Gwynne Ellis soon found himself quite at home at Brynderyn, and enjoyed the freedom and variety of his life in its picturesque neighbourhood.

To Cardo, who had hitherto been so much alone, his presence was a very pleasant change, and though Ellis was a complete contrast to himself in every way, he liked him, and felt the advantage of companionship; more especially in the evenings, when, his father shut up in his study, and the old parlour but dimly lighted, he had always found the time hang rather heavily. He was wont to relieve the tedium of the evening hour by strolling into the kitchen, sitting in the rush chair, always looked upon as the young master's, and freely entering into the games or gossip of the farm-servants. He was much amused at the enthusiasm and romance of his new-found friend, who, coming from a populous and uninteresting border country, was charmed by the unconventional ways of the Welsh coast. He threw a glamour of poetry and romance over the most commonplace incidents; and Cardo, to tease him, would often assume a stolid and unimpressionable manner that he was far from feeling.

On the whole, they pulled well together, and the acquaintance, begun accidentally, bid fair to become a lifelong friendship.

Immediately after breakfast every morning, Gwynne Ellis, armed with brushes, palettes, and divers other encumbrances, would ramble away over shore or cliff, bringing with him in the evening the most beautiful scenes and views of the neighbourhood, which his deft brush had transferred to the pages of his portfolio. He was a true artist, and, moreover, possessed one admirable trait, generally lacking in inferior artists, namely, humility! And as he held up for Cardo's inspection an exquisite sketch of sea and sky and tawny beach, he waited anxiously for his criticisms, having found out that though his friend was no artist himself, his remarks were always regulated by good taste and common sense.

"That Nance's cottage?" Cardo was saying to-night as he sat in the rush chair by the fire in the farm kitchen—Ellis on a bench beside him, the little round table supporting the portfolio before them, "that cosy, picturesque-looking cottage Nance's! those opal tints over sea and sky—that blue smoke curling from the chimney, and that crescent moon rising behind the hill! Come, Ellis, you have given us a dose this time!"

"Dose of what?" said Ellis, putting on his gold-rimmed glasses.

"Why! of romance—of poetry—of imagination of course!"

"Give you my word, my dear fellow, that's how it appears to me. You are blind, dead to the beauties which surround you. Now, what would that scene appear like to you?"

Cardo laughed. "Why, exactly what it appeared to you, Ellis, only I like to tease you. I see all these beauties, old chap, though I lack the power to pourtray them as you do."

"I believe you, Cardo, though I doubt if you realise the blessing you enjoy in living amongst such picturesque scenes. To me, coming from a flat, uninteresting country, it seems a privilege to thank God for on your knees."

"Perhaps I feel it as much as you do, Ellis, though I couldn't put it into words, all I know is, I had rather live here on five shillings a week than I would on five pounds elsewhere."

"You are a matter-of-fact fellow. Five shillings a week indeed! and five pounds—worse! If you were not so much bigger and stronger than me I'd knock you down, Cardo. Come, let us have a stroll in the moonlight."

And they went out, the one to rhapsodise and to quote poetry; the other to shock his friend with his plain, unvarnished remarks, while his eyes and thoughts crossed the valley, and followed the moonlight which lightened up the old grey house looking down from the opposite hill.

"Where was Valmai?" He had caught a glimpse of her in the afternoon as he returned from Abersethin, the path to which led him through Essec Powell's fields. Caught a glimpse of her only, for as ill luck would have it, as he crossed one corner of the field she was reaching the gate at the further corner. Other maidens wore white frocks and straw hats, but his heart told him that this was no other than Valmai. He could hear her singing as she went, a long wreath of ox-eyed daisies trailing behind her, the gate open and she was gone; but surely here were signs of her recent presence, for round the horns of Corwen, the queen of the herd of cows, was wreathed the rest of the daisy chain. She was a beautiful white heifer, with curly forehead and velvet ears. As Cardo approached and patted her neck, she looked softly at him out of her liquid brown eyes shaded with long black lashes.

