"Yes," said Mari, looking at him with some surprise. "There is a short board near the fireplace, where the damp earth comes quite near to the top. It was going to be finished fifteen years ago when the floor was boarded, but the hole is still there. Why, 'n'wncwl Jos?"

"Oh, nothing," said the old man. "Hast heard the little one is to be buried on Monday? and to-morrow night there's to be a gwylnos.[2] Wilt come, Mari?"

"No, indeed," she said. "I will come to the prayer meeting, because then I can sit at the door or in the passage; but to be shut up all night in a room with a dead body makes me faint, and besides, I don't like a gwylnos."

"Wel, no," said her uncle; "I know both thou and Hugh Morgan are very odd in some things, and that is one thing—not to like a gwylnos. Wel, I'm going anyway," and he stumped vigorously, and put on a defiant look. "What is the good of my never having married if I'm going to be ruled by a woman after all? Caton pawb! Wouldst like us to bury our dead as the Saeson[3] do? To shut the door upon them and say, 'There! we've finished with you; you stop there by yourself in the dark!' And then click with the key, and sit down in the warm kitchen to a comfortable meal, and talk about who's to have his clothes? No, no! Lallo and I are too old friends for me to desert her now in her trouble; so to the gwylnos I'll go, merch i, whatever thou say'st!"

"Well, b'dsiwr! if you like, 'n'wncwl Jos," said Mari; "and I only meant that I didn't like the drinking and talking that goes on at a gwylnos, for death is too solemn a thing for such nonsense."

"Oh, jâr-i! I agree with thee there. For a man to lie there, stiff and cold, hearing and saying nothing, while his friends are smoking and chatting near him, good liquor passing around him and he knowing nothing about it—well, yes! 'tis a solemn thing! But that's no reason why we shouldn't stay with the poor fellow as long as he is above ground, if it was only to comfort his relatives!" And he began to "furrage" in an old sea-chest, where he kept his own personal treasures safely under lock and key, bringing out from its depths one of the square, high-shouldered bottles of "Hollands" which he had collected in a mysterious manner during his sea-faring days. Having closed the chest with a bang, he hid the bottle under his rough pilot coat, and made his way up to Lallo's cottage. His low tap at the door was answered by Gwen herself.

"So sorry, calon fâch!" he said, "for thy trouble and for Lallo's. This is for the gwylnos, merch i; give it to thy mother," and he held out the square bottle.

Gwen made no answer, but turned away and called her mother, leaving 'n'wncwl Jos with outstretched arms at the doorway.

"Jâr-i! there's manners!" he muttered to himself.

But if Gwen was scant of gratitude, Lallo made up for it to overflowing.

"'N'wncwl Jos bâch! There's kind you are to remember us in our trouble. A hundred thanks! and I hope you will be at the gwylnos; I will never forget your kindness!"

"Twt, twt! hisht about kindness," said the old man, backing from the doorway, in fear lest he might be asked in "to see the body," a compliment considered due to everyone who knocked at the door.

On the following day, which was Sunday, after every service in the two chapels was added the notice, given out by one of the deacons in the "set fawr" or big seat under the pulpit:

"There will be a prayer-meeting at the house of Lallo Hughes this evening at eight o'clock, to be followed by a gwylnos for any friends who are wishful to attend."

In the gloaming, when the many services of the day were over, the congregations trooped down towards Lallo's cottage. Of course, there was no room inside, but they overflowed into the cwrt and into the roadway, where they stood in the gathering twilight, only hearing a faint murmur of the prayers which were offered up inside the house; but still they waited patiently, listening to the rising and falling of the prayers, which mingled with the soft sighing of the sea, and speaking to each other in whispers.

Lallo, who managed to get a furtive peep through the corner of the covered-up window, was much comforted by the presence of such a crowd of sympathisers, and called to mind with satisfaction that at the last gwylnos in the village, there had not been so large a gathering.

Mari Vone sat on the low hedge of the cwrt, looking over the sea, where she was joined by Hugh Morgan and his wife.

"Canst hear, Mari?" he asked.

"No, nothing! But I've been listening to the sea, and I quite forgot the prayer-meeting, whatever."

Hugh opened his eyes, with a smiling pretence of reproof.

"Where is 'n'wncwl Jos?" he whispered; and Mari pointed to the doorway. Hugh looked grave. "Is he going to stay to the gwylnos?"

"Yes," said Mari, with an uneasy look on her face.

"Wouldst like me to stay, lass?"

"Oh! no, Hugh bâch! and you hating a gwylnos as much as I do!"

"Twt, twt!" said Hugh, and he elbowed his way into the crowded passage.

The meeting was fortunately drawing to a close when Hugh entered, for the air in the small, close room was intolerably stifling. In the penucha he discovered the old man sitting close to the coffin, which stood across the fireplace. He had found the square hole in the boards, and had been able to get safely through the meeting without disturbing the gathering by the sound of his wooden leg, for in the soft earth he had been able to stump unheard.

"Well, Mishteer!" he said, when the dispersing of the crowd and the comparative emptying of the cottage enabled him to draw near his friend, "there's beautiful prayers we had! There's no doubt Sam Saer beats anyone in Mwntseison on his knees. Are you going to stop to the gwylnos?"

