The spring had gone; summer had taken her place and was spreading all her wealth of beauty over the scene. The sea lay shimmering in the golden sunshine, the little fishing-boats flitted about the bay like white-winged butterflies. On the yellow sands the waves splashed lazily; up on the cliffs the sea crows cawed noisily, and the sea-gulls sailed high in the air, and day after day Gwynne Ellis sought and found some new scene of beauty to transfer to his portfolio. Every day he trudged away in the morning and returned late in the evening, fast gaining strength and health, and bidding fair soon to rival Cardo in his burly breadth of chest.

And where was Cardo through all this summer weather? The duties of his farm were never very onerous, as, under Ebben's practical management and his father's careful eye all the work was carried on regularly, and he well knew that with every year, and with their inexpensive menage, his father's riches were increasing, and that there was no real reason why he should work at all; but he was one of those to whom idleness was intolerable. True! he could lie on the sands with his hat over his face for an hour sometimes, listening to the plashing waves and the call of the sea-birds; he could sail in his boat on the bay for many a sunny afternoon, the sails flapping idly in the breeze, while he with folded hands leant against the mast, lost in thought, his eyes narrowly scanning the cliffs and rocks around for some sign of Valmai, and sometimes rewarded by a glimpse of her red hood or a wave of her handkerchief; but for the lounging laziness which shirks work, and shrinks from any active exertion, he had nothing but contempt. Dye always averred "that the work never went so well as when the young master helped at it."

"Twt, twt, he is like the rest of the world these days," said Ebben, "works when he likes, and is idle when he likes. When I was young—" etc. etc.

When the haymaking began he was everywhere in request, and entered with much energy into the work of the harvest. Early and late he was out with the mowers, and, at a push, with his strong shoulders and brawny arms could use the scythe as well as any of the men. The Vicar paid occasional visits to the hayfields, and Betto was busy from morning to night filling the baskets with the lunch of porridge and milk, or the afternoon tea for the haymakers, or preparing the more substantial dinner and supper.

"What's Dinas thinking of?" said Ebben, drying his heated face; "not begun to mow yet?"

"Begin to-morrow," answered Dye. "Essec Powell forgot it was hay harvest, until Valmai pulled him out by the coat, and made him look over the gate."

"Hast seen the picture," said Ebben, "Mr. Ellis has made of her and
Corwen? Splendid!"

"No," said Dye; "has he? What will the Vicare say? JÂr-i! there'll be black looks!"

But Gwynne Ellis had been wiser than to show his sketch to the Vicar; he was learning like Cardo that if there was to be peace at Brynderyn, neither Essec Powell nor his flock nor his family must be mentioned.

The last full wain of sweet scented hay had been carted into the haggard, amidst the usual congratulatory comments of the haymakers, who had afterwards trooped into the farm-yard, where, under the pale evening sky, with the sunset glow behind them, and the moon rising full before them, they seated themselves at the long supper table prepared by Betto and Shan in the open yard.

First the bowls were filled with the steaming cawl, and then the wooden platters were heaped with the pink slices of home-cured bacon, and mashed up cabbages. Last of all came the hunches of solid rice pudding, washed down by "blues" [1] of home-brewed ale; and the talk and the laughter waxed louder and merrier, as they proceeded with their meal.

Gwynne Ellis sat perched on the wall under the elder tree sketching the group, and evidently affording them much amusement. The Vicar looked at them through his study window, but Cardo, who had worked hard all day in the field, was absent.

Down in the shady path by the Berwen, he and Valmai walked and sang together. Of course she could sing, with the clear, sweet voice and the correct ear common to most Welshwomen, and Cardo sharing also in the national gift, their voices frequently blended together in song, and the sylvan valley often echoed to the tones of their voices, more especially in the old ballad, which tradition said had been composed by a luckless shepherd who had lived in this valley,

"By Berwen's banks my love hath strayed," etc.

The June roses bent down towards them, the trailing honeysuckle swept her cheek, and as the sunset faded and the clear moon rose in the sky their voices were low and tender.

"I have seen so little of you lately, Valmai."

"So little!" said the girl, in feigned astonishment. "Indeed you are a greedy man. How oftentimes has Gwen called me and I have been absent, and even my uncle asked me yesterday, 'Where dost spend thy time, child; on the shore?' and I said, 'Yes, uncle, and by the Berwen.'"

