"Yes, I have promised. You are not, I suppose?"

"Well, no—but I am going to the bidding."

"Yes, there's what I heard."

"I was thinking that would be enough," he said. "What do you think?"

"Quite enough," said Mari. "Being the Mishteer, they would scarcely expect you to both; and if you went to this one, you would offend others by refusing——"

"Exactly what I was thinking," said Hugh.

"We had better have supper now," said Mari, "the potatoes are done." And taking the huge crock which hung by a chain from the wide chimney, she placed it on the floor, and with the large wooden spoon or "lletwad" mashed the snowy potatoes into a steaming paste, adding a little salt and cream. From this crock she partly filled the black, shining bowls which were ranged on the table, placing a wooden spoon for herself and her uncle. A large jug of buttermilk stood in the centre of the table.

For the Mishteer, Mari placed a quaint, slender silver spoon; but he indignantly pushed it away, and she laughingly substituted for it a wooden one like her own.

"Mari, fâch," he said, "what dost think I am made of that I should eat out of a silver spoon while thou art satisfied with a wooden one? Not I, indeed! Well, I don't think anyone ever did cook potatoes like thee. More? Caton pawb! no, I have made two suppers in one."

After supper she closed the door, and throwing a log over the culm fire made it blaze up brightly.

A spirit of rest and content came over Hugh, which he invariably felt in her presence. Her needles clicked, and her golden head was bent over her work; the shining points of her little shoes peeped out under her red petticoat; and as she chatted cheerfully, her white teeth glistening and her dimpled chin adding its charm to her fair pale face, even 'n'wncwl Jos noticed how fair she was to look upon. Hugh was accustomed to sudden awakenings to her charms, but had schooled and hardened himself against their influence. Besides, to-night he was pre-occupied—his thoughts were full of something else. The clock in the corner struck nine, drawing near bedtime in that simple village.

"Howyr bâch!" said Hugh, with a start; "it will be time to go before I have said what I wanted to."

"What is it?" inquired Mari.

"Well, thou know'st," he answered, "I always like 'n'wncwl Jos's advice; and—and I am thinking of getting married."

Mari's heart stood still; and at that moment, while her needles continued to click, and she showed no sign of the agony within her even then, the hope that had been nourished for fifteen years died; not the love, for that was all enduring and undying. And while she passed through a spasm of pain, she yet raised her white lids calmly, and looking full into Hugh Morgan's face, said:

"It will be better for thee than living alone."

"Diws anwl!" said 'n'wncwl Jos; "there's news I'll have to give in the sail-shed to-morrow. Nobody'll listen to the war in China."

"Stop, stop," said Hugh; "you must tell no one: Perhaps the girl won't have me, man. Wait until I give you leave." And turning his black eyes upon those into which he had once looked with passionate love, he said, "I'm afraid, Mari, thou wilt not approve of my choice."

"Who is she?" asked Mari.

"Gwladys Price."

There was a dead silence for a moment. Mari put down her knitting; 'n'wncwl Jos changed his quid from one cheek to the other.

"Jâr-i!" he said; "she's a nice girl."

"What dost say, Mari?" said Hugh; "too young, dost think?"

"Well," she answered calmly, "she's the best girl in the village; and if she does not think herself too young, it won't matter what others think."

"There's just what I was thinking," said Hugh. "Mari, thou art always a sensible woman. She has no other lover, and er—and er—in fact, I love her. I have been a lonely man for years—since the old days, Mari. Nay, don't blush; I'm not blaming thee, lass. And perhaps if it had been otherwise, we wouldn't now be such perfect friends."

"Perhaps, indeed," said Mari, beginning to recover her equanimity. She saw in her mind's eye another long stretch of arid desert before her; but her courage rose, and her love was not quenched. She would still be his friend, and that could bring nothing but blessing upon him. Though unchanged and undiminished in its depth and fervour, her love had become more and more free from the selfishness and taint of earthly passion.

"Well, in my little deed!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, "if any girl in Mwntseison could tempt me to do such a foolish thing as to get married, 'twould be Gwladys Price."

"Caton pawb!" said Hugh, with a merry ring in his voice, which was not lost upon Mari's quick ear; "don't you go and be my rival now, 'n'wncwl Jos, or I will have no chance, indeed!"

"No doubt, no doubt!" answered the old man, with, a perfect storm of laughter and stumps of his wooden leg.

Mari went on knitting quietly. "Thou hast my best wishes, Hugh," she said at last, looking up into his face; "thou know'st that."

"Yes," said Hugh laconically. He took her hand in his, and for a moment he longed to ask her if his marriage would cost her one pang of pain; but with the memory of the long years of calm friendship lying between them and that evening when the moon set too soon for both, how could he ask such a question? So he was silent, and the opportunity went by for ever. "Nos da!"[6] was all he said, "and hundred thanks for your good wishes. Nos da, 'n'wncwl Jos; none of this in the sail-shed, mind, until I give you leave."

"No, no!" said the old man; "but diws anwl, don't be long." And he stumped his wooden leg four or five times on the ground.

Outside in the moonlight Hugh Morgan walked a few paces, with his head rather drooping on his chest, thinking, not of his new love, but of his old. How fair she was still! how sweet and tender! how true and tried a friend! God grant that through life her friendship might continue his!

At the turn of the path he came in sight of Gwladys' cottage. A light was in the window, and a figure passed and re-passed before it. The night breeze blew straight from him to the cottage, and on its wings Hugh sent a fervent "God bless her!" while a light awoke in his eyes and a flush rose into his face, which, he was glad to remember, no one could see.

"Only eighteen!" he said, "and I—forty! old enough to be her father! Will she have me? If she will, she shall never repent it; my love shall hedge her in, and shield her from every earthly ill." And as he entered his house he felt as he had not done for years—how lonely it was, and he pictured Gwladys' presence lighting up the quiet hearth.

When he smoked his last pipe tender the big chimney his thoughts returned to Mari.

"How completely she had forgotten the old days! and what a good thing it was! 'It will be better for thee than living alone!' Kind friend, she always knew what was wisest and best!"

[1] Englishman.

[2] What shall I do?

[3] Certainly.

[4] A hundred thanks.

[5] A small kind of anthracite rubble mixed with clay and water, which, made into oval balls, burn slowly, but with a fierce bright glow.

[6] Good-night.

