her so congenial a friend. Her beauty had made a great impression upon the whole amiable family, as good looks often do upon people who cannot boast of the same advantages. It was a good thing that the girl had no vanity in her character, for her charms were continually brought before her in the household. Her pet name was "Beauty," and Colonel Meredith was fond of dilating upon her attractions of person wherever he went. Cecil, a boy of sixteen, was completely her slave, and considered himself the victim of a hopeless passion; while the girls vied with each other in their love and adulation of their friend, so Valmai led at least an outwardly calm and happy life. Her character had developed rapidly during the last two years, and she found herself, to her own surprise, possessed of a power of repression and a control over her emotions which she would have thought impossible a few years earlier. The memory of Cardo, the glamour of their rural courtship, the bliss of their honeymoon, his departure and her subsequent sorrows, were kept locked in the deepest recesses of her soul, and only recalled during the silent hours of the night. She had become less impatient of the stripes of sorrow; she had taken the "angel of suffering" to her heart with meek resignation, endeavouring to make of her a friend instead of an enemy, and she reaped the harvest always garnered by patience and humility. But forgotten? No, not a tender word—not a longing wish—not a bitter regret was forgotten! She seemed to lead two separate lives—one, that of the petted and admired friend of the Merediths; the other, that of the lonely, friendless girl who had lost all that made life dear to her. Gwladys's love alone comforted her, and the frequent visits which they paid to each other were a source of great happiness to both. Her invalid charge soon benefited much by her presence, and was really so far recovered that there was scarcely any further need for Valmai's companionship, but she was glad to stay on as a visitor and friend of the family. She was reading to Miss Meredith one evening in the verandah, when Gwen and Winifred came bounding up the steps from the lawn, hatless and excited.

"Oh, fancy, Beauty; we are going to have a visitor—a young man, too! a friend of Dr. Belton's in Australia; he is travelling about somewhere, and will come here to-morrow. Won't it be jolly? He writes to say he is bringing a note of introduction from Dr. Belton, who wished him to call and give us a personal account of him. I don't tell you, Mifanwy, anything about it, because you are quite above these things; but Winnie and I are looking forward to see Cecil's black looks when the stranger falls in love with Beauty, which he will do, of course!"

"When you stop to take breath I will ask a question," said the more sober Mifanwy. "What is the young man's name?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Gwen. "Papa stuffed the letter in his pocket, and he has driven off to Radnor, and won't be back till dinner to-morrow evening. Probably he will drive the young man with him from the station. Larks, isn't it? I hope he will be a good tennis player."

And she waltzed down the verandah as she went.

"What a girl!" said Mifanwy.

Valmai smiled pensively. The word "Australia" had wakened sad memories, which had to be controlled and driven back at once.

"Let us go in; it is getting late for you," she said.

And they passed through a French window into the unlighted drawing-room.

The next evening Colonel Meredith returned, and, as Gwen had foretold, brought with him the expected visitor. The girl ran excitedly into Valmai's room.

"He is awfully handsome, dear. I have just taken a peep at him through the hall window as he alighted. He'll be seated opposite to you at dinner, but next to me, and I mean to make the best of my opportunity. You'll see how charming I can be in spite of my plain face."

And off she went, singing as usual, to return in another moment and ask:

"What dress are you going to wear, Beauty? That soft white cashmere? Oh, you look sweet in that, but I bet you a button that I'll cut you out to-night."

As Valmai sat down at the dinner-table she was conscious that the stranger sat opposite to her, and, looking across at him, met the eyes of Cardo Wynne!

A sharp spasm darted through her heart, for at the moment in which she had met his gaze she had seen his look averted from her; and the long-cherished hopes of months and faith in his constancy, held to through so many discouraging circumstances, gave way at a glance, for well she knew that Cardo had recognised her, and at the same moment had avoided her eyes, and had turned to make a remark to his neighbour Gwen. She bent her head over some trifling adjustment of her waistband, while the hot flush of wounded love and pride rose to her face, to give place to a deathly pallor as she realised that this was the outcome of all her hopes and longings.