"How strange it is," said Cardo, "that no one seems to come here but you and me, and how fortunate."

"Well, indeed," returned the girl, "there was scarcely any path here till I came, the ferns and nut trees had quite shut it up."

"Yes," said Cardo, "I always thought it was a thicket, though I often roamed the other side of the stream. And now the dear little dell is haunted by a sweet fairy, who weaves her spells and draws me here. Oh, Valmai, what a summer it is!"

"Yes," she said, bending her head over a moon-daisy, from which she drew the petals one by one. "Loves me not," she said, as she held the last up for Cardo's inspection with a mischievous smile.

"It's a false daisy, love," he said, drawing her nearer to him, "for if my heart is not wholly and entirely yours, then such a thing as love never existed. Look once more into my eyes, cariad anwl,[2] and tell me you too feel the same."

"Oh, Cardo, what for will I say the same thing many times?"

"Because I love to hear you."

The girl leant her cheek confidingly on his breast, but when he endeavoured to draw her closer and press a kiss upon the sweet mouth, she slipped away from his arms, and, shaking her finger at him playfully, said, "No, no, one kiss is enough in a week, whatever—indeed, indeed, you shan't have more," and she eluded his grasp by slipping into the hazel copse, and looking laughingly at him through its branches. "Oh, the cross man," she said, "and the dissatisfied. Smile, then, or I won't come out again."

"Come, Valmai, darling, you tantalise me, and I begin to think you are after all a fairy or a wood nymph, or something intangible of that kind."

"Intangible, what is that?" she said, returning to his side with a little pucker on her brow. "Oh, if you begin to call me names, I must come back; but you must be good," as Cardo grasped her hand, "do you hear, and not ask for kisses and things."

"Well, I won't ask for kisses and things," said Cardo, laughing, "until—next time."

And thus, while Essec Powell was lost in dreams of the old bards and druids, and the Vicar counted his well-garnered hayricks, these two walked and sang in the mazes of the greenwood, the soft evening sky above them, the sweet sea-breezes around them, and talked the old foolish delicious words of love and happiness.

What wonder was it that, as alone under the stars, they returned to the haunts of men, the links of the love that bound them to each other grew stronger and stronger; and that to Valmai, as they parted on the shore, all of earthly delight seemed bound up in Cardo; and to him, as he watched the lithe, graceful figure climbing up the rugged path to the cliffs, all the charm and beauty of life seemed to go with her.

After supper, at which the Vicar had been more silent than usual, he rose, and for a moment stood still, and, looking at his son, seemed about to speak, but appearing to change his mind, after a curt good-night, he walked away through the long stone passage with his usual firm step. He was so regular and fixed in his habits that even this little hesitation in his manner surprised Cardo, but he had not much time for conjecture, as his father's voice was heard at the study door.

"Caradoc," he called, "I want to speak to you."

Cardo cast an involuntary glance of astonishment at Gwynne Ellis as he rose from the table and put his pipe back on its bracket.

"I think I shall go to bed," said Ellis, leaning back with a yawn and a stretch. "I have been on my legs all day, and a jolly day it has been!"

The Vicar was standing at the study door holding it a little ajar; he opened it wide for his son's entrance, and closed it carefully before he seated himself in his usual place by the writing-table.

"Shall I light your candles, father?"

"Yes—one will do."

And, while Cardo busied himself with the candle and matches, and drew down the blinds, his father fumbled amongst his papers and coughed awkwardly.

"Sit down, Cardo. I have something to say to you which I have been wanting to say for some time, and which I hope will give you pleasure."

Cardo said nothing, his attention being rivetted upon his father's countenance; the marble face seemed whiter than usual, the deep shadows round the eyes darker and—was it fancy?—or were the lips whiter?

"What is it, father?" said Cardo, at last pitying the old man's evident nervousness; "no bad news, I hope?"

"Bad news!" said the Vicar, with a forced smile, which disclosed a row of large and rather yellow teeth. "Didn't I say I hoped it would please you?"

"Yes, I forgot, sir."