"She is a beauty!" said Cardo, looking at her with the critical eye of a farmer, "and worthy to be Valmai's pet. What a picture for Ellis to paint! Valmai and Corwen. By Jove, I'll try to manage it."

Gwynne Ellis was delighted when Cardo broached the subject as they roamed over the cliff in the moonlight.

"Can you paint animals and—er—er—human beings as well as you can scenery, Ellis?"

"Not quite, perhaps, but still pretty well. You liked that sketch of
'The priest and the girl at the confessional,' didn't you?"

"Yes—very much. Well, now, what do you say to a pretty white cow and her mistress?"

"Oh! 'a pretty girl milking her cow'—a charming subject. Show it me, Cardo—not Betto, now—you don't mean Betto? though, 'pon my word, I have seen her look very picturesque on the milking stool."

"No, no, no! Caton pawb! man, I'll show you a prettier picture than that. She's a lovely creature! with brown velvet eyes, her forehead all covered with little round curls."

"What! a friz?"

"Well, if you like to call it so. Lovely ears and a little soft nose, the whole surmounted by a pair of short brown horns."

"Good heavens! the woman?"

"Why, no! the cow, of course!"

"Oh, I see; the friz and the brown eyes belong to a cow then,—but what of her mistress? My dear fellow, don't waste all your poetry on the cow."

"As I haven't much to spare, you think. Well, her mistress is—Valmai!" and Cardo lifted his hat as he spoke.

Gwynne Ellis took two or three long puffs at his pipe, and looked curiously at Cardo, who stood looking over at the glimmering light in one of the windows at Dinas.

"Cardo Wynne, I am beginning to understand you; I have mistaken the whole situation. Here have I been thinking myself the only man in the place capable of appreciating its beauties properly—the only poetic and artistic temperament amongst you all—and I gradually awake to find myself but a humdrum, commonplace man of the world, who has dropped into a nest of sweet things: earth, sea, and sky combining to form pictures of beauty; picturesque rural life; an interesting and mysterious host; an idyllic cow; a friend who, though unable, or perhaps unwilling, to express his enthusiasm, yet thoroughly feels the poetry of life; and, better than all, I find myself in close touch with a real romantic love affair! Now, don't deny it, my dear fellow; I see it all—I read it in your eyes—I know all about it. The pretty cow's lovely mistress; and her name is—Valmai! How tender! My Welsh is rather rusty, but I know that means 'sweet as May.' Oh, Cardo Wynne, what a lucky dog you are!"

Cardo was still silent, and his friend continued, pointing to Dinas:

"And there she dwells (haven't I seen your eyes attracted there continually? Of course, there's the glimmer of her lamp!) high on the breezy cliff, with the pure sea wind blowing around her, the light and joy of her father's home, and soon to fly across the valley and lighten up another home."

"Oh, stop, stop, for mercy's sake!" said Cardo. "Your Pegasus is flying away with you to-night, Ellis. Your imagination is weaving a picture which is far beside the truth. You have not guessed badly. I do love Valmai, Corwen's mistress, and I wish to God the rest of the picture were true."

"Pooh! my dear fellow, 'the course of true love,' you know, etc., etc.
It will all come right in time, of course; these things always do.
I'll manage it all for you. I delight in a love affair, especially one
that's got a little entangled, you know."

"Here it is, then," said Cardo. "Valmai has neither father nor mother, and lives up there with an old uncle, who takes no more notice of her than he does of his cows or his sheep, but who would be quite capable of shutting her up and feeding her on bread and water if he knew that she ever exchanged greetings with a Churchman, for he is a Methodist preacher and her guardian to boot."

A long-drawn whistle was Gwynne Ellis's only answer, but he rubbed his hands gleefully.

"Then," continued Cardo, "on this side of the valley there is my father, shut up with his books, taking no interest in anything much except his church and his farm, but with a bigoted, bitter hatred of all dissenters, especially Methodists, and most especially of the Methodist preacher. Why, Ellis, they convene public meetings on purpose to pray for each other, and I believe if my father knew that I loved Essec Powell's niece he would break his heart. Therefore, I cannot tell him—it is impossible; but it is equally impossible for me, as long as I have any being, to cease to love Valmai. Now, there! what way do you see out of that maze?"