Fortunately the pink tints of the lamp-shade hid her face, and equally it befriended Cardo, for, on seeing before him Valmai in all the beauty with which his imagination and his memory had endowed her, he had felt his heart stand still and his face blanch to the lips. How he gained sufficient self-control to make a casual remark to his neighbour he never could understand, but he did; and while he was recalling the scene in "The Velvet Walk," and his promise to Valmai "that should he ever meet her again she need fear no sign of recognition from him," Gwen chattered on with volubility. All he heard was:

"Oh, you positively must fish, you know, for there is nothing else to be done here. One day you must fish, next day you ride or drive, next day you fish again; and that's all, except tennis. Winnie and I do nothing else. In the evening Beauty sings to us, and there's beautifully she sings. You'll be charmed with her voice—sweet, old Welsh airs, you know—"

"Hush, Gwen; stop that chatter. I want to ask Mr. Wynne something about Dr. Belton."

"Oh, papa! all the way from the station, and you didn't ask him about Dr. Belton!"

Cardo was thankful to have to talk to Colonel Meredith, for it enabled him to turn his head aside, though still he was conscious of that white figure opposite him, with the golden head and the deep blue eyes.

She had regained her composure, and was talking calmly to the curate, who was laying before her his plans for a Sunday school treat. It is one of the bitter trials of humanity that it has to converse about trifles while the heart is breaking. If only the tortured one could rush away to some lonely moor, there to weep and wail to his heart's content, the pain would not be so insufferable; but in life that cannot be, and Valmai smiled and talked platitudes with a martyr's patience.

In the drawing-room, after dinner, she buried herself in the old, red arm-chair, setting herself to endure her misery to the bitter end. When Cardo entered with Colonel Meredith, Cecil, and the curate, she had passed from agonised suffering to the cold insensibility of a stone. She knew she would wake again when the evening was over, and she was alone with her sorrow; but now she had but to bear and wait.

It would be impossible to describe Cardo's feelings; indeed, he felt, as he entered the room, and saw that white figure in the crimson chair, that he had already passed through the bitterness of death.

"Nothing more can hurt me," he thought; "after this I can defy every evil power to do me harm!" And he stood in his old attitude with his elbow leaning on the mantelpiece, while he answered Gwen's frivolous, and Winifred's sentimental, questions.

"Are you fond of music?" one of them said at last. "Yes? Oh! Beauty, dear, do come and sing to us—that sweet ballad you sing so often, you know—'By Berwen Banks'."

"Not to-night," said a soft voice from the armchair. "I am tired, Gwen. You sing, dear."

"Well, I'll sing that, if you won't."

And she sang it; and Valmai and Cardo, "so near and yet so far," estranged and miserable, listened to every word, which fell on their memories like searing drops of molten lead.

"By Berwen's banks my love has strayed For many a day in sun and shade; And when she carolled loud and clear The little birds flew down to hear.

"By Berwen's banks the storm rode high, The swollen river rushing by; And in its waves my love was drowned, And on its banks my love was found.

"I'll ne'er forget that leafy shade, I'll ne'er forget that winsome maid; But there no more she carols free, So Berwen's banks are sad to me!"

At the last words, during the acclamations of the family, Valmai rose, unable to bear more. There was a little cry and a soft fall by the side of the red chair, and she lay in a white, unconscious heap on the floor.

"Oh! Beauty, darling!" cried Gwen and Winifred, in a breath, while they flew towards her.

Cardo, too, had instinctively rushed towards the fallen figure. He lifted her in his strong arms as though she had been a feather-weight.

"Oh! thank you, Mr. Wynne," said Mrs. Meredith; "this way, please, to her own room at once, where we can lay her on the couch."

And with the whole family forming a queue behind them, even the curate standing on the mat at the bottom, Cardo bore her up the staircase and into the room which Mrs. Meredith indicated.

During a little distraction, caused by Gwen's pommelling of the sofa cushions, Cardo for a moment lost control over his feelings, and he pressed Valmai's form convulsively to his breast as he stooped to lay her down on the couch. He was quickly edged away by the fluttering womenkind who pressed round, each with her own restorative; a little sigh from Valmai told him that she was already recovering, and casting one lingering look of love on the white figure, he made his way downstairs, and joined the other gentlemen, who had straggled back into the drawing-room. He listened absently to the different conjectures as to what had caused Valmai's faint.