"Jâr-i, what must I give?" said 'n'wncwl Jos, scratching his head. "Old Peggi Shân came to thy mother's bidding, Mari, and gave sixpence, for I kiwked[1] at it as it went into the basin, and I fished it out pretty sharp. 'Ach y fi!' I said, 'no witch's money for my sister!' and sure as I'm here, 'twas a bad sixpence; so I don't owe much to Gwen."

But when the bidding day arrived, 'n'wncwl Jos was one of the noisiest and merriest there, welcoming the guests as if he were the father of the bride. "Dewch 'mewn! dewch 'mewn!"[2] and he guided each fresh arrival to the door of a disused cowhouse at the end of the garden, where Gwen sat in state just inside the door, across which a table had been placed; on this table stood a basin covered with a plate ready to receive the gifts of her friends. As soon as a piece of money was put upon it Gwen tilted the plate, and emptied its contents into the basin, replacing it again empty and ready for the next donation.

"Come along!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, piloting Gwladys Price to the door, "here's the bride! Nothing less than a shilling now, Nani! for you don't know how soon Gwen will have to return it."

Nani smiled. "Not too soon I hope; I don't want to lose my daughter yet."

She dropped a shilling on the plate, and Gwladys followed with her modest sixpence. Everybody said "Priodas dda i chi!"[3] as he or she turned away to make room for another.

Gwen was very smiling and grateful as the sixpences and shillings and even half-crowns came tumbling on to the plate, and the basin had several times to be handed over to the bridesmaid, who quickly slipped an empty one in its place.

"What a good bidding she's having," whispered the women to each other, as they kept a keen eye on the numerous changes of basins. "Why! I've seen a pink and a green and a blue on the board already! Siencyn has done a good thing for himself, whatever!"

There was a little excitement in the company as Hugh Morgan came down between the cabbage-beds, followed by Ivor Parry, and there was quite a craning of necks to see how much the Mishteer put on the plate.

"A gold sovereign, as sure as I'm here!" said a woman to her neighbours; "and Ivor Parry two crown pieces! Wel wyr! there's rich she'll be!"

"Oh! Mishteer bâch!" said Gwen, "a piece of gold! Wel wyr! did man ever hear of such a thing! A hundred thanks!" and she rose to make a bob curtsey. "Well, indeed, indeed, you are too kind, and you must let Siencyn always carry your culm and coal in the Speedwell for nothing! Oh, yes, indeed you must! And I thank thee, too, Ivor Parry, and hope to return thy gift soon at thine own bidding!"

"Well, Priodas dda," said both men, shaking hands and turning towards the house, where the fun and merriment began to wax loud and furious under the influence of the "cwrw da,"[4] which Siencyn dispensed with liberal hand.

In the penisha a crowd of women sat round a long table drinking tea and eating "light cakes," a delicious kind of batter cake, considered indispensable at a Welsh festive gathering; while in the penucha every guest of the opposite sex was expected to taste the ale which had been brewed for the occasion, and to eat one of the diamond-shaped "bidding cakes." Here there was much boisterous laughter and loud talking, which was somewhat hushed as the Mishteer entered.

"A 'blue' for the Mishteer!" shouted somebody to Siencyn, who presided at the tap. And Hugh drained his cup, and placed his cake in his pocket. Having wished Siencyn "Priodas dda," and made a few joking remarks to the men, who had soon recovered from their momentary silence, he made his way into the penisha, where Gwladys Price and her mother were coming to an end of their tea and light cakes, Dye Pentraeth having deserted them for the more potent charms of the beer barrel.

"Come," said Hugh, "this is more in my line; a cup of tea, Esther!" and he took a vacant seat next to Gwladys, who blushed at the honour, and handed him a plate of light cakes.

"How fortunate for me to find this seat vacant, Gwladys, unless, indeed, thou wert keeping it for someone else."

"No, no, indeed," stammered the girl, for her tender conscience told her she had not been without hope that Ivor might come in and fill it; but he had been pounced upon by a fat farm wife, who kept him in attendance upon her and her daughter—the little tricks of society not being confined to one class.

Hugh made most of his time. His sparkling black eyes and ready wit, together with a certain earnestness of manner and a superior education to that of his neighbours, gave an indefinable charm to his conversation, which the simple women around him were not slow to feel, though they could not have explained it in words.

Gwladys, amused and flattered, was soon chatting and laughing unrestrainedly, her face glowing with the fun and excitement of the occasion. Deep below the surface was the unconfessed longing for Ivor's presence, and when at last he entered the room, and took his seat on the opposite side of the table, she found it difficult to keep up her interest in her companion's conversation.

Hugh Morgan's experiences of life being limited to one small village, in the shelter of a lonely bay, he had no great range of subjects upon which to dilate; but his natural good taste and intelligence made him aware that the daily occupation of the sail-shed had better be kept in the background, and he confined himself to the fairs and eisteddfods of the neighbourhood, and amused Gwladys by a description of a competition in which he had been adjudicator, where the three competitors had quarrelled so violently on the platform, that they had to be turned out of the meeting.

"Oh, anwl! I wish I had been there," she said.

"I was there," said Ivor. "I am sorry, Mishteer, to call you away, but Captain Roberts wants to see you about those sails which were torn so much in the last gale. Will I take him a message for you?"

"No, no," said Hugh, rising at once; "business must be attended to. Come and take care of Gwladys while I am gone." And Ivor, nothing loth, took his place beside her.

"What a good bidding Gwen has had," she said, examining her plate shyly.

It was the general opinion, but Ivor did not agree with it. He shrugged his shoulders, and said:

"A bad bidding I call it. I have not seen thee to speak a word to to-day."

The pattern on Gwladys' plate seemed to interest her still more.

"The Mishteer has been making me laugh about the Abersethin Eisteddfod," she said.

"Yes—I was glad to see him so lively; it is seldom he speaks to a woman; and a good thing they say, for they all fall in love with him."

"Wel, indeed, there is something very nice about him," said Gwladys. "I can't think how Mari Vone refused him. She did once, they say."

"Yes, so I have heard. Not often do parted lovers become such good friends as they are."

While he had been speaking, he had poured out a glass of the foaming cwrw which Siencyn had just brought in, and he held it towards the girl, who shook her head, saying, "I prefer tea."

"But thou'lt drink from my hand," he said, in a low tone; and Gwladys, knowing that a refusal to the request, "Drink from my hand," would be reckoned an insult, smilingly took the glass and put her lips to it.