"Well, it is this: you live a very quiet, monotonous life here, and though it has many advantages, perhaps to a young man it would also appear to have many drawbacks. You have lately had Mr. Gwynne Ellis's company, which I am glad to see you have thoroughly appreciated. I should have been annoyed, had it been otherwise, considering that it was not without some change of my usual domestic ways that I was able to arrange this little matter for you. I own I should not like you to imbibe all his ideas, which I consider very loose and unconstitutional; but on the whole, I have liked the young man, and shall be sorry when he leaves, more particularly as he pays well."

Cardo winced. "I am very happy working on the farm, and if I have appeared discontented, my looks have belied me."

"No, no," said his father, tapping with his finger on the open page before him. "No! you seem to have a fund of animal spirits; but I am quite aware that your life is uneventful and dull, and I think a young man of your er—er—" (he was going to say "prospects," but thought that would not be politic), "well, a young man of your position should see a little of the world."

"My position is that of a farmer, sir, and few farmers can afford to travel about and see the world."

"Certainly not, certainly not; and for heaven's sake don't run away with the idea that I can afford it any better than other poor vicars or farmers; but knowing that you have a 100 pounds a year of your own, Cardo, which, by the by, you never spend much of, and which I am glad to hear you are already beginning to save up, I thought it well to suggest to you a little holiday, a little break in your occupation."

"Once for all, sir, I have no wish to travel, so do not trouble your head about me; I am perfectly contented and happy."

There was a moment's silence, except for the Vicar's tapping fingers, and when he next spoke there was a little shake in his voice and a little droop in his straight back.

"Well," he said at length, "if that is the case, I need not expect you to accede to my proposals. When a young man is contented and happy, it is not to be expected he will alter his mode of life to please an old man."

"And that man his father! Indeed it is," said Cardo, standing up and taking his favourite attitude, with his elbow on the mantelpiece. "Why do you keep me at arm's length? Why do you not tell me plainly what I can do for you, father? There is nothing I would not do, nothing I would not sacrifice, that is—" and he made a mental reservation concerning Valmai.

"That is—nothing except what I am about to ask you, I suppose?" said the old man.

The words were not amiable. They might have angered another man; but Cardo detected a tremor in the voice and an anxious look in the eyes which softened their asperity.

"What do you want me to do, sir?"

"In plain words, I want you to go to Australia."

"Australia!" gasped Cardo. "In heaven's name, what for, sir?"

"I have often told you that some day I would wish you to go to Australia, Cardo. If you cannot afford your own expenses, I will help you In fact—er—er—I will place funds at your disposal which shall enable you to travel like a gentleman, and to reap every advantage which is supposed to accrue from travel and seeing the world."

Cardo way speechless from astonishment, not so much at the idea of banishment to the Antipodes—for his father had sometimes, though at long intervals, hinted at this idea—but at the unusual coolness with which he had alluded to such a lavish expenditure of money; and as he looked at his father with an earnest, inquiring gaze, the old man seemed to shrink under the scrutiny.

At last, turning away from the table, and placing both hands on his knees, he continued in an altered tone:

"Sit down again, Cardo, and I will tell you the story of my life, and then you shall tell me whether you will go to Australia or not."

His son sat down again and listened eagerly. He had always longed to hear something of his father's early life; he had always rebelled against the cold barrier of mystery which seemed to enshroud him and separate him from his only son.

"Well, to begin at the beginning," said the Vicar, fixing his eyes on one spot on the carpet, "there was a time when I was young—perhaps you can hardly realise that," he said suddenly, looking up; "but strange as it may seem to you, it is a fact. I once was young, and though never so gay and light-hearted as you still I was happy in my own way, and fool enough to expect that life had for me a store of joys and pleasures, just as you do now. I was doomed, of course, to bitter disappointment, just as you will be. Well, I had one trouble, and that was the fear that I might be appointed to a curacy which would take me away from my old home, and I was greatly relieved when I was appointed to this living through the influence of an old friend of my father's. When I entered upon my new duties, I found the old church filled with a hearty and friendly congregation; but soon afterwards that Methodist Chapel was built on the moor, and that rascal Essec Powell became its minister, and from that day to this he has been a thorn in the flesh to me. My father died about a year after I was ordained, and I found the old house rather lonely with only Betto, who was then young, to look after my domestic affairs. My farm I found a great solace. About this time I met your mother, Agnes Powell. Her uncle and aunt had lately come to live in the neighbourhood, accompanied by their daughter Ellen and their niece—your mother. The two girls were said to be wealthy, and seemed to be as much attached to each other as though they had been sisters. I don't remember much about Ellen Vaughan's appearance, in fact I scarcely noticed her, for I had fallen passionately in love with Agnes Powell. Are you listening, Caradoc?"

