In the spacious, handsomely-furnished drawing-room of a large country-house, two ladies sat on a quiet evening in autumn. The large bay window looked out over extensive grounds to the blue hills beyond. In the pale evening sky the crescent moon hung like a silver boat, the trees in the quiet air looked black as if drawn in ink. In the grate a large wood fire crackled, which the elder lady seemed much to enjoy as she rubbed her hands one over another on her knee, and spoke in a low, purring tone. The younger occupant of the room was a girl about twenty years of age; she was fair and fragile-looking compared with her portly companion, who was rather florid in complexion.

"Put your work away, my dear," said the elder lady; "it is getting too dark for you to see."

"This is the last petal, auntie," said the girl, still bending her head with its wealth of golden hair over her work. At last with a satisfied "There!" she laid it on the table and turned towards the bay window, through which might be seen a fair view of the park, with its undulating knolls and clumps of trees, between which wound in flowing curves the well-kept drive leading to the high road.

"You had better ring for the lights, Gwladys," said the elder lady, as she settled herself to what she called "five minutes' snooze," a slumber which generally lasted till dinner-time.

"There is a carriage coming down the drive; what can it be, auntie?" But auntie was already in dreamland, and Gwladys stood still at the window watching with curiosity the vehicle which drew nearer and nearer.

"The fly from the Red Dragon at Monmouth! who can it be?" and her blue eyes opened wide as she saw alighting from it a girl in a quiet black travelling dress. "She's young and has golden hair like mine—a dressmaker, probably, for one of the servants, but she would scarcely come to the front door."

Before she had time to conjecture further, the door was opened by a servant man, who seemed rather flustered as the visitor entered quickly, unannounced. She had merely asked him, "Miss Gwladys Powell lives here?" and, receiving an answer in the affirmative, had walked into the hall and followed the puzzled man to the drawing-room door.

As she entered the room in the dim twilight, Gwladys stood still with astonishment, while William so far forgot himself as to stand open-mouthed with his hand on the door-handle, until Gwladys said, "The lamps, William," when he disappeared suddenly.

The visitor stood for one moment frightened and doubtful.

"I am Valmai," she said, approaching Gwladys with her hands extended.

"Valmai?" said Gwladys, taking both the offered hands. "I don't know the name—but—surely, surely, we are sisters! You are my twin-sister. Oh, I have heard the old story, and have longed for and dreamt of this meeting all my life," and in a moment the two girls were clasped to each other's hearts.

Gwladys seemed more unnerved by the meeting than Valmai, for she trembled with eagerness as she drew the new-comer nearer to the window, where the evening light shone upon the fresh pure face, so completely the image of her own, that both were impelled over and over again to renew their embraces, and to cling closely together.

When William entered with the lights, they were seated on the sofa with clasped hands, and arms thrown round each other's necks.

"Please, m'm, is the carriage to go or to stay?"

"Oh, to go—to go, of course," said Gwladys, rising to her feet.

"I have paid him," said Valmai; "but I couldn't be sure, you know, whether—whether—"

"No, darling, of course. Auntie, auntie, awake and see who has come."

Mrs. Besborough Power blinked lazily.

"Dinner?" she said.

"No, no, auntie, not for another hour, it is only seven o'clock; but do wake up and see who has come."

But the sight of the strange girl had already recalled her aunt to her senses; her beady black eyes were fixed upon her, and her high-bridged nose seemed to be aiding them in their inquiries, as she pressed her lips together, and sniffed in astonishment.

"Gwladys," she said, "is it possible that I have invited anyone to dinner, and then forgotten it?"

Gwladys had removed her sister's hat, and as she stood now before Mrs. Power, in the full light of the lamp and the fire, that poor lady was smitten by the same bewilderment which had taken possession of William at the front door. She could only ejaculate:

"Gracious goodness, Gwladys! What is the meaning of this? Who is it, child? and which are you? Are you this one or that one? For heaven's sake say something, or I shall be quite confused."

"It's Valmai, auntie, my twin-sister, though you could not remember her name, but of whom I have thought often and often. Auntie, you will welcome her for my sake? Is she not the very image of me? alike—nay, not so, but the same, the very same, only in two bodies. Oh, Valmai! Valmai! why have we been separated so long?" and, sinking into a chair, she trembled with agitation.

Mrs. Power held her hands out, though not very cordially. She was beginning to arrange her ideas.

"Welcome her! Why, of course, of course. How do you do, my dear? Very glad to see you, I am sure, though I can't think where you have dropped from. Gwladys, calm yourself; I am surprised at you. I thought you were in Figi, or Panama, or Macedonia, or some place of that kind."

"Patagonia," said Valmai, smiling. "My parents both died there, and I have come home to live in Wales again—"

"Well, to be sure," said Mrs. Power, rubbing one hand over another, her favourite action. "Come, Gwladys, don't cry—don't be silly; as your sister is here, she will stay with us a week or so. Can you, my dear?"

"Yes," said Valmai, whose clear mind quickly drew its own conclusions and formed its own plans. "Yes, indeed, I hoped you would ask me to stay a week or so; but do not think I am come to be dependent on you. No, I am well off, but I had an intense longing to see my sister; and having no ties or claims upon me, I made up my mind to find her out before I settled down into some new life."