"No more? I will drink the rest to thy health then, lass, and may thy life be full of love and happiness! Wilt wish something for me?"

"Yes, I wish thee the same!" and Ivor seemed satisfied.

Gwladys was in a dream of bliss, and it was only when Hugh Morgan returned, and Ivor rose to make room for him, that she began as usual to fear that she had made her preference for the latter too apparent. She called herself to task for her too evident happiness in his presence, and her dissatisfaction at his absence.

"What do I expect?" she said. "Ivor is kind and pleasant, but he does not love me; that I know full well!"

Later in the afternoon, when the guests were beginning to disperse, and the sound of the waves came fuller and plainer through the open windows, everyone knew it was nearly full tide, and time for Siencyn and Gwen to take their departure. The money collected at the bidding was counted, and the bride was loudly congratulated upon the large amount.

"Thirty pounds—enough to set the young couple up in comfort!"

It was entrusted to Lallo's keeping, and later in the evening she handed it over with much pride to Hugh Morgan, who stood in the place of "banker" to the whole village.

A large party of the young people attended the happy couple to the shore, singing as they went an old part song of farewell greeting.

There was no way of reaching the boat that was to carry them to the Speedwell which danced and dipped in the bay, so Siencyn unceremoniously took off his shoes and stockings, and, hoisting his bride on his shoulders, waded through the surf, amongst the shouts and laughter and boisterous "hwré's" of the company. They waited on the shore until the Speedwell was fairly under weigh, and with fluttering pennons and flags had disappeared round the horn of the bay.

All the evening, and late into the moonlight, the lads and lasses of the village kept up the festive character of the day, sitting about in knots on the rocks and cliffs, and of course singing to their hearts' content. Lallo alone seemed rather depressed as she led her pig home from a neighbour's stye, to which it had been banished for the day; he was now evidently in a hurry to get back to his own home, tugging violently at the string tied to his leg, which Lallo held. When he was safely housed, she stood somewhat tearfully thinking. Her life was a constant warfare with her pig, and either her voice or his, or both together, were generally to be heard. He had in every way disappointed her. She had meant him to be a fat and short pig; but instead of that he had grown long, and when he stood on his hind feet to argue with her, he was taller than the gate! She had had a board added to the top, but the pig had grown still longer, and was still able to put his head over the gate and vociferate his remonstrances.

"There, thou villain!" said Lallo, pouring a steaming bucketful of food into his trough; "hold thy tongue if thou canst."

"Oo'ee—oo'ee—oo'ee!" shrieked the pig, and Lallo imitating his tones derisively, the noise was deafening. At last, retiring from the frequent fray, she threw herself down on the settle in the penisha, from which all the guests had departed, and where nothing but the remains of the feast were left.

"Yes," she mused, "it is just as well that Gwen is married; there will now be a man to manage him; he wants a firmer hand than mine—the villain! Ivor never managed him properly. Now I will take the money to the Mishteer."

She had no sooner appeared at her front door than the pig assailed her with a fresh burst of "Oo'ee—oo'ees!" and Lallo shook her fist at him.

"Devil!" she said; "but never mind, my boy, wait till the fifth of September."

A few days afterwards, when the evening shadows were falling, Gwladys took her way to the beach, again to fill her creel for Nance Owen. The sun was sinking behind the sea in a glory of purple and gold, making a crimson pathway, which broadened out at her feet. She stood and gazed over the rippling surface, wondering whether Ivor was out fishing this evening. Once or twice a little boat crossed the shining pathway like a grey moth, and she called to mind the happy hour she had spent with him on the moon-lit bay. Would it ever happen again? Why did it seem so distant and so impossible? Is this his boat coming swiftly towards her? She heard the grating of the prow on the sand, she saw a stalwart form, who leapt to the shore, and walked hurriedly towards her. For a moment her heart beat faster, but only for a moment, for she saw the broad shoulders and firm step belonged to Hugh Morgan.

"Gwladys!" he called, "is it thee? Luck follows me to-day. This morning brought me good news, and this evening brings me something better. Wilt come in my boat for a row? It is real summer on the water this evening."

"I would like it; but, indeed, Mishteer, I can't, for Nance Owen will want her laver weed, and my creel is full."

"Nance can wait," said Hugh, "and I will loosen thy creel." And he began to loosen the strap which crossed her bosom. She did not think of resisting; "it was the Mishteer!" And she quietly helped to slip her head out of the strap. It was not without some measure of gratified vanity that she felt herself singled out from all the other girls in the village by his kindness; and therefore it was with a little flutter of pride that she allowed herself to be lifted into the boat, though the glamour which had brooded over sea and sky during her row with Ivor was absent. It was evident to her that the Mishteer was pleased with her work, and perhaps with her industry; but that he loved her had never dawned upon her mind. She took her oar naturally—every man, woman, and child at Mwntseison being perfectly at home on the water—and they rowed straight out towards the sunset, until the shore and village looked like a pretty vignette.

"There's nice, it is!" exclaimed Gwladys, "out here on the bay! 'Tis pity, indeed, that we can't come oftener!"

"And why not?" said Hugh, resting his oars on the rowlocks, and motioning to her to do the same.

"Wel indeed, Mishteer," she answered, laughing, "what would become of the work then? Who would make the sails?"

"Somebody else might," said Hugh; and he was silent for some time. "If I had my way," he said at last, "thou shouldst have a boat of thine own. Wouldst like that, lass?"

"Oh, anwl! What would I do with a boat—alone on the water? 'Twould soon become wearisome."

"But thou shouldst not be alone; I would row thee, Gwladys."

"Mishteer!" was all her answer.

"Yes, Gwladys. Hast not seen that I love thee? dost not know that all I have I would gladly give for thy love?"

His voice trembled, his eyes flashed, and the hand which held the oar in its nervous grasp shook like a leaf.

Gwladys was too astonished to think. She stooped over the soft, undulating water, pretending to look into its depths; and when at last his passionate words revealed plainly his meaning, she could only bend her head and ask timidly:

"Me?"

"Yes, thee," said Hugh. "Canst not understand that my happiness is in thine hands?"

Gwladys clasped her hands. "Oh, Mishteer!" she said, "I don't understand your words, or what you want of me."

"I want thee, Gwladys, to come and be the brightness of my home, the idol of my love—to be my wife, lass!"

Gwladys covered her face with her hands to hide her mingled feelings of astonishment and fright.