"Yes, indeed, sir," he said breathlessly, "I have thirsted for this knowledge so long."

"You have! well, then, listen. I loved your mother with a frantic mad devotion, though I killed her."

Cardo started.

"Yes, I killed her; not by a cruel blow, or murderous attack, but quite as surely and as cruelly. I told you I had not your gay and lively disposition. I might have added that I was sensitive and suspicious to an intense degree, and from my first acquaintance with your mother until the day I married her, I was always restless and uneasy, hating and fearing every man who approached her."

He reached a glass of water which stood on the table, and, having drunk some, looked again at his son.

"You see, Caradoc, if I have withheld this information from you long, I am telling you everything now. Just about this time my brother Lewis, who had for some years been settled in Scotland to learn farming, came home to Brynderyn, although I, being the elder son, was the owner of the place. Lewis had a small annuity settled upon him. As I was on the eve of being married, he was much interested in my affairs, and spoke of his admiration of Agnes in such glowing terms, that I felt, and, I fear, showed some resentment. However, as he was well acquainted with my suspicious nature, he was not offended, but laughed me out of my doubts for the time—for the time," he repeated, again fixing his eyes on the spot on the carpet. "Bear in mind, Cardo, through every word of this history, that the suspicion and mistrust of my nature amounted almost to insanity. I see it now, and, thank God, have conquered it in some measure. Well, we were married. Lewis was my groomsman, and Ellen Vaughan was the bridesmaid. It was a very quiet wedding, as Mrs. Vaughan was in very bad health—in fact, she died soon after our marriage, and Agnes seemed to feel the loss of her aunt so acutely that I was jealous and angry, and she saw that I was so, and endeavoured to hide her tears, poor child! poor child! I don't think her uncle ever liked me, or approved of our marriage. Happily he had no control over Agnes's fortune, or I believe she would never have had a penny of it; but I think he might have trusted me there, for I have nursed it—yes and doubled it," he mumbled, as though forgetting he was speaking to anyone but the carpet. "Well, let me see—where was I?"

"But my mother, sir?" interrupted Cardo; "tell me something about her—was she pretty?"

"Yes, she was beautiful, very lovely, with a foreign Spanish look in her eyes—you have the same, I think, Cardo. There was a tradition of Spanish blood in the family."

"And had she a Spanish temper, sir? quick and hasty, I mean."

"No, no, quite the contrary; a sweet and amiable temper, but certainly with a good deal of pride, which resented a suspicion like a blow," and the old man sighed heavily. "My brother Lewis made his home at Brynderyn, while he was looking about for some suitable opening for his farming operations, and here in the midst of my newly-found happiness, with hope and love shedding their beams around me, I allowed the first insidious entrance of the serpent of distrust and jealousy of my wife into my heart. My brother Lewis was very unlike me in appearance and disposition, being of a frank and genial manner, and trustful to a fault. I think you inherit that trait from him; be careful of it, Caradoc, or you will be cheated by every man you meet. Not that I would have you follow my example—God forbid! but there is a happy mean, a safe path between these two traits of character."

The Vicar was beginning to enjoy the recital of his long past troubles, and the thought flashed through his mind that he would have lightened his burden had he sooner confided in his son. The conduct which seemed so black and stained, when brooded over alone in his study, did not seem quite so heinous when put into plain words and spread out in the light.

"Well," he continued, "in spite of my jealous temper, the first few months of our wedded life were very happy, and it was not until I had begun to notice that a very intimate friendship existed between my young wife and my brother, that my suspicions were aroused with regard to them; but once alive to this idea, every moment of my life was poisoned by it. I kept a close but secret watch upon their actions, and soon saw what I considered a certain proof that the love they felt for each other was more than, and different to, that which the relationship of brother and sister-in-law warranted. Betto noticed it, too, for she has ever been faithful and true to me. She came to me one day, and seriously advised me to get rid of my brother Lewis, refusing to give any reason for her advice; but I required no explanation. You say nothing, Caradoc, but sit there with a blacker look on your face than I have ever seen before."