"Never knew her do such a thing before!" said Colonel Meredith. "Can't think what it was; but I do remember once she burst into tears when she was singing some old Welsh ballad—that very one, I think—yes—'By Berwen Banks'—strange coincidence!"

In a little while the ladies returned also. "She is all right now," they said, "and quite ashamed of herself; she has had a glass of wine and a biscuit, and insisted upon our leaving her—in fact, she turned us all out of the room and bolted the door."

"Isn't she a lovely girl, Mr. Jones?"

"Oh! yes, indeed—yes—very, indeed!" and Mrs. Meredith was delighted to have an excuse for dilating on her visitor's charms of person and character; while Cardo set himself to work to deliver himself of every message which Dr. Belton had entrusted to him.

He bore Colonel Meredith's cross-examination with unflinching patience, and even suggested fresh topics of inquiry, for, while he had carried Valmai up the stairs he had come to the determination to leave the house before he saw her again. The strain of the situation was more than he could bear. To live under the same roof with her, and not to claim her for his own was impossible—to adhere to the terms of his promise, never to allude to his former acquaintance with her was utterly beyond his power. "Base—dishonourable!" Could it have been Valmai who spoke to him in these terms? or was he the victim of some strange hallucination?

When at last the evening came to an end, he thankfully lighted his candle at the hall table, the whole family hovering round with various hopes that "he would sleep well," "that he didn't mind a feather-bed," "that he didn't mind the sun shining in in the morning." "You can close the shutters, you know. Good-night."

"What time does the post come in the morning?" he asked.

"Oh! at seven o'clock; you can have your letters brought up if you wish; but we always like to have them on our plates at breakfast. Bob will bring yours up."

"If it's no trouble," said Cardo.

There was a whole chorus of "certainly not!" "of course not!" under cover of which he made his way safely round the turning on the stair-case. He stepped wearily up the second flight of stairs; there was her room! and he groaned almost audibly as he turned into his own.

Inside that bolted door, a listening ear had caught every vibration of his footstep, every tone of his voice, and a tear-stained face was now raised in agonised prayer, over folded hands which held in their clasp a ring hung on a white satin ribbon.

The exclamations of disappointment and regret next morning, when Cardo's empty seat at the breakfast table disclosed their guest's absence, were loud as they were sincere.

"How unfortunate!" said Colonel Meredith. "I meant to have taken him out fishing to-day; there was a little rain in the night and the Ithon would have been perfect for trout to-day. Here's his note:—

"DEAR COLONEL MEREDITH—I am grieved to say that some unexpected circumstances necessitate my leaving your hospitable roof and returning home to Cardiganshire at once. I shall walk to the station and catch the 7.30 train. Please tender my heart-felt thanks to Mrs. Meredith, and all the other members of your family for their kindness and hospitality. I hope to call upon them at another time, and express my regrets and thanks in person.

"With many thanks to you also,

"I remain,

"Yours truly,

"CARADOC WYNNE."

Colonel Meredith was reading the last words as Valmai entered and took her place at the breakfast table.

"Isn't it a shame, Beauty," said Gwen. "Just as I was beginning to make a favourable impression upon him, too! There must have been something in the letter Bob took up to him this morning."

"Oh, of course," said her father; "fine young fellow—very!"

"Awfully handsome, I call him," said Winifred; "such a sparkle in his eyes!"

"Beauty wasn't smitten," said Gwen.

"On the contrary, she was so smitten she fainted," said Winnie; "you are still rather pale, dear. Papa, wouldn't it be a jolly day for a picnic by the Ithon?"

"Yes," said the Colonel; "bring your lunch down in the brake, and we'll light a fire by the carn, and broil the fish, for I am sure we shall get a basketful to-day—eh! eh! Cecil?"

"Yes—and the drive will do Miss Powell good," said the lad, who was in good spirits from having so easily got rid of Cardo.