"It was the Mishteer!—he who had been mainstay and protector to her mother and herself ever since her father's death—to whom their cottage belonged—to whom they owed a year's rent—who had, in fact, loaded them with kindnesses and brightened their lives. And it was he who now desired to confer upon her this great honour. To be the Mishteer's wife!—she, a girl of eighteen, to be raised over all the other girls of the village; to own his house, his riches, and (above all) his heart! It was too wonderful for her to realize! But why—oh! why did not Ivor love her like this?"

All this flashed through her mind while she covered her face. Hugh came nearer, and, gently trying to draw away her hands, spoke again (and his voice was trembling and husky):

"Thou canst not love me! Tell me, Gwladys—hast any other lover?"

"No, no!" said the girl—"indeed, no! Nobody loves me! But, Mishteer—you are mistaken; you cannot care for-me—a poor girl, a fisherman's daughter, the humblest and poorest of your work-people!"

"I love thee," he said, taking both her hands in his; "and I am content that it should be all on my side at first—only at first, Gwladys—for my deep love for thee must in time awaken the same in thine heart for me. I know thou canst not love me now—I am so much older than thee. I cannot expect thee yet to care for a great rough fellow like me—but marry me, and I will change thy coldness to love! Believe me! Wilt try me, lass?"

Gwladys was trembling all over as she answered, "I cannot, Mishteer; oh! indeed I cannot!"

"Why not?"

"Because I am frightened and surprised."

"Dost dislike me then?"

"Oh, no! indeed, indeed we all love you; I love you Mishteer, but not—not as a girl ought to love her—lover."

"Say husband, Gwladys."

"Well, her husband."

"But I am satisfied to wait for that love. Wilt have me, girl?"

"Oh! Mishteer, we have drifted far out to sea; let us turn back; let me go home to mother—give me time."

"Of course!" said Hugh, beginning to use his oar again; "let us go back. I will not take thine answer here alone on the sea—I ought not to have asked thee; but to-morrow, Gwladys, to-morrow evening at this time, I will come to thee for my answer."

"Yes," whispered the girl, as she bent with a will to her oar.

The tide had turned, and the long billowy swells carried them swiftly back towards the land; a belated seagull floated by them, a sound of singing came fitfully on the breeze from the shore.

"They are practising the anthem at Brynseion Chapel," said the girl, anxious to change the conversation; "they will wonder where I am."

"And I," said Hugh, "have been absent twice lately. I will go there at once, and make it all right for thee; thou wouldst like to go home to thy mother?"

"Yes," was all she said.

When they reached the shore Hugh once more took her in his arms to lift her from the boat, and placing her gently on the sands, he grasped her hand, and for a moment retained it in his own.

"At least wilt not deceive me, lass?"

"Deceive you, Mishteer! Oh! no, indeed; you are the Mishteer, and I am only Gwladys Price, but I never could break my word."

"Must I wait longer for the kiss that I am longing for?" he said.

She bent her head and made no answer; but she did not run away, and Hugh, gently drawing her towards him, imprinted a passionate kiss on her full red lips.

"Shall I come with thee, or wilt go alone?"

"I would rather go alone," said Gwladys, and she left him pulling his boat up the little strand.

Her mind was full of confused emotions—astonishment, pride, admiration for the man whom she considered so much above her, wonder why the events of the night left, her so dissatisfied; and above all, her heart was sore with longing for Ivor's love! She dropped her creel of laver-weed at Nance Owen's door, and as she reached the village road, with every step her heart asked the weary question, "Why—why is it not Ivor?"

Darkness had fallen, and the moon, hidden by a bank of clouds, shed no light on the scene; but every step of the road was familiar to Gwladys. She moved aside to make room for a rumbling car which came noisily down the hill, its occupants talking loudly, and—surely one of the voices was Ivor's! There were three sitting close together on the board which did duty for a seat, the driver and Ivor, and between them a girl, around whom the latter's arm was thrown, and who seemed content with his protection. She knew Ivor had been absent from the village since the previous day, for he had accompanied the delayed sails in the waggon to their destination on Aberython quay; and from there he was now returning rather hurriedly, for the purpose of consulting the Mishteer on some matter of business which had cropped up at the little town. He was bringing with him a cousin, who was to stay some weeks at his lodgings for change of air; she was a delicate girl, far gone in consumption, and his kindly thought had suggested a short sojourn at Mwntseison. The drive had shaken her much, and he had held her up with his strong arm, until he had lifted her safely out of the car, and placed her under his landlady's care.

After a hasty visit to Hugh Morgan he returned the same night to Aberython.

A spasm of jealousy was added to the dull aching already filling Gwladys' heart, and as she plodded on up the hill, she called herself to task, and blamed herself for her misery.

"Oh! if mother knew," she said, "that her little daughter had been so bold and so foolish as to give her heart to a man who had never asked for it, what would she say? What did she say about Gwen? 'When a girl shows her love too plainly, a wise man draws back!' Have I shown my love to Ivor? and is he drawing back because of that? I will be more careful—and I don't love him! to-night I feel I hate him! And who was that bold girl, I wonder, who sat with him? not Madlen, nor Shân, nor Ana! But why do I care?"

"Oh, mother, I am tired!" she added, as she entered the house, and threw herself wearily on the settle.

Her mother looked at her with surprise, for the words, "I am tired, mother!" had been left behind with her childish frocks and bare feet.

"Come to supper, merch i. Where hast been?"

"On the shore and the water," said Gwladys, in a listless tone. "Mother, I have something wonderful to tell thee!"

[1] Peeped.

[2] "Come in! come in."

[3] "A happy bridal to you!"

[4] Good beer.

"Wel, wyr![1] Ivor, thy voice came in at the door before thee! I am glad to see thee back again. And what dost think of Aberython?"

"Oh, 'tis very well," answered Ivor. "There's a fine street going down to the quay, and shops all the way on both sides," and he thought joyfully of the pretty ribbon he had safe in his pocket for Gwladys. "But where's Gwladys?" he asked, looking round; "not come home from the sail-shed yet?"

"Well, she's not been there to-day; she's gone to Mari Vone's with patterns of wool for the weaving. Thou'st come to wish her joy, no doubt, like all the rest?"

"Wish her joy! of what?" said Ivor, sitting down on the end of the spinning-wheel bench. There was a curious darkening of the sunshine at the doorway and a confused rushing in his head which made him glad to sit down.

