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 fÂch; 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 bÂch! 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 bÂch! 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, bÂch! 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 bÂch."

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 fÂch, 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 bÂch! 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 bÂch." [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.