And after breakfast they all drove off to the picnic, and Cardo's arrival and his departure were forgotten by all save one.



CHAPTER XX.

GWLADYS.

The week that followed Gwynne Ellis's induction to his new living had been too full of business to allow him to call upon his near neighbours, the most influential member of his congregation, Mrs. Besborough Power of Carne Hall; but soon afterwards he began to look around him and make acquaintance with his parishioners.

The Vicarage was large and his ideas of furnishing were limited, so that after arranging and rearranging every room in the house he still looked at them with a dissatisfied air.

"I don't know how it is, father; in spite of all this handsome furniture you have given me, there seems something wanting, doesn't there?"

"Don't see it," said the old man, "unless it is that wonderful piece of furniture—a wife—you want."

"Perhaps, but that will have to wait," and as he drew his handkerchief over the shining face of the sideboard he thought within himself, "Where shall I find one? There are not two Valmai's in the world, and I declare she has spoiled me for every other woman. By the by, I must call on Mrs. Besborough Power, and see if I can't bring her visitor into a better frame of mind."

The next day saw him entering the pleasant drawing-room at Carne Hall, where Mrs. Power was as usual dozing in her arm-chair, with a piece of wool-work in her hand, upon which she sometimes worked a few stitches while she purred a little remark to Gwladys, who sat nearer the window, making believe to work also. She had already remarked, "Auntie, this is the new Vicar, I am sure," when the door opened and Gwynne Ellis entered.

Having shaken hands with Mrs. Power, he turned to Gwladys with a smile of greeting.

"Valmai!" he said, "I beg pardon—Mrs.—"

"No," said Gwladys, drawing herself up, "I am Gwladys Powell, Valmai's sister—but do you know her?"

"Know her? well!" said Gwynne Ellis; "but I have never seen such an extraordinary likeness."

"Yes," said Mrs. Power, "they are twins, and apart, it is almost impossible to distinguish one from the other."

"Where is she?" he asked, "is she here?"

"No," answered Gwladys, "she has been here, but is now staying with some friends of ours in Radnorshire."

"Ah! I see, I am sorry; I should like to have seen her, but I can scarce say I miss her while you are present, for I certainly see no difference between you."

Gwladys was more talkative than usual. She and Mrs. Power were pleasantly impressed, and congratulated themselves upon having gained an agreeable addition to their very limited social circle in the person of their new Vicar.

"This is a charming neighbourhood. I saw by a little glint of sunshine, as I came up the drive, that you have a pond or lake in that firwood; and that is always tempting to an artist. Do you draw, Miss Powell?"

"Yes," said Gwladys. "My efforts are very humble, but I have one drawing of the lake." And she fetched it from a portfolio.

"Show him all your drawings, dear," said Mrs. Power; "or, better still, would you like to see the lake, Mr Ellis?"

"If it would not tire Miss Powell to show it me—"

"Oh, no! I can take you by it to the west gate, it will shorten your way home."

"But not yet, here is tea," said Mrs. Power; and they were soon chatting over all the parish news.

At last Ellis rose to go, and Gwladys, putting on a broad-brimmed straw hat, passed out before him through the window—Mrs. Power detaining them with endless directions as to where to stop, where to turn to look at the sun through the fir trees, where to look back for a view of the house, etc., etc.

"This walk is lovely," said Ellis, as he watched the graceful movements of his companion, who glided over the velvet carpet of moss with noiseless footsteps, reminding him of a guardian spirit who walked silently beside some hum-drum man of the world.

"I wonder Valmai never mentioned you to me," she said.

"Did she not?" he asked thoughtfully. "Did she never mention Abersethin, Brynderyn, and the Berwen?"

"No, they are all strange names to me, except Abersethin; she lived there after her return from Patagonia."

Ellis was lost in thought again. "I should like to have seen her; I have something important to discuss with her."

"She is coming here the week after next, and then you can speak to her about this interesting subject," said Gwladys.

And Ellis thought he saw a look of displeasure on the lovely face. Certainly he had never seen that in Valmai; but then, on the contrary, there was a high-souled nobility of purpose in his present companion's looks which was absent in Valmai.