Alas, poor human nature! The few words, "I am well off," influenced
Mrs. Besborough Power at once in her reception of the friendless girl.

"Of course, my dear, stay as long as you like. Go upstairs now and take your things off, and after dinner you shall tell us all your story."

And arm-in-arm the two girls left the room, "like twin cherries on a stalk." The resemblance between them was bewildering; every line of feature, every tone of colouring was the same.

"Let us stand together before this cheval glass," said Gwladys, "and have a good look at each other. Oh, Valmai, my beloved sister, I feel as if I had known you all my life, and could never bear to part with you."

And as they stood side by side before the glass, they were themselves astonished, puzzled, and amused at the exact likeness of one to the other. The same broad forehead, in which, at the temples, the blue veins showed so plainly, the same depth of tenderness in the blue eyes, the same slender neck, and the same small hands; the only difference lay in the expression, for over Gwladys's upper lip and half-drooped eyelids hovered a shade of pride and haughtiness which was absent from Valmai's countenance.

"Oh, see," she said playfully, "there is a difference—that little pink mole on my arm. Valmai, you haven't got it."

"No," said Valmai, critically examining her wrist, with rather a dissatisfied look, "I haven't got that; but in everything else we are just alike. How lovely you are, Gwladys."

"And you, Valmai, how sweet." And again they embraced each other.

"I have no dress to change for dinner, dear. Do you dress?"

"Oh, only just a little, and I won't at all this evening. How strange we should both be in mourning, too! Mine is for Mrs. Power's sister. Who are you wearing black for?"

A hot blush suffused Valmai's face and neck as she answered slowly:

"I am not in mourning, but thought black would be nice to travel in. I generally wear white."

"How strange! so do I," said Gwladys; "white or something very light. Shall we go down, dear? Would you like a bedroom to yourself, or shall we sleep together?"

"Oh, let us sleep together!"

And with arms thrown over each other's shoulders, they descended the broad staircase, just as Mrs. Power, in answer to William's summons, was crossing the hall to the dining-room.

"Here we are, auntie, or here I am and here is she."

"Come along, then, my dears."

"Well, indeed, I never did," said William, when he entered the kitchen; "no, I never, never did see such a likeness between two young leddies. They are the same picture as each other! And missus says to me, 'William,' she says, 'this is Miss Gwladys's sister, her twin-sister,' she says, 'Miss Valmai Powell.' And I couldn't say nothing, if you believe me, with my eyes as big as saucers. Ach y fi! there's an odd thing!"

In the drawing-room after dinner there were endless questions and answers, each one seeming to find in the other's history a subject of the deepest interest. Mrs. Besborough Power, especially, with her nose in the air, sometimes looking over her spectacles, and sometimes under them, sometimes through them, did not hesitate to question Valmai on the minutest particulars of her life hitherto—questions which the latter found it rather difficult to answer without referring to the last eighteen months.

"H'm!" said Mrs. Power, for the twentieth time, "and ever since your father's death you have been living with your uncle?"

"With my uncles, first one and then the other; and the last few months with dear Nance, my old nurse."

"What! Nance Owen? Is she alive still?"

"Yes; she is, indeed."

"She must be very old now?"

"Yes, and frail; but as loving and tender as ever."

And so on, and so on, until bed-time; and the two girls were once more together in their bedroom.

The maid, who was deeply interested in the strange visitor, lingered about the toilet-table a little unnecessarily, until Gwladys, in a voice which, though not unkind, showed she was more accustomed to command than Valmai, said:

"That will do, thank you, I will do my own hair to-night. My sister and I wish to talk." And, having dismissed Maria, she drew two cosy chairs round the wood fire.

"Come along, Valmai, now we can chat to our heart's content." And soon, with feet on fender and hair unloosed, the sisters talked and talked, as if making up for the long years of silence which had divided them.

"And how happy that neither of us is married," said Gwladys. "We might never have met then, dear."

"Possibly," said Valmai.

"And what a good thing we haven't the same lover to quarrel about."

"Yes," said Valmai, rather absently. She was struggling hard with the tumult of feelings which she had hitherto restrained, endeavouring to smile and laugh as the occasion required; but now the tide of emotions, which had been pent up all day, threatened to burst its bonds.

"What is it, dear?" said Gwladys. "What makes your voice tremble so? There is something you are hiding from me?" and, flinging herself down on the hearth-rug at Valmai's feet, she clasped her arms around her knees, and leant her head on her lap, while Valmai, giving way to the torrent of tears which had overpowered her, bent her own head over her sister's until their long unbound hair was mingled together.

"Oh, Gwladys! Gwladys!" she said, between her sobs, "yes, I have hidden something from you. Something, oh, everything—the very point and meaning of my life. And I must still hide it from you. Gwladys, can you trust me? Can you believe your sister is pure and good when she tells you that the last eighteen months of her life must be hidden from you? Not because they contain anything shameful, but because circumstances compel her to silence."