"Hast not heard the news, then?" said Nani. "Why, she's going to be married to the Mishteer!" And the good woman, for once forgetting everything but her own satisfaction, in the information she had to impart, was blind to the change in Ivor's face.

"To be married to the Mishteer! Gwladys, who had filled his thoughts and heart for so long—yes, ever since he could remember!" And the whole universe was shattered, as far as Ivor Parry was concerned; but he sat still and made no sign, for always the most agonising points of life are the most silent. When at last the bitter tale was all told he rose slowly.

"There's news I've given thee," said Nani, stopping for breath.

"News, indeed!" said Ivor; "but I must go. Well, 'wish her joy' for me, Nani," and out again to the June evening Ivor went, bruised, wounded, bleeding, but fighting bravely with his sorrow, and sustained by his pride. Not for worlds would he—Ivor Parry, the cheeriest and bravest bachgen in the village—let it be seen that he was sorely wounded; and he resumed his old attitude with his thumbs in his armholes, and struck up another verse of his disconnected ballad, though how he managed it he never afterwards could understand. With head erect, and with many improvised turns and grace notes, he sang, as he went his way down the road:

"O gwae fi, and woe is me!
    And my heart is full of pain;
For the ship that sailed across the sea
    Will never come back again!"

On reaching his lodgings he was even more lively than usual, making his cousin laugh at his merry sallies, and hearing his own voice as if it had been a stranger's. He even made a show of enjoying his tea; but after it was over he went out, and, leaving the sail-shed behind him, turned his face towards the cliffs. Slipping down through the broom bushes, he made his way by an unfrequented sheep path to the beach below, and, crossing the shore, reached the south end of the harbour. The turmoil of thoughts within him seemed to urge him forwards, and every step he took strengthened the only determination he could evolve out of the chaos of misery in his heart. He must see Gwladys, must hear his doom from her own lips! The south end of the shore was less frequented than the other. The crags were higher and more frowning here, the shadows were deeper, the sands were seldom trodden, and the sea seldom ruffled by oar or sail; but here in the deep shadows the laver weed grew thickest, and here Gwladys might come to fill her creel as usual, "unless, indeed," thought Ivor, "she might to-night be roaming over the cliffs with Hugh Morgan, and so forget her creel and Nance Owen." The thought was so bitter that he groaned aloud.

Gwladys had returned home a few minutes after he had left the house, even soon enough to hear an echo of his voice as he trolled out the well-known ballad. Her mother met her with a happy, smiling face.

"Merch fâch i!" she said, as she drew the back of her fingers caressingly over the girl's cheek, where the rich colour had paled a little. Her heart was full of gratitude to the daughter whose marriage promised to bring so much comfort and freedom from care into her life. "Ivor Parry has been here to 'wish thee joy,'" she said; and Gwladys' heart throbbed painfully.

"There's a merry man he is," continued Nani, as she clattered the tea-cups on the little round table; "singing he was when he came in, and singing again when he went out."

In the gloom of the cottage she had not noticed the pallor that overspread his face upon receiving her news, neither did she now notice her daughter's preoccupied silence. It was very evident that her elation of spirits had for the time smothered Nani's usual tender thoughtfulness for others.

"Yes, I thought 'twas his voice," said Gwladys at last. "What did he say, mother?"

"Oh, well, he was very glad. 'There's good news, indeed!' sez he, and 'wish her joy for me, Nani.' Hast settled which stripe thee'lt have in thy petticoat, lass? What did Mari Vone say?"

"Oh, she liked best the blue. I don't care which; you can settle it, mother."

"Don't care!" said Nani, raising her hands in astonishment. "Well, in my deed, thou art an odd girl in some things! Going to be married to the Mishteer, and not care whether thy stripes are to be red or blue! If it had been to a common man like Dye Pentraeth or Ivor Parry, it would be no 'otts' perhaps—but to the Mishteer, the owner of half the village, so rich, and so handsome, and with his achan[2] going back I don't know where! A scarlet stripe it shall be, then; and I wish there was a brighter colour!" and she whisked the crock of "mash," which she was warming for her ailing cow, off its hook over the fire with such a swing of triumph that some of its contents was spilt on the hearth, and Gwladys looked after her with a smile, half-sad, half-amused.

"Mother fâch,[3] I have made her life happy, whatever!" she said, and standing there in the twilight, with the skeins of bright wool hanging from her unconscious fingers, she fell into a deep reverie. "Is this how every girl feels when she is going to be married?" and then a silence. "Wish her joy for me!" Well, what more could she expect from any man who heard of her approaching marriage? The curves of the mobile mouth fell, and the brown eyes became suffused with tears. Both signs of sadness, however, were chased away as she heard a manly footstep at the door, and Hugh Morgan entered the cottage. At the same moment Nani returned from the cowshed, so, according to Welsh custom, Hugh's manner was jovial and friendly only, nothing warmer being considered decorous in the presence of a third person, more especially that of a future mother-in-law.

"Well, are you here, little people? Coming in from the sunset, I can't see you yet."

"We are here all right, Mishteer, and glad to see you. Come in," said Nani, as she dusted a chair with her apron.

"I just came in to say I am going to Abersethin to-night on business, so I sha'n't be able to bring the new glee to show thee, Gwladys. How does the world go with thee to-night, Nani?"

"Right well, Mishteer. Sit down, sit down."

"I must not stay long," said Hugh, and Nani considerately made her sick cow an excuse for pottering in and out of the house. She remembered the old saying, "I had better go," said the crow, "when the dove begins to coo!" When she had left the house, Hugh's manner changed at once.

"How is my darling?" he said, taking the listless fingers which held the red and blue skeins; "and what are these pretty things? Aha! now I'll warrant they are for some new clothes for thy wedding," and he drew the blushing girl towards him. "The old sail-shed is dull without thee, lass. When will my wild sea-bird get over her shyness?"

"Well, I'm coming to-morrow, whatever, Mishteer," said Gwladys.

"Halt, halt!" said Hugh, laughing; "you must drop that word now. Mishteer, indeed! Remember I will fine thee a kiss for every time thou call'st me that!"

"I will try, indeed; but 'twill be hard at first."

"Oh, I won't be very angry if thou fail'st to remember sometimes," answered Hugh, and, as Nani's shadow darkened the door again, he returned to his less warm, but still cordial, manner, and soon rose to go.

"Nos da to you both!" he said, and, with a loving look towards Gwladys, which he was careful Nani should not see, he left the house.