"I daresay when I have seen her she will tell you about all these places."

"My sister shall do as she pleases," said Gwladys, a sweet smile chasing away the momentary look of anger; "it will make no difference in our love for each other—she is part of me, and the best part; I am part of her, and the worst part."

When they reached the west gate, both were surprised to find that half-an-hour had slipped away.

"I will bring my portfolio," said Ellis, as he took his leave, "and you will help me to find the best view of the lake."

During the next fortnight, Mrs. Power received frequent calls from the new Vicar; she was delighted with her neighbour, and did everything in her power to make his visits as pleasant to him as they were to herself. His paintings were a never-ending source of interest and admiration to her, and when he proposed to make a sketch of the lake, with its background of fir trees, and glint of blue sky, she was charmed with the idea, and almost every day she and Gwladys accompanied him down the "Velvet Walk" and settled him to his painting, and Gwladys was sent on frequent journeys of inspection during the afternoon.

"Go and see how he is progressing, dear." And she would go and linger over the picture with comments and praise; but it must be confessed that the drawing progressed more rapidly during her absence than during these visits of inspection.

One afternoon she came running down the "Velvet Walk" with an open letter in her hand, and a distressed look in her eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Ellis! such a disappointment! Valmai is not coming this week. She has been feeling unwell lately, and the doctor advises a thorough change for her, so she and Mifanwy Meredith are thinking of going to Switzerland. Hear what she says:—'Mifanwy is longing for the Swiss lakes and mountains, and wishes me to accompany her. I suppose I may as well do so; but I must first make a hurried journey down to Abersethin, and to see you on my way back. I hear from Dr. Francis that dear old Nance is very ill, and it will depend upon how I find her whether I go to Switzerland or not."

"Now, isn't that vexing! You would feel for me if you knew what Valmai is to me! I seem to love her with all the accumulation of love which had missed its object for so many long years before we met."

Gwynne Ellis was looking seriously into the distance.

"I do feel for you, Miss Powell; but don't think me a brute if I say I am not sorry she's gone—something good may come of it."

"I can't understand you," she said, seating herself on a log in front of him. "You have never told me how you became acquainted with her. Have you known her from childhood?"

"Oh, dear, no," said Ellis, laying aside his painting, and stretching himself on the mossy bank. "I will tell you all about it; it is very simple. Being rather out of health about two years ago, I went down to Abersethin to stay at the Vicar's house, he being an old friend of my father's. I found his son, Caradoc Wynne, a fine fellow—a splendid specimen of a Welsh country gentleman—and he and I became great friends during the three months that I spent there."

Gwladys's blue eyes opened in astonishment.

"Caradoc Wynne?" she said, in an anxious tone, which surprised her companion.

"Yes. Generally known as Cardo Wynne at Abersethin. I found him over head and ears in love with Valmai Powell—your sister, it seems, though I had no idea she had a sister. His rhapsodies about her amused me at first; but when I saw how deeply in earnest he was, I sympathised with him, and took a great interest in the progress of their courtship. His father and her uncle—one being the Vicar of the parish, and the other a Methodist preacher—hated each other with a deadly hatred—but you are looking pale," he said anxiously. "What is it? Am I saying anything to disturb you?"

"Oh, yes! but go on. Tell me about this Cardo Wynne."

"Well, it's a sad story. They were married; I married them without the knowledge of the two opinionated old men—I hope I sha'n't fall too low in your estimation, Miss Powell."

"Oh! no, no! go on, please. Every word you say is like water to a thirsty man. They were married?"

"Yes, safe enough; and straight from the church porch they separated, for he was leaving for Australia that afternoon at his father's earnest request, with the idea of making peace between him and a brother whom he had offended many years ago. Well, I heard no more of Cardo for nearly two years, when I received a letter from him from Australia, telling me of the series of misfortunes which had detained him there so long. First of all, a serious attack of typhoid fever, and a blow on the head which occasioned concussion of the brain. He was carried unconscious to a hospital, and remained there many months, utterly oblivious of all around him, as no operation had been attempted on his skull, nobody knowing of the blow he had received. One of the visiting doctors at the hospital took him home with him as an 'interesting case,' and then he discovered the indented bit of bone which was pressing upon the brain, and causing first the unconsciousness, and afterwards a complete lapse of memory. Poor old Cardo! the jolliest fellow in the world. What must he have felt when memory returned after a successful operation, and he realised that Valmai and his father were utterly ignorant of his whereabouts."