The effect of these words upon Gwladys was, at first, to make her rigid and cold as stone. She drew herself away from her sister, gently but firmly, and, standing before her with blanched face and parched lips, said:

"I thought it was too good to be true; that I, who have so longed for a sister's love, should have my desire so fully satisfied seemed too good for earth, and now I see it was. There is a secret between us, a shadow, Valmai; tell me something more, for pity's sake!"

"I will tell you all I can, Gwladys, the rest I must keep to myself, even though you should spurn me and cast me from you to-morrow, for I have promised one who is dearer to me than life itself, and nothing shall make me break that promise. Gwladys, I have loved, but—but I have lost."

"I know very little of the world," said Gwladys, speaking in cold tones, "and still less of men; but the little I know of them has made me despise them. Three times I have been sought in marriage, and three times I have found something dishonourable in the men who said they loved me. Love! What do men know of love? Fortunately my heart was untouched; but you, Valmai, have been weaker. I see it all—oh! to my sorrow I see it all! You have believed and trusted, and you have been betrayed? Am I right?"

"Yes, and no; I have loved and I have trusted, but I have not been betrayed. He will come back to me, Gwladys—I know he will, some time or other—and will explain the meaning of this long silence. Meanwhile I must go on bearing and waiting."

"Look into my eyes, Valmai," said Gwladys, kneeling once more before her sister.

And Valmai looked full into the blue orbs, the counterpart of her own, with fearless, open gaze.

"Now speak," said Gwladys, taking her sister's hand, and holding it on her own fast-beating heart; "now tell me, here as we kneel together before the All-seeing God and His holy angels, do you know of any reason why we two, when we have dropped these bodies, should not stand in equal purity before the Throne of God?"

"Before God there is none! Of course, Gwladys, my heart is full of the frailties and sin belonging to our human nature; but I understand what you mean; and again I say, there is none!"

"I will believe you, darling," said her sister, throwing her arms around her, "I will believe you, dearest; I will take you into my warm heart, and I will cling to you for ever!"

"But I must go, Gwladys; I want to find some home where I can make myself useful, and where I can fill my mind and hands with work until—until—"

"Until when, dear?" said Gwladys.

Valmai rose with a troubled face and tearful eyes, and, stretching out her hands, she gazed over them into the far distance, with a dreamy look which gradually changed into a brightening smile.

"Until the happy future comes! It will come some day, Gwladys, and then you will be glad you trusted your sister."

"Then to-night, dear," said Gwladys, "we will bury the last eighteen months. I will never think of them or allude to them until you choose to enlighten me. One thing only, Valmai," she added, "forget that man—learn to despise him as I do; here is the fourth on my list! Let us go to bed, dear; we are both tired."

And the two sisters were soon sleeping side by side, so much alike in every feature and limb, that no one looking at them would have been able to distinguish one from the other.

"What a strange thing," said Mrs. Power, a few days afterwards, as they roamed about the grounds together, "that the Merediths should have written to me just the day before you came! My dear, I think it will be a delightful home for you. True, Mifanwy is an invalid, and you will be her companion; but then they are advised to amuse her as much as possible, and she sees a good deal of life, often going about from one place to another. Let me see! they will get my letter to-morrow, and I have no doubt they will write by return of post; but we can't spare you for a month, dear. You know you promised us that!" And the old lady purred on, walking between the twins, and much interested in her plans.

"Yes, indeed," said Valmai, "I shall be thankful for such a situation; it is just what I would have chosen for myself, whatever."

"'Whatever' and 'indeed' so often is very Welshy, my love," said Mrs.
Power, with a sniff of disapproval.

"Yes, I am afraid, indeed," said the girl; "but you should have heard me two years ago. I could scarcely speak any English then!"

"Well, my dear, I hope Gwladys won't catch your Welsh accent; but the
Merediths have it very strongly themselves."

"Oh! I hope they will like me," said Valmai. "I must not count my chickens before they are hatched!"

But they were hatched, and in this matter everything turned out well for Valmai.

The Merediths, who lived in an adjoining county, had for some time been looking out for a companion for their eldest and invalid daughter. They were delighted, therefore, when Mrs. Besborough Power's letter arrived telling them of Gwladys's meeting with her twin-sister, and of the latter's desire to find some situation of usefulness; and in less than a month Valmai was domiciled amongst them, and already holding a warm place in their regard.

Mifanwy opened her heart to her at once, and seemed every day to revive under the influence of her bright companionship; and her parents, delighted with the change which they began to perceive in their daughter, heaped kindnesses and attention upon Valmai, who was soon looked upon as one of the family; even Gwen and Winifred, the two younger girls, taking to her in a wonderful manner.

Yes! Valmai was outwardly happy and fortunate. She hid from every eye the sorrow which lay at the bottom of her heart like a leaden weight, and little did those around her guess that every night, in the privacy of her own room, she drew from her bosom a plain gold ring, and, laying it on the bed before her, prayed over it with clasped hands and streaming eyes.

Gwladys and she corresponded very regularly, and she frequently went to Carne for a few days' change when Mifanwy was well enough to spare her; always regretted by the whole family when she left, and warmly welcomed when she returned.