"Many ways," said Ellis, rubbing his hands with delight. "My dear fellow, you have pitched upon the right person. I'll help you out of your difficulties, but you must let me see her."

"All right!—to-morrow!" said Cardo, as they neared Brynderyn.

When their voices reached the Vicar's ears, he paused in his reading, and a look of pleasure softened his white face, but only for an instant, for as the young men passed the window a dark and mournful look chased away the momentary softness.

"Soon!" he said, "soon I will tell him he ought to be prepared—I will tell him!"

It was no easy matter next day to find Valmai, though Cardo and Gwynne
Ellis sought for her over shore and cliff and by the brawling Berwen.
They were returning disconsolate through the turnip fields at noon,
when Cardo caught sight of a red spot in the middle of a corn-field.

"There she is, Ellis," he said, turning round; "have we time to go back?"

"What! that little scarlet poppy in the corn?"

"Yes; it is Valmai's red hood; she wears it sometimes, and sometimes a broad-brimmed white hat."

Ellis looked at his watch.

"Too late to go back now; it is close upon one o'clock."

"Deucedly provoking!" said Cardo; "we will try again after dinner."

But after dinner they seemed to be no more successful, although they found their way into the very field where they had seen the red hood.

"Let us follow the path," said Ellis stoutly; "it seems to lead straight by the back of the house, and that old ivy-covered barn looks tempting, and suggestive of a beautiful sketch."

Cardo hesitated.

"Come along, Cardo; not all the Methodist preachers in the world can frighten me back when I am on the track of a pretty picture."

In the old ivy-covered barn they found Valmai. The big door was open, and in the dim, blue light of the shady interior, Shoni and she were busily engaged with Corwen, who had been ailing since the previous evening. Ellis was instantly struck by the picturesque beauty of the group before him. Corwen, standing with drooping head, and rather enjoying her extra petting; Shoni, with his brawny limbs and red hair, patting her soft, white flanks, and trying, with cheerful chirrups, to make her believe she was quite well again. Valmai stood at her head, with one arm thrown round her favourite's neck, while she kissed the curly, white forehead, and cooed words of endearment into the soft, velvet ears.

"Darling beauty! Corwen fÂch!"

Here Gwynne Ellis, irresistibly attracted by the scene before him, boldly entered the barn.

The girl looked up surprised as he approached, hat in hand.

"A thousand apologies," he said, "for this intrusion; but my friend and I were roaming about in search of something to paint, and my good fortune led me here; and again I can only beg a hundred pardons."

"One is enough," said Shoni sulkily. "What you want?"

The painting paraphernalia strapped on Gwynne Ellis's back had not made a favourable impression upon Shoni. He took him for one of the "walking tramps" who infested the neighbourhood, and made an easy living out of the hospitable Welsh farmers.

Valmai saw Shoni's mistake, and rebuked him in Welsh.

"There is nothing to pardon," she said, turning to Mr. Ellis, "and if there is anything here that you would like to paint, I am sure my uncle would be quite willing. Will I go and ask him?"

"Thank you very much; but if you go, the picture will be spoiled!"

But Valmai, taking no notice of the implied compliment, began her way to the big door.

"This lovely white cow! do you think your uncle would allow me to paint her?"

"Oh! yes, I am sure, indeed!" said Valmai, turning round; "but not to-day, she has been ill—to-morrow she will be out in the field, and then I will make a daisy chain for her, and she will look lovely in a picture." And she passed out into the sunshine.

Gwynne Ellis heard a long-drawn "Oh!" of pleased surprise as she discovered Cardo hovering about the door, and he considerately entered into conversation with Shoni, endeavouring to express himself in his mother-tongue, but with that hesitation and indistinctness common to the dwellers in the counties bordering upon England, and to the "would-be genteel" of too many other parts of Wales, who, perfectly unconscious of the beauty of their own language, and ignorant of its literature, affect English manners and customs, and often pretend that English is more familiar to them than Welsh, a fatuous course of conduct which brings upon them only the sarcasm of the lower classes, and the contempt of the more educated.