"I am listening, father, and waiting for some excuse for your jealous suspicions."

"I have very little to give but you shall have the story in its naked truth. I was devotedly attached to my brother; from childhood we had been all in all to each other, and the difference in our dispositions seemed only to cement more closely the bond of union between us; but now my love seemed turned to hatred, and I only waited to make my fears a certainty to turn him out of my house. Although I was anxious to hide my suspicions for a time, I could not refrain from sneering taunts about men who spent a life of idleness while others worked. Lewis opened his blue eyes in astonishment, and his frank, open countenance wore a hurt and puzzled look; but he did not go. He bore my insults, and yet haunted the house, and lingered round the west parlour, now shut up, but where your mother always sat. I found it impossible to hide entirely from Agnes my doubts of her love, and I soon saw that my involuntarily altered manner had made a corresponding change in hers. The proud spirit within her was roused, and instead of endeavouring to soothe my suspicions, and show me my mistake, she went on her way apparently unheeding, holding her head high, and letting me form my own opinion of her actions. I ought to have told you that her uncle had been so annoyed at her marriage with me that he had forbidden her to enter his doors again; and of this I was not sorry, though it roused my anger so much that I added my injunctions to the effect that if she wished to please me she would break off all acquaintance with her cousin, Ellen Vaughan. This, however, she would not promise to do, and it was the first beginning of the rift, which afterwards widened into a chasm between us. Her cousin also was too much attached to her to be easily alienated from her, and the two girls met more frequently than either her uncle or I were aware of. There was another girl, too—I forget her name—but she was a sister of Essec Powell's. Agnes and she had been schoolmates and bosom friends, and they were delighted to meet here by accident, and I soon found that my wife continually resorted to Essec Powell's house to pour out her sorrows into the bosom of her friend; but this I could not allow. To visit the house of my bitterest enemy—to make a friend of his sister, was a glaring impropriety in a clergyman's wife, and I cannot even now feel any compunction at having put a stop to their intercourse—if, indeed, I succeeded in doing so. A cold cloud seemed to have fallen between me and your mother; and as for my brother, we scarcely spoke to each other at meals, and avoided each other at all other times. Still Lewis stayed on, with that puzzled look on his face, and still Agnes went through her daily duties with a proud look and a constrained manner.

"Poor Betto looked anxiously from one to the other of us, and I kept my still and silent watch. My heart was breaking with distrust of my wife, and hatred of my brother; but I never spoke of my failing trust in them both. I brooded upon it night and day, and my life became a hell upon earth.

"One day in the early spring, about a month before you were born, Caradoc, I had been to a funeral at the old church; and hearing of the serious illness of a parishioner who lived on the high road to Abersethin, I followed the path on the left side of the Berwen, and as I neared the bridge which crosses the valley on the top, I suddenly came upon Agnes, who was sitting on a boulder by the side of the brook, and as I approached I saw her dry her eyes hurriedly. She rose from her seat, and her colour came and went as she looked at me. I longed to take her in my arms and press her to my heart, for she looked pale and sorrowful."

An exclamation from Cardo interrupted him.

"It pains you, Caradoc—it pains me—it pained me then—it will pain me as long as I have any being. I may be forgiven hereafter, but it cannot cease to pain me.

"'Agnes,' I said, 'are you not straying very far from home?'

"'I came for a walk,' she answered; 'it is a lovely day!'

"'I did not know you could walk so far,' I said. 'Last evening when I asked you to come down to the shore with me, you said it was too far!'

"'Yesterday, Meurig, I was feeling very ill; to-day I am better.'

"Her lip quivered a little, and she looked round uneasily, I thought.

"I said, 'I am going to see old ShÔn Gweydd, or I would walk back with you; but perhaps you don't mind going alone.'

"'Oh, no, not at all,' she said, as she began her way back by the
Berwen.

"I went my way with a heavy heart, and as I entered ShÔn Gweydd's house (it was a little way down the road) I looked back at the bridge, and saw a girl cross the stile and go down into the valley. It was Ellen Vaughan, and no doubt Agnes had been waiting for her; but when in returning I met my brother Lewis coming over the same stile into the high road, my whole soul was filled with anger, and I passed the brother whom I had loved so tenderly with a short, cold remark about the weather, and I reached Brynderyn consumed with jealousy and bitter hatred.