Meanwhile Ivor had waited on the darkened shore until the sun had long set, and the moon, now at her full, looked down upon the shimmering bay.

The tide had turned, and still Gwladys had not come; and while he waited there in the shadow of the cliff, he pondered bitterly on Nani's words, and sought in vain for any loophole for hope that the news was not true, and that he should yet find Gwladys free and unfettered.

"Fool! fool!" he said; "to think I could safely loiter on the path of love! to see the answer to my own heart gradually coming into those brown eyes! That's what I waited for; but caton pawb! how could I expect such happiness? I have never seen a sign of that love in her which fills my heart. Sometimes, indeed,"—and his troubled face took a tender, faraway look—"sometimes I have seen her eyes droop, and her blushes come when I have spoken to her, and then I thought perhaps she cared a little for me, for she is not like some girls—Gwen or Ana, now. 'Twas not far to seek for their smiles—no, nor their kisses either! But Gwladys! I was afraid even to touch her, lest she should fly away like a bird!" and he groaned aloud in his trouble, and confessed to himself that the darkest and direst misfortune that could befall him was casting its shadow on his path—nay, had already caught and overwhelmed him. Had his rival been anyone else, he could have fought against his fate—yes, fought, and perhaps conquered! But the Mishteer! his friend! his master! the man whom, of all others, he held in such high esteem. No! the thought was unbearable. Life was not made to hold such bitterness for him! But, alas! life does hold out to us sometimes a cup of so much bitterness that imagination even would hesitate to picture it as a possible event in our experience. We drink it to the dregs, and we survive it.

A step on the pebbles, and Gwladys had at last appeared, and Ivor watched her as she picked her way between the boulders, unconscious of his presence. Oh, how lovely she looked, her brown hair tossed by the soft night breeze, the moon shining full upon the clear brown eyes, and the coral of her lips! and what the moonlight failed to reveal was only too plainly pictured on his memory. She held her two hands on her bosom, grasping the strap of her creel, and she rather bent her head over them as she drew near. She did not see Ivor until she was close upon him, and for a moment stood perfectly still.

"Gwladys!" was all he could say at first, and his voice was so altered, so hoarse, that she stood up straight before him, and looked in astonishment in his face, while she answered, in a startled tone:

"Ivor Parry! it is thee, indeed? Ach y fi! I was not expecting to see thee; but I'm not surprised, though, 'tis such a beautiful night."

Before she had finished speaking, Ivor had regained his composure.

"Yes, 'tis a fine night," he said; "but 'twas not that made me come out. I have been at thy mother's on my way home from Aberython, and I—I——" and he lifted his hat and pushed his fingers through his hair, which was damp and clammy.

"Yes, indeed," said Gwladys, beginning to lose her own calmness. "She gave me thy message. I was not long after thee, for I heard thee singing. I thank thee for thy good wishes."

"I thought, perhaps, it was not true," said Ivor, and his voice shook a little.

Gwladys was silent for a moment, during which a flood of new emotions surged through her whole being, so that her heart beat fast, her limbs trembled, and the whole world seemed to take a new shape before her. Ivor's altered manner, his hoarse voice, the nervous trembling of the hands which he held out towards her, all told the tale which he had withheld so long, and, with a sudden flash of intuition which comes in a great crisis, his love and misery were all revealed to her; and alas! her love for him! She could not do otherwise than place her hands in those which were stretched out so eagerly towards her; but while she did so, her head drooped, and her tears fell like rain.

"'Tis true," she said at last, "'tis true, Ivor."

"Didst not know, Gwladys, that I loved thee, that every hair of thine head was precious to me?"

Many years passed over Ivor's head after that night, but he never forgot the cry with which she heard his words.

"Oh, Ivor! what is this thou art telling me?" and sitting down on the upturned creel which had slipped from her shoulders, she swayed backwards and forwards, endeavouring to smother the sobs which shook her frame. In truth, it was only the bursting of the floodgates, which she had kept closed by a strong effort of will ever since she had made her final promise to Hugh Morgan. The discovery of Ivor's love had been too much for her overstrained nerves, and now, with the abandon of a child, she sat on her creel and cried bitterly. Ivor seated himself on a rock beside her, his worst fears confirmed, and at last, when the sobbing girl had a little regained composure, took her hand and said:

"Didst not know that for long years I have loved thee?—for ever, I think!"

"I did not know—no, indeed!" said the girl.

"If thou hadst known it, lass, what wouldst thou have done?"

She did not answer at once, but continued to rock herself backwards and forwards, and even to moan a little.

"Tell me, Gwladys," Ivor said again; and at last her answer came in clear, firm tones:

"Whatever thou wouldst, Ivor."

"Wouldst have married Hugh Morgan?"

"Oh, never, never! But now I must. Beth na'i? beth na'i?"[4]

"No, no, lass, it must not be—shall not be! I have hungered too much for thy love to let it slip from me now. 'Tis not too late! I will go to Hugh Morgan and tell him all. Thou know'st him, Gwladys—a man who never did a mean thing—a man who would tear out his heart sooner than injure his friend! I will go to him, and tell him, 'Gwladys' love is mine—not thine—and, by heaven! thou shalt not have her!'"

His voice was hoarse with eagerness, and the hand that held hers trembled with excitement.

But Gwladys only drew her hand away, and said:

"'Tis too late, Ivor. I have promised the Mishteer, and our banns have been called once!"

At the mention of the word "banns," Ivor made a gesture of despair. Here, indeed, was the downfall to all his reviving hopes—a bar across his path only one degree less insuperable than death itself—for though to a Welshman scarcely any obstacle seems insurmountable, scarcely any stratagem dishonourable in the course of his impetuous love-making, yet marriage and all connected with it holds the high place in his reverence, which it seems to have lost in many nations.

It is true that morality amongst the unmarried peasantry lays itself open to reproach; but a lapse from the paths of the strictest virtue after marriage is always looked upon as an unpardonable disgrace.

The knowledge, therefore, that Hugh Morgan's banns were published crushed every hope that had begun to spring up anew within Ivor's breast.

"Mawredd anwl![5] 'tis impossible!" he cried; "so soon! Gwladys, say it is not true, or thou wilt kill me—an' 'tis the best thing thou canst do for me, for now I see, indeed, that thou art gone from me for ever! Hugh Morgan has not loitered, whatever! Only one short week I was away, and in that time another man has won thee, and thy banns are out!"

She made no answer, but sat with her face buried in her hands.