"What you is clabbering about, man?" said Shoni indignantly. "Keep to the English if that is your language, 'coss me is spoke English as well as Welsh."

"Yes, I see you do," said Ellis, "and I am thankful to meet with a man so learned. To know two languages means to look at everything from two points of view—from two sides, I mean. A man who knows two languages knows half as much again of everything as a man who can only speak one."

Shoni scratched his head; he was mollified by the stranger's evident appreciation of his learning, but thought it necessary to keep his wits about him.

"With these foreigns, you know, you never know wherr they arr—these English, you know," he was wont to say, "nor wherr they arr leading you to."

"What wass you walk about the country for?" was his next remark.

"Ah, that's it now! You are a sensible man; you come to the point at once. Well, I am very fond of making pictures."

"Sell them?"

"Oh no, just for my own pleasure; every man has his—"

"Crack!" said Shoni.

"Yes, crack, if you like," said Ellis, laughing, and opening his portfolio; "here are some of my cracks."

And they drew near the doorway, leaving Corwen much dissatisfied at the cessation of attentions.

Cardo and Valmai had disappeared. Shoni was fast losing his head to this fellow with the high nose and high voice, who evidently knew a sensible man when he saw him.

"There is Nance Owen's cottage," said the artist, "at the back of the island; do you recognise it?"

Shoni was lost in admiration, but did not think it wise to show it, so he stood silent for some time, with his hands under his coat tails and his red-bearded chin first turned to one side and then to the other, as he looked with critical eyes at the pictures.

"It's the very spit of the place," he said at last; "let's see another."

And Ellis picked out his masterpiece.

"That's Ogo Wylofen," he said.

"Ach y fi!" said Shoni, with a shudder, "wherr you bin when you painted that?"

"At the mouth of the cave in a boat. It is magnificent, that rushing water, those weird wailings, and the mysterious figures of spray which pass up into the dark fissures."

But this was far above Shoni's head.

"Caton pawb, man!" he said, "not me would go in a boat to that hole for the world. It is a split in the earth, and those are ghosts or witches or something that walk in and out there; but anwl! anwl! you must be a witch yourself, I think, to put those things on paper. Oh, see that red sun, now, and the sea all red and yellow! Well, indeed!"

"Well, now," said Ellis, "I want to have a picture of Corwen."

"Yes, to-morrow, in the field, and me standing by her. I will put on my new gaiters."

"The young lady has gone to ask your master's consent."

"The master!" said Shoni, locking the barn door; "pooh! 'sno need to ask him. You kom to-morrow and make a picksher on Corwen and me. Wherr you stop?"

"At Brynderyn."

"With the Vicare du? Oh, jÂr i!" said Shoni, taking off his hat to scratch his head, "there's a pity now. Essec Powell will nevare be willing for that; but nevare you mind, you kom. Here's Valmai."

Cardo was nowhere to be seen.

"I asked my uncle, sir," she said, "but I am sorry to say when he heard you were the Vicar's friend he was not willing, but he did not say no."

"Twt, twt," said Shoni, interrupting, "you wass no need to ask Essec Powell. The gentleman is kom to-morrow to make a picksher on Corwen and me."

Valmai could not resist a smile at Shoni's English, which broke the ice between her and Gwynne Ellis; and as Shoni disappeared round the corner of the barn, she gave him her hand, frankly saying:

"Good-bye, Mr. Ellis; I must go in to tea."

"Good-bye," he said, "I will venture to bring my paints to-morrow to Corwen's field. And you—you will keep your promise to come and make the daisy chain?"

"Well, indeed, I can't promise, but I will try, whatever."

"And then you will honour me by looking over my portfolio."

"And the Vicar objects to that girl," he exclaimed to himself, as he proceeded down the path to the shore. "What a sweet, sensitive mouth! Oh, Cardo, Cardo Wynne, I can only say, as I said before, you are a lucky dog!"

He had wondered what had become of Cardo, but with his full appreciation of a secret love-affair, had had too much tact to ask Valmai, and was not much surprised to find him lying at full length on the sandy beach.