"The same evening, Agnes was sitting at her work at the bay window of the west parlour, while I was busily writing in the old farm parlour which we now use. Lewis entered with the strained and saddened look which he had worn in my presence latterly; he reached a book from the bookshelf, and sauntered in through the stone passage into the west parlour. In a moment I had risen and followed him, and, walking carefully on the carpet which covered it, then, reached the door of the sitting-room without being heard, and through the chink of the half-open door I saw my brother stoop down and whisper something confidentially in my wife's ear.

"I entered the room immediately afterwards, and Lewis made some casual remark about the sunset, while Agnes went on quietly sewing. How to endure my agony of mind I knew not, for I now felt convinced that my doubts were warranted; but I was determined to control my feelings and restrain any expression of anger until after the birth of her child, which was fast approaching, as I still loved her too much to endanger her health, and I knew that if once the floodgates of my anger were opened the storm of passion would be beyond my control.

"On the following Sunday Agnes came to church for the last time, and after the service I went into the vestry to take off my gown; and as I followed the stream of worshippers leaving the porch, I saw her joined by Lewis, who walked with her towards the lych gate, and before I reached them I distinctly saw him place a note in her hand. She quickly put it in her pocket, and, with a friendly and satisfied nod, he turned round to speak to a neighbouring farmer.

"The blood surged through my veins"—and the old man rose from his chair and stood before his son, who sat with his elbow on the table. Unconsciously the Vicar seemed to take the position of a prisoner before his judge; his hands were clenched nervously, and as he spoke he drew his handkerchief over his damp face.

"Yes," he said, "my blood surged through my veins, but even then I did not speak a word of complaint or anger. Had I done so, I might have been spared the years of anguish and remorse which have been my share since then.

"I walked home silently by my wife's side, forcing myself to make some casual remark. She answered as coldly. And thus passed away our only chance of explanation and reconciliation. You are silent, Caradoc; you do not like to speak the condemnation and the contempt which you feel for your father."

"Father," said Cardo, "I feel nothing but pity for you and pity for my poor mother. As for my uncle—"

"Wait, wait, Cardo; let me finish my story. That was the last time your mother came to church. In a short time afterwards you were born, and during the intervening time I struggled harder than ever, not to forgive, but to drop my wife entirely out of my life. I tried to ignore her presence, to forget that she had ever been dear to me; but I give you my word, Cardo, I never spoke a harsh or accusing word to her. I simply dropped her as far as possible out of my life; and she, though growing paler and thinner each day, still held her head up proudly; and while I seemed to ignore her presence—though, God knows, not a look nor a movement escaped me—Lewis was incessant in his tender attention to her.

"I had loved my brother passionately, fondly, and the feeling of bitter hatred which now took possession of me tore my very heart-strings, for, in spite of my suspicious and jealous nature, I loved these two—my wife and my brother—with an intensity few would have believed me capable of. Have I made this plain to you, Cardo? At last one evening, just at this time of the year, and at this hour of the day, Betto brought you to me in her arms. She had tears on her face, and as she looked down at her little white bundle, I noticed that a tear fell on your little hand. I did not like it, Cardo; though I thought I was perfectly indifferent to my child, I shrank from the sight of the tear on your hand, and hoped it did not prognosticate evil for you.

"Agnes was too ill to see me until the next day, when Betto said she was calling for me. I rose and went at once; but on the stairs, coming down to meet me, was a girl, whose face I recognised at once as that of Essec Powell's sister. I felt great indignation at the sight, as Agnes knew my intense dislike to the Methodist preacher, and, drawing back for her to pass, I said, 'I did not expect to meet a stranger in my own house at such a time, and I must beg that it may not happen again.'

"The girl passed on, with an angry flush upon her face. Betto gently drew me into an adjoining bedroom, and, with a troubled face, implored me not to give way to angry feelings. 'Be gentle to her,' she said; 'poor thing, she's as frail as an eggshell. Wait till she is well, master, and then—I pray God may bring some light out of this darkness.'

"I only nodded, and went gently into the sickroom. Agnes was lying propped up by pillows, her face almost as white as they. Her eyes were closed, as she had not heard my careful footsteps. I looked at her intently, while all sorts of thoughts and longings passed through my mind. At last the intensity of my gaze seemed to awaken her, for she opened her eyes, and for a moment there was a tremor on her lips.