"Thou art crying, lass; is it pity for me?"

"Yes," she sobbed, "and—and for me!"

"Didst love me, then, all the time, f'anwylyd? Tell me; I have a right to know."

He had drawn her close to his side, and she felt his breath on her hair as he continued to plead—

"Say it, Gwladys—only once—only to-night!"

Poor Gwladys! The glamour of the love she had thirsted for was upon her in all its fulness—was wrapping her in its folds. Its strength subdued her; she forgot her scruples, and stifled the whispers of her usually tender conscience, and, yielding to Ivor's pleadings and her own impulsive, passionate nature, let her lover draw from her the truth, which she had hitherto scarcely confessed to herself.

"Yes—yes; I have loved thee always."

"And will love me for ever?—whisper it, fanwylyd," said Ivor.

"No, I must not say that; but thou knowst it all. Oh! beth na'i, beth na'i?"

A step on the shingle disturbed them.

"Only Sianco fetching his crab-pots; but here is my boat. Let us go to Traeth-y-daran, where the sand is never trodden; there we shall be alone, for I tell thee, Gwladys, this night is mine and thine—nothing shall tear it from us!"

He drew the boat to the side of the rock and once again Gwladys and he were out together on the moonlit bay. It was so calm that nothing could be heard but the creaking of the oars in the rowlocks and the dripping of the water from the blades. Neither spoke until reaching Traeth-y-daran, the boat glided in between the rocks, and they landed on the shore which lay lonely and peaceful in a flood of moonlight.

"Here is a seat for thee, love, and one for me beside thee close. Oh, yes; I said this night was made for thee and me! For a few hours let us put everything else away from us, Gwladys, and talk and think and feel nothing—nothing but our love for each other. I will have it so!" he said almost fiercely. "To-night is for happiness—to-morrow is for—?. Tell me, lass, dost remember our last row on the bay?"

"Yes, I have had it in my thoughts often, and in my heart always," said Gwladys.

"Hast indeed?" said Ivor; "didst feel my kiss on thy hair?"

"I felt it," she answered, with head drooping and burning cheeks; "but I did not think it meant anything—indeed I didn't, Ivor!" and she looked up pleadingly into his face.

"No, a fool I was! I hid it all, thinking to win thy love gradually and then to tell thee! I thought I would guard thee so well that no other man could approach thee unknown to me, and then I would speak to thee at once. Oh, what a fool I was! and now——"

"And now?" repeated Gwladys tearfully; and a silence fell upon them as they both thought of "what might have been!" Into the girl's dream there came a shadow from the future—a picture of Hugh Morgan bending over her as she sat at work in his house on the hillside. It was a momentary glimpse and she shuddered as it crossed her mind.

"Art cold, f'anwylyd?"

"No, no," she answered; "on this May night who would be cold? I am warm, Ivor; 'tis the future makes me shiver——"

"Hush!" he said, "don't speak about that; there is no law in earth or heaven that can part us, if only thou wilt let me go to Hugh Morgan and ask him to free thee from thy promise——"

"But the banns, Ivor? Oh, no; 'tis impossible to bring this shame upon the Mishteer's name. And my mother—she would break her heart! No, no; 'tis too plain we must part. Will God give me strength, I wonder? Beth na'i? beth na'i?"

For some time Ivor, carried away by the new-born happiness of knowing he had her love, endeavoured to shake her determination; but here she was firm, in spite of the weakness with which she had allowed herself to be swayed by the strong tide of love, which had overwhelmed her on discovering Ivor's feelings towards her.

There were long pauses in their talk when the sea seemed to add its sweet whispers of entreaty to his pleading, until at last as the night wore on there came a little pleading into Gwladys' voice also—

"Oh! Ivor, do not tempt me; I have done wrong to come here, I ought to have said 'nos da' and passed straight home—I am like the seaweed, tossed hither and thither by the fierce waves, but still fastened to the rock, and so am I bound to the Mishteer. Only that one thing is certain in all this sea of trouble. O gwae fi! beth na'i? Let me go, lad! Thou wouldst always help me when I was a child; everywhere I was safe and strong, if thou wert there. And now, Ivor, help me, for the storm is upon me!"

"I cannot, Gwladys—I cannot, indeed! I seek for the strength within me, and I do not find it; but so far I can do, whatever—I will stand out of thy way and let thee pass on to—the Mishteer."

Gwladys, scarce knowing whether this made her more or less miserable, but taking his words somewhat in a literal meaning, began to move a little towards the boat.

"Stop, stop, fanwylyd!" said Ivor, "not to-night will I stand aside—not to-night will I part with thee! I have said, and I swear it again, to-night thou art mine! and my fine promises do not begin till to-morrow."

He drew her again closer to him—and again they fell into a long silence.

"Gwladys," said Ivor at last, "wilt tell me what have thy thoughts been?"

"The same as thine, I do believe, Ivor," said the girl, in a broken voice. "Our happiness would be to be together, but our duty bids us part. I cannot break my promise to the Mishteer. Our banns are called! I am half married to him! I ought not to be here; I am a wicked girl. Why, why has he set his love upon me? I have promised to marry him, and I will keep my word though my heart should break."

Ivor did not speak, he was struggling with a trial which had come upon him unexpectedly and unprepared for. Every fibre of his being was shaken by the shattering of his fondest dreams—the love which he had cherished for years, and for which he had built such fair palaces of hope! Was it now to be stifled and put out of sight for ever? to be cast under the feet of another man, who would walk over it with joy and happiness on his face, unconscious of the sacrifice which his friend was making for him!

For some time they sat thus suffering together, both brooding on the untoward events which had separated them, and on the bitter trial which lay before them.

It was Gwladys who spoke first.

"See how the moon has travelled, Ivor; she is near her setting; the dawn is not far off. Let us go. What will my mother think?"

"She will think thou art staying with Nance Owen, as thou often hast before. Dost see that bright star? We will wait until it sets! So short a time for happiness out of all our long lives, Gwladys!"

"The good God will not grudge it us!" she whispered.

"When that star sinks down behind the sea I will loosen my hold of thee, fanwylyd; but until then thou art mine—and mine only! We are alone in the world—two ships which have sailed together half-way across the ocean, and now must separate for ever!"

Gwladys' long-drawn sobs had subsided, and left only a little catch in her breath, which Ivor heard with yearning tenderness.