"Well, Wynne," he said, pretending to sulk a little, "you did leave me in the lurch."

"Leave you in the lurch! my dear fellow, do forgive me. To tell the truth I forgot all about you until Valmai went indoors to find her uncle. I waited to see if she would come out again, but she never did. I believe she was waiting until I had gone; she's dreadfully chary of her company."

"Another charm," said Ellis; "one would get tired of an angel who was always en evidence. She is an ideal girl. Tell me when you are going to retire, old fellow, and then I will try my luck. That sweet mouth, though the delight of a lover, is the despair of an artist."

Cardo sighed.

"Well, she came back after you were gone, then, and shook hands with me, but said her uncle did not seem delighted to hear I was the Vicar's friend."

"Of course not."

"But I made love to Shoni and gained his consent, and he is the real master there, I fancy."

"You did?" said Cardo, lost in admiration of his friend's shrewdness.

"I did," said Ellis. "To-morrow I am to go to the field and paint Corwen and Valmai has promised to come and make a daisy chain for the occasion."

"Has she indeed?" said Cardo, with great interest. "She would not promise me. I believe she loves to see me miserable."

"Well, cheer up," said Ellis, "for I shall be a precious long time at those curls of Corwen's and those expressive brown eyes. Shoni, I know, will stick to me like a leech, but you and Valmai, I expect, will meanly desert me again."

Next day Valmai was as good as her word, for, as the young men entered the field at one corner, she appeared at the gate in the other, and as she came towards them, Gwynne Ellis was struck anew by the beauty and freshness of her appearance. She wore a simple white frock, her fair, broad forehead was shaded by a white sun-bonnet, and she carried a wreath of moon daisies, which she flung over Corwen's neck who was grazing peacefully among the buttercups, ignorant of the honour awaiting her.

Valmai nodded playfully to Cardo and his friend as they drew near, and, taking Corwen's soft, white ear, drew her towards them with many endearing terms.

"Come then, my queen, dere di, come along, then, and show your beautiful brown eyes, and your pretty white curls. Here we are, Mr. Ellis; will we do?" and, holding up her white frock, she made a demure little curtsey to the two young men, while Shoni, also arriving on the scene, looked at her with amused surprise, not unmixed with reproof.

"Iss you must excuse Valmai, gentlemen," he said, tugging his red forelock; "she iss partly a foreign, and not know our manners about here."

"Oh, we'll excuse her," said Gwynne Ellis, while Cardo clasped her hand and gazed rapturously at the blushing face under the white bonnet.

"I wass want her," said Shoni, with a jerk of his thumb towards Valmai, "to put on her best frock, but no!" and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, "there's odd things woman are! 'ts 'ts!"

"Well, indeed," said Valmai, "I did not think a smart gown would suit the fields, whatever!"

"Couldn't be better, Miss Powell," said Ellis, arranging his group, and introducing Shoni as a shadowy background. With a few deft touches of his brush he had drawn the outlines of his picture, with good-natured artfulness devoting much time to finishing off Corwen and dismissing Valmai and Cardo.

"Now you two can go," he said, "but I can't do without Shoni. A little black spot at the back of that ear?"

"No, no—brown," said Shoni, delighted to be of such importance, "and the same brown smot on the nother ear, and that's the only smot upon her!"

He watched with intense interest the progress of the picture, calling the artist's attention to all Corwen's good points as though he were appraising her at a cattle sale, and an hour passed away quickly both to the artist and Shoni; but to Cardo and Valmai, what a golden hour! to stroll away together over the soft grass studded with buttercups, down to the edge of the cliffs, where they sat among the gorze bushes looking out at the rippling blue bay, silent from sheer happiness, but taking in unconsciously the whole beauty of the scene, for it was engraved upon their minds and often recalled in after years.

"There!" said Gwynne Ellis at length, closing his portfolio with a snap, "I can finish the rest at home—"

"Iss, iss," said Shoni, "iss not so much otts about Valmai."

"And to-morrow I will finish your gaiters, Shoni."

"Very well, sir; pliss you remember, seven buttons on both of the two legs."