"'Meurig,' she said, and she put out her hand, which I took in mine. Even while I held her hand I noticed on her bed a bunch of sweet violets which I had seen Lewis gather in the morning.—'Meurig, why have you been cold to me?' she asked, while her hand still lay in mine. 'If I have ever done anything to displease you, will you not forgive me, and kiss your little child?' and she looked down at your little head lying on her arm beside her. Oh, Caradoc, God alone knows the tumult of feelings which overwhelmed me. I cannot describe them! I stooped and kissed your little black head, and more, I stooped and kissed her pale forehead.

"'I forgive you,' I said.

"'Is that all?' she said.

"And as I hesitated, the old haughty flush rose to her forehead, and turning her head on her pillow, she said, 'I am tired now, and want to sleep.'

"So I turned away and closed the door gently, and I never saw her alive again, for that night she died suddenly. Swiftly the Angel of Death came, at her call. I believe it, Caradoc, for Dr. Hughes who was sent for hurriedly, declared he knew of no reason why she should not have lived.

"'I think she would have recovered, Wynne,' he said, 'had she wished to; but where there is no wish to live sometimes the powers of life fail, and the patient dies. Why she did not wish to live I do not know—perhaps you do,' and my old friend turned from me with a coldness in his manner, which has remained there ever since."

The Vicar sank into his chair again, as if the memory of his early trials had fatigued him, and Cardo, rising and approaching him, drew his hand gently over his black hair besprinkled with white. His son's tenderness seemed to reach the old man's heart.

Burying his face in his hands he gulped down a sob before he continued:

"Wait a minute, Cardo, you will not pity me when you have heard all my story. With the earliest dawn I rushed out of the house, which seemed to stifle me. I longed for the cool morning breezes, and God forgive me, if I thought too with longing of the cool sandy reaches that lay under the rippling waters of the bay! On the brow of the hill I met Essec Powell, who was out early to see a sick cow, and there, while my heart was sore to agony, and my brain was tortured to distraction, that man reproached me and insolently dared to call me to account for 'my inhuman conduct to my wife!'

"'Ach y fi! What are you? he said, with his strong Welsh accent, 'are you man or devil?' and he tore open the wounds which were already galling me unbearably. 'You bring a young girl from a happy home, where she was indulged and petted, and in a year's time you have broken her spirit, and you will break her heart. Because her brute of an uncle forbids his own daughter to go near her—my sister, her old schoolfellow, goes to see her in her trouble, and you turn her out of your house. I have longed for the opportunity of telling you what I thought of you, and of what all the world thinks of you.'

"I was a strong man, and he was a weak and shrivelled creature; I could have tossed him over the rocks into the sea below. It required a very strong effort to control my fury, but I did do so, and I turned away without answering him, except by a cold, haughty look. I hated him, Caradoc, and I have hated him ever since. He had not then heard of Agnes's death, but the news flew fast through the neighbourhood, and I knew I was everywhere looked upon as her murderer!

"As I returned to my miserable home, I saw a man on horseback come out at the back gate. It was one of Colonel Vaughan's servants. I wondered what brought him there so early, but went in at the front gate to avoid meeting him. The house was very silent with its drawn blinds.

"When Betto came in with pale, tearful face, I asked her what had brought Colonel Vaughan's servant there so early.

"'A very strange thing, sir,' she said. 'He came to ask if Miss Vaughan was here? Colonel Vaughan was in great distress—if you call tearing about and swearing being in great distress—that was what Sam said, sir—because Miss Vaughan is nowhere to be found. Dir anwl! a strange thing, indeed, sir!'

"I was too miserable to pay much attention to her gossip, and began my breakfast alone, for Lewis had not appeared, and I dreaded to see him. I had thought it strange that in the turmoil of the night before, with the hurried footsteps and the arrival of the doctor's gig, my brother had not been disturbed, and he was apparently still sleeping. I shall never forget that long, long day. I thought my misery was beyond human endurance; little did I think that ere night it would be increased tenfold.

"I had refused to leave this room, though Betto had done her best to persuade me to eat the dinner which she had prepared She was always quick to read my thoughts and understand my feelings.