"'Tis hard for us both, love; but God grant thee comfort as the years go by. Thou wilt, perhaps, gain peace, and learn to forget the past."

"Never, never!" said the girl. "Calm and peace! where are they coming from, Ivor? Oh, never, never!"

"'Tis a cruel thing, this life which is before us, lass. If I had known that Hugh had set his love on thee, I might have strangled mine at its birth, even though I had killed myself in doing so; but now, 'tis too late, indeed!"

"God knows about it, whatever," said Gwladys between her sobs.

"Dost think, indeed!" was all Ivor's answer.

Both had their eyes fixed upon the star, which hung like a jewel in the sky; it was already losing some of its brilliancy in the haze which bordered the horizon.

"See, Ivor, it is going!" And she shuddered.

"Not yet, fanwylyd!" he replied; and for a few minutes they watched in silence as one watches at a death-bed.

"Our happiness draws near its last moment," he said at last; and they both stood up together, with their eyes fixed on the star, which now drew close to the horizon.

"Repeat those words, Gwladys, 'I love thee, I love thee, Ivor!'"

And with whispering, trembling breath she obeyed.

The star had reached the line of the sea; and, with a simultaneous impulse, they turned to each other, and their lips met in a long, passionate kiss, and it was with a sudden gasp that Ivor opened his arms, leaving Gwladys standing alone on the edge of the wave. He said not another word, but drawing his boat higher up the strand, he lifted her gently over the surf. She felt the nervous trembling of his strong arms as he longed to press her to his heart; but he resisted the impulse, and in another minute they were both rowing silently away from the Traeth-y-daran.

Before they reached Mwntseison Ivor spoke.

"Wilt land here?" he said, pointing to a narrow creek between the cliffs, where a little stream came trickling down from the hills above.

"Yes," was all she could say in reply; and once more Ivor lifted her over the surf, and placed her on the tiny beach. He sprang back into his boat as if afraid to trust himself near her.

"Fforwel!" he said, in a hard, dry voice.

"Fforwel!" answered Gwladys. And with eyes fixed upon each other they separated, every wave of the ebbing tide increasing the distance between them.

As soon as Ivor had passed the point of rocks which enclosed the little creek, he set to with hard rowing to reach the further end of the harbour, passing by Mwntseison still asleep. His face was white and hard set, his hair hung in damp clumps on his forehead, and as he rowed his pale face wore an expression of sullen anger,—in truth, an expression very foreign to his general disposition. Having reached the southern side where the cliffs towered higher and more frowning from the sea, where the fishing boats never came, he was as much alone as if he had been off some far desert island. With an angry motion he flung both the oars from him, rattling noisily as they fell, and sitting moodily in the stern he gave himself up to his bitter reflections. He did not feel the cool morning breezes on his damp face, nor hear the lapping of the water under the keel of his boat as it rose and fell on the gentle swells; all so calm and peaceful around him, and he so full of tumult within! It was just the hour between the dark and the dawn; the sea was of the rough grey of a herring's back, melting into the soft white of the horizon. The gurgle of the fish coming up to the surface for a breath of air was distinctly audible in the silence, and as the flush of the dawn rose higher behind the hills, all sorts of mysterious sounds awoke round the little boat. The hoarse cry of an invisible puffin came over the waters—a soft whispering of the morning breeze filled the air, the strangely human cries of the young seals which still haunt the caves in the cliffs of Mwntseison, all fell unheeded on Ivor's ear. He was fighting with an emotion which he had never known before—jealousy of Hugh Morgan! a blind, unreasoning anger; and underlying it, a desperate conviction that in the end he should submit to his fate—for to fight against the Mishteer was as impossible to him—as contrary to his nature—as it would have been to commit a crime! And it was rebellion against this iron destiny which filled his heart with impotent anger. From the moment when he had caught the last glimpse of Gwladys standing solitary on the shore of the creek, he had known how it would be with him—how strong and unbending were the bonds which compelled him to give his best to his friend.

"As for her," he thought, "she would forget him, would soon learn to be content with her lot—yes, more than content—for no woman could be loved by Hugh and not love him in return! That he never doubted; but for himself?" Self-sacrifice as an abstract idea had never dawned upon him. He was but an untaught man, whose only education had been what a tender nature and a simple country life had brought him; but one thing was plain to him, he must efface himself, and Hugh Morgan must have his way!

Meanwhile Gwladys remained motionless, watching the little boat, until, a mere speck, it rounded a ridge of rocks which jutted out into the bay, and behind which lay Mwntseison; then she dragged her weary steps up the steep cliff from the shore, following a shepherd's path through the broom and heather bushes, till she reached the top of the hill, where she sat down to watch the rising sun. Behind her lay the sea, with its soft sighings and tender whisperings, the old world of her happiness and her youth—and Ivor! before her lay the cold east, from whose mysterious bosom the dawn was breaking, and as she watched, the sun rose and tipped each little blade and leaf with gold. Here, kneeling between the broom bushes, while the morning breeze ruffled her hair, alone on the hillside, she struggled in an agony of tears and supplications to put away from her the memory of the past night, with its golden moon of love and its bitter waves of sorrow—and to turn her face towards that path of duty which lay before her. At another time how she would have delighted in the sounds and sights around her! the dewdrops glistening on the sea-pinks, the gossamer webs stretched like frosted silver from bush to bush, the rabbits peeping out of their burrows, the shepherd awakening his flock, the sea-gulls sailing high above the hill top, where the little sea-crows were beginning the day with a squabble; but it was all lost upon Gwladys, who reached her mother's house while the village was still sleeping under the early morning sun. There was only the wooden bolt to push back, and she knew the simple trick by which it was reached from the outside.

"Why! thou hast risen early," said her mother, as she saw her enter. "What! is Nance Owen up so early?"

"I have not been there!"

There was something in the girl's voice which startled her mother.

"Where, then?" she cried, sitting up in bed.

"With Ivor Parry out on the bay! Mother, it will never happen again—we had something to say to each other—it is passed—you must forget it, mother, as I shall—but I wanted to tell you——"

Her mother, breathless and frightened, stared at the girl, who, pale and dry-eyed, began to set about her household duties. Whether she understood what that "something" had been which had been spoken at Traeth-y-daran, she never disclosed; but she opened her arms and drew Gwladys towards her, "Calon fâch!"[6] was all she said as she pressed the girl to her heart.

[1] Well, indeed.

[2] Pedigree.

[3] Little mother.

[4] "What shall I do?"