"Oh, stop, stop," said Gwladys, "oh! what shall I do? Mr. Ellis, I dread to hear the end, and yet I must; go on, please."

"Well, it's very sad. Poor old Cardo returned home at once, and finding Valmai gone from Abersethin made his way up here. Did you see him?"

Gwladys could scarcely gasp "Yes!"

"Then no doubt you know how she repulsed him, and taunted him with wilful desertion of her—desertion, indeed! that honest Cardo, whose very soul was bound up in her! Had I not heard it from his own lips, I could never have believed that Valmai would have used the words 'base and dishonourable' to Cardo Wynne. He is broken-hearted, and really, if she perseveres in this unwarranted indignation, I think it will kill him; and that is why I wanted to see her, for I still believe there must be some mistake."

"Mistake! yes, yes, a horrible mistake. She never saw him at all. It was I who spoke those cruel words to him!"

"Miss Powell! you! how can I believe such a thing?"

"Yes, yes, you must believe," she said, wringing her hands, "it is I who have broken my sister's heart—the sister whom I would die to save a moment's pain." And she rose to her feet, though her limbs trembled with excitement. "It is my turn now to tell my story, and when I have finished you will despise me, and you will have good reason."

"Never!" he said, "I can never feel anything towards you but—but—what I must not dare to tell you."

A vivid blush swept over Gwladys's face; but the troubled look returned, as Ellis, gently taking her hand, led her back to the log of wood, and sitting beside her, said:

"Now, tell me everything."

"I must go a long way back," she said, "and begin with my own uninteresting affairs. You know that Mrs. Power looks upon me as her own daughter, and has expressed her intention of leaving me all her money. Money! hateful money! the one thing I never cared about. I should be happier far in a little cottage than I am here surrounded by all these luxuries—it is true, Mr. Ellis, my tastes are simple."

"Certainly, you would grace a cottage or a palace alike," he said, almost under his breath; "but we must all accept the position in which we are placed, and do our best in that."

"Well," resumed Gwladys, "I have had three proposals of marriage, and on each occasion my aunt pressed me to accept the offer. I refused to do so, unless I were allowed time and opportunity to make the most exhaustive inquiries as to my disinterested lover's antecedents. My heart not being touched, I was able to do so dispassionately, and in each case I discovered something dishonourable in their characters. One I found was on the brink of pecuniary ruin, I therefore considered I had a right to think he loved my fortune and not myself. The next, though a man of honour and probity, I found had such an ungovernable temper that his own sisters failed to live with him. The third was a widower. He had broken his wife's heart by his cruelty, and since her death his life had been one long scene of dissipation. Was it any wonder that I rejected them all? and learnt to distrust and almost to hate every man?

"When Valmai came here I soon found out enough of her story to prove to me, as I thought, that she had been weak where I had been strong; that she had given her heart, with all its precious love, to one of the same type of manhood as it had been my ill-fortune to meet; and when, one evening as I walked here by the lake, a young man followed me and addressed me as Valmai, the only feeling that rushed into my mind and possessed my whole being might be expressed in these words—'Here is the murderer of my sister's happiness; at any risk I will keep him from her. She is happy and calm now; he shall never again disturb her peace of mind, if I can help it.'

"He was so completely under the illusion that I was Valmai that I had no occasion to tell a lie, and I only spoke the truth when I told him that I hated him, and that my greatest desire was never to see his face again. He was wounded to the quick. I saw it, I realised it all, and, oh, I felt for him, for there was something open and winsome about him—something that tempted me to trust him; but I hardened my heart, and I added him to my list of unworthy men. I left him here and went into the house, feeling utterly miserable; but I comforted myself with the thought that I had done Valmai good service. And now—oh, now!—I am more miserable than ever; for I see what harm I have done. I meant to do good, Mr. Ellis, believe me. I thought I was doing dear Valmai a real kindness, and now what shall I do? I have ruined her hopes of happiness, and I have lost your good opinion and friendship."