"'You would be quite as much alone in the parlour, sir, as you are here;' she said, 'for I can see nothing of Mr. Lewis. Indeed, I have been into his room, and I see he has not slept there last night,' and she flung her apron over her head, and swayed backwards and forwards crying 'Oh, anwl! beth na i!'[3] and she slowly and tremblingly drew a note out of her pocket and handed it to me. 'Perhaps that will tell you something, sir.'

"'Where did you find this?' I said,

"I found it on her bed after she died. Mr. Lewis had sent it by Madlen the nurse.'

"I tore the note open—I never dreamt it was dishonourable, neither do I now—and read the words which began the awakening that was to come with such force and bitterness. They were these:

"'MY DEAR AGNES,—My warmest congratulations upon the birth of your little one, and my deepest thanks for all your kindness to me and dear Nellie. Without your help we should never have been united. Good-bye, and may God grant us all a happy meeting at some future time.

"'Your ever grateful and devoted friends,

"'LEWIS WYNNE and ELLEN VAUGHAN.'

"I stared at the letter in a maze of troubled thought, the feeling uppermost in my mind being 'too late! too late! gone for ever, my beloved wife! and alienated from me for ever my little less loved brother!'

"'And this, sir,' said Betto, drawing another letter from her pocket,
'I found on Mr. Lewis's table. I think it is directed to you.'

"I hastily tore that open also, and read words that I cannot even now bring myself to repeat. They were too bitter in their tender upbraiding, in their innocent ignorance of my suspicions. They spoke of a love whose existence I had not guessed; of his devotion to Ellen Vaughan, my wife's cousin; of his deep gratitude to Agnes for her unfailing kindness to him and to his beloved Ellen; of his deep distress at my evident dislike of him.

"'What has come between us, Meurig?' he said. 'What has become of the faithful love of so many years? Is it possible you have grudged me the shelter of your roof and the food that I have eaten? I can scarcely believe it, and yet I fear it is true. Enclosed I leave you a cheque which will pay for anything I may have cost you; further than that I can only thank you for your, I fear, unwilling hospitality, and pray that some day we may meet, when this mysterious cloud, which I have deplored so much, may have cleared away.

"'When you read this, Ellen and I will have been married at St.
Jorwerth's Church at Caer Madoc, and shall, I hope, have sailed for
Australia, where you know I have long wished to go.'

"'Betto,' I said, 'is she lying dead and still upstairs?'

"'Yes, master, poor angel! still enough and white enough in her coffin!
Why, sir, why?'

"'Because I wonder she does not come down and reproach us, for we have been wronging her from beginning to end, Betto! These letters prove to me that my brother—my beloved, innocent brother—was deeply in love with her cousin, Ellen Vaughan, and she, in the tenderness of her heart, helped to bring about their union, and was the means of delivering the letters which they wrote to each other. They were married this morning at Caer Madoc Church, and have probably already sailed for Australia.'

"Betto left me, sobbing bitterly. I think she has never forgiven herself; neither can I forgive myself, Cardo. As the years went on, my sorrow only deepened, and an intense longing arose in my heart for the friendship of the brother who had been so much to me for so many years. I wrote to him, Caradoc—a humble, penitent letter, beseeching his forgiveness even as a man begs for his life. He has never answered my letter. I know he is alive and thriving, as he writes sometimes to Dr. Hughes; but to me he has never sent a message or even acknowledged my letter, and I thirst for his forgiveness—I cannot die without it.

"I have long cherished the thought that when you came to man's estate I would send you to him. I would send the best of earthly treasure that I possess—my only son—to plead for me, to explain for me, and to bring back his love and forgiveness. Now, Cardo, will you go?"

"I will, father," said Cardo, rising and placing his hand in his father's.

"And can you think over what I have told you and still retain a little love and pity for your old father?"

"Father, I feel nothing but the deepest sorrow and pity for you both—father and mother. I don't know which is to be pitied most. Thank you for telling me all this, it explains so much that has puzzled me—it accounts for your sadness and gloom—and—and your apparent coldness. I will go to Australia, and, please God, I will bring back my uncle's love and forgiveness to you."

"God bless you, my boy, and good-night."

There was a warm hand-clasp, and Cardo left his father sitting by the flickering candle, which had burnt down to its socket.

[1] A blue mug containing a little over half a pint.

[2] Dear sweetheart.

[3] "Oh, dear! what shall I do?"