"Never!" said Ellis. "I see exactly how you felt, and can enter into your feelings thoroughly; it only grieves me to think what a low opinion you have formed of men in general."

"You see," said Gwladys, bending her head, "I have led such a retired life, and have known so few men—none intimately, except those three."

"Let me dare, then, to hope that in time you will come to believe that all men are not like the miserable specimens whom you have met. Will you believe that I, at least, am only sorry to hear you will be so rich? I cannot expect you to believe me, but it is the truth."

"Yes, I believe you," she said.

"Then let us see what we can do to retrieve your mistake. Will you take my word for it that Cardo Wynne is all that is honourable and true?"

"Yes, oh, yes; I am sure he would not be your friend if he were not so."

"Then the path is easy and plain before us. You will write to Valmai, and I will write to Cardo, and the cloud that has darkened their path lately will be swept away, and your hand and mine will be permitted to let in the light."

"I don't deserve such happiness," she said.

Ellis felt tempted to say, "Yes, your deep love for your sister made you do this, and it richly deserves this fulfilment of its endeavours," but he did not, and the omission was noticed by Gwladys, but it did not tell against him.

They sat some time in silent thought, Gwladys's little foot tossing up the moss.

"I have not told auntie, but I should like to do so now."

"I think you are right," said Ellis, gathering his painting paraphernalia together; "let us go and tell her at once."

There was something delightful even in the simple fact of "going together" to tell Mrs. Power the story of Valmai's sorrow and Gwladys's mistake, and when he left it was with the clear understanding that they should not let a day pass without enlightening Cardo and Valmai.



CHAPTER XXI.

INTO THE SUNSHINE,

There was quite a chorus of regrets and good-byes in the quiet little country station from which Valmai started on her journey to Cardiganshire.

"Good-bye, Miss Powell," said Colonel Meredith, who had driven her down to meet the train, accompanied by his whole family. "No one will lament your absence or rejoice at your return more than I shall, not excepting this sentimental young man," and he pointed to Cecil, who was putting on an air of even greater dejection than usual.

He did not deign to answer his father except by a look of indignation that set Gwen and Winifred laughing; but when the train was absolutely moving, he managed to secure the last hand-clasp, and leave a bunch of forget-me-nots in Valmai's hand.

"Good-bye, Beauty, darling," shouted Gwen; while all the others joined in a chorus of "Write soon!"

Valmai placed the flowers in her waistband with an amused smile. "Poor boy," she thought. "What a good thing it rained last night; there will be splendid fishing to-day in the Ithon, and he will forget all about me if he gets his basket full." And she settled herself down comfortably in the corner of the carriage, and proceeded to open a letter which she had found on her plate at breakfast, but which she had hitherto found no time to read. It was from Gwladys, she knew, but she was somewhat astonished at its length, and turning over the leaves once or twice saw it was very closely written and had many words underlined. "What can it be about?" was her thought as she read the first words, "My own beloved sister—"

There was no one in the carriage to notice the varied expressions on her face as she read the closely-written pages; but had anyone been there to see the rapturous happiness which lightened up her features and brightened her eyes as she drew towards the conclusion, they would have wondered what joyful information could have so entranced and delighted the girl who entered the carriage, although with a serene and peaceful countenance, yet with a certain plaintive wistfulness in the shadows of her blue eyes, which betokened no exemption from the ordinary fate of mankind. But now! what unspeakable joy, what ecstatic delight seemed to infuse fresh life and vigour to the fragile, graceful form! For a few moments she crossed her hands on her bosom, and with closed eyes remained silent; then, starting up and pacing backwards and forwards in the limited space of a railway carriage, she gave the rein to her delight and let her thoughts drop out in words of uncontrolled expression.

"Cardo, oh, Cardo! what happiness for me at last, and for you, dearest—it shall be for you, too! Oh, I see it all. He sought me out and found Gwladys, and the strong, strange likeness between us deceived him, though I cannot think how that was possible. Did he not feel the difference? Let me see—what does she say?" And again she read Gwladys's repentant, beseeching words. "Can you ever forgive me, darling? I tried to look as like you as possible, and I tried to be as harsh as I could at the same time. 'If I ever loved you,' I said, 'I have ceased to do so, and my greatest wish is never to see you again.'"

"Oh! how dreadful," said Valmai, "how could he bear it? and how he must have suffered since then; but I will make it all up to him, and now I understand his conduct the other evening. Oh, you slow old puffing engine, make haste, and take me to Blaenos Station, then there will be a whole hour in that crawling coach, and then comes dear Caer Madoc! and oh! it is market day. Cardo always drives in with Dr. Hughes on that day, and walks home in the evening. I will walk! It will be like that dear, happy night when we first met!" And at last her excitement calming down, she settled herself again into her corner, and while she sat silent and immovable, she followed out from beginning to end the incidents of the last few weeks. Although Gwladys's mistaken interference had caused her such deep sorrow, and such a bitter experience as that of Cardo's avoidance of her at the Merediths, she felt nothing but pity for the sister whom she knew would have sacrificed life itself to save her from trouble.

As the train sped onwards, between the blue hills and by the silver streams, her thoughts outran its speed, and in fancy she saw Cardo hurrying along the high road to meet her at Caer Madoc. And he as he drove along beside Dr. Hughes, was full of tender longings and thoughts of her. She seemed to fill the air around him, she seemed to press upon his inner consciousness with such vividness, that he felt it difficult to restrain his voice, and prevent himself from calling her name aloud.

At last, the evening shadows began to fall over sleepy Caer Madoc, and Valmai, alighting from the coach in the "Red Dragon" yard, looked round hurriedly. With her, too, the impression of Cardo's presence had been so vivid, that she almost expected to see him waiting for her; but no Cardo was to be seen! After leaving her luggage in the ostler's charge, she hastened out through the old archway which opened into the High Street.

"No, I prefer walking, thank you; you can send my luggage on to-morrow," she said to the kindly officious man, who followed her to offer his services as driver, and she turned up the street with a heart full of exultant hopes. Here were the last straggling houses that reached up the hilly street, leading to the moor. Her steps were light and springy, as she followed the familiar road, now almost deserted by the last pedestrians returning from the market. The sun had set behind the sea, which she already saw stretching away to the west, a soft grey haze enfolded the hills which rose before her, and the moon was rising to her right and blending her silver light with that of the departed sun, which still left a golden glow over the west. Valmai walked on steadily until she reached the first milestone, and sitting down beside it, she rested awhile, almost hidden by its shadow. It was not one of the modern insignificant, square-cut, stiff stones, but a solid boulder of granite, one of the many strewn about the moor. She listened breathlessly to the different sounds that reached her ears, sounds which seemed to awake in the stillness, as she listened. There was a faint and distant rumbling of wheels in the town behind her, and surely some strains of music, which carried her back in memory to another evening in the past! Down below the cliffs on her left she heard the mysterious whispering of the sea; in the little coppice across the road a wood-pigeon cooed her soft "good-night"; and away in the hay-fields, stretching inland, she heard the corncrakes' grating call; but no human footstep broke the silence of night. Surely Cardo would have gone to market on such a lovely day! or, who knows? perhaps he was too sad to care for town or market? But hark! a footstep on the hard, dry road. She listened breathlessly as it drew nearer in the gathering grey of the twilight. Steadily it tramped, tramped on, and peeping round the milestone, Valmai at last saw a grey figure emerge from the haze. It was Cardo, she felt sure, and rising at once, she hurried some distance on the road in a sudden feeling of nervousness. The steady tramp, tramp came ever nearer, and, looking through the increasing shadows, she saw distinctly the well-remembered form, the broad shoulders, the firmly-knit frame, and in a fresh access of nervousness she hurried on again—putting off the moment of recognition which she longed for, and endeavouring to reach a hollow in the high bank, where she might lie hidden until she had regained courage and calmness.