"Well, what d'ye think?" said Hugh. "'Tis shocking close here, and the room is too full. I think Lallo will be glad to get rid of a few of us. I'll stop if thou lik'st; but I was thinking perhaps thee and Mari would come in and have supper with us to-night. There's one of the ducks since dinner got to be eaten, and we've tapped the fresh cask, and it's as clear as cryshal—thanks to thy secret, 'n'wncwl Jos!"

"Well, indeed, I think I will come," said the old man, "for I've sat by that coffin till I'm stiff. Good-bye, Lallo fâch!" he said, turning into the penisha. "I see you have so many friends here, I will only be in the way. Good-bye, Gwen fâch! I will be at the funeral to-morrow." And he searched his memory for one of the stock phrases which he tried to carry with him on such occasions. "Cheer up, merch i, and remember what the Bible says, 'Would God I had died for thee, my son!'"

When the Mishteer had piloted him safely into the soft evening air, he was rewarded by a look of gratitude from Mari's blue eyes.

"'N'wncwl Jos and you are coming to supper with us, Mari; he has agreed to come, so now don't you hold back."

"Oh, well, that's a good thing," said Mari, "for I have already promised Gwladys to come."

Lallo and her friends were already forming a semicircle around the bright fire, Gwen sitting straight and silent in the corner. Hour after hour of the long night they sat there talking, at first quietly and solemnly, but as the night wore on, and the contents of 'n'wncwl Jos's bottle was handed round, tongues were loosed and conversation flowed more freely.

Stories were told of "corpse candles" which wound their flickering way from cottage to churchyard; of phantom funerals, in which the narrator had been so closely pressed by the unseen crowd as nearly to lose his breath, and become himself one of the mysterious company of "cwn bendith y mamman"—the weird invisible pack of hounds, whose yelping chorus rushes by on the wings of the wind; and many other tales, but always ending with the words, "but that was in the olden time, you know! Now, of course, we're wiser!" Their vaunted wisdom, however, did not prevent their cowering more closely over the blazing logs when the wind moaned in the chimney as it swept up the valley in the small hours of the morning, when one day was dead and the other was scarcely living. In the early morning, when the grey dawn came in as well as it could through the little covered window, everyone was glad to welcome it, and to blow out the candles which stood at the head of the coffin, to hang the kettle on the hook over the fire, and to help Lallo with her preparations for breakfast, returning without regret to the material pleasures of tea and buttered toast from their incursions into the realm of darkness and mystery.

On the third day after its death, the little one was laid to rest, followed by all the inhabitants of Mwntseison—for a funeral, no matter of how young a child, is an important function in Wales, and few within an area of two miles will fail to attend it, for there is a chance of hearing a sermon, and the certainty of an old Welsh hymn or two; and if there be anything on earth calculated to move the feelings, and awaken sleeping memories, it is a Welsh funeral hymn. Its rising and falling strains, always in a minor key, are harrowing to the feelings of the bereaved; but by those not too closely interested, their emotional character is thoroughly enjoyed.

Lallo's small cottage was crowded, the throng overflowing into the garden and the road; and when the little coffin was carried out, and the large concourse of people, outside and in, joined in the funeral hymn, its wailing, dirge-like notes, rising and falling on the air, touched poor Lallo's heart beyond endurance, and she moaned and wept loudly, her sobs being accompanied by many a sympathising tear from the crowd; but Gwen walked beside her, silent and tearless, with a hard, angry gleam in her eyes.

"Poor thing! poor thing!" whispered the women; "she can't cry; there's a pity! She looks like Peggi Shân to-day!"

When, returned from the funeral, they reached their own door, one or two neighbours proposed to stay with her a few hours, but she coldly answered, "No, I don't want you," and, closing the door with a bang, bolted it noisily.

Left to herself, she looked vaguely round the cottage, and, turning to her mother, who had seated herself sobbing in the chimney corner, said, in a cold, hard voice:

"What are thou crying about, woman? It wasn't thy child upon whose coffin the clods fell so heavily; they were not thine, those little hands that lay so stiff and white, that used to close so tight round my finger. What hast thou to cry about?"

"Oh, Gwen," said poor Lallo, "thou art a strange woman. Wasn't he mine, too? The very apple of my eye, calon fâch! There's sad news for poor Siencyn when he comes home next week! But God knew best what was good for him, and that is why He has taken him from us. The Bible says, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.'"

"Oh, silence with your texts! God, indeed! What sort of a God must He be who gave me a little baby to fill my empty heart, and then tore him cruelly away? Be quiet about your God, mother. If granny had been alive I would not have wanted help from God or man."

"Oh, Gwen, Gwen, hisht!" said the poor, bewildered woman; "I know it is hard to understand, but thou must bend before God, and say, 'He knows best.'"

"I won't," said Gwen, kicking at the embers which had gone out on the cold hearth. "He can do no further harm to me. My little one—born in lawful wedlock, too! not like thee, mother, nor granny, nor yet her mother!"

"No, indeed, it is true!" said Lallo, rocking herself backwards and forwards; "bad luck has followed us for generations. But thy father was a respectable man, Gwen; he is deacon in his chapel at Abersethin, and his wife and family are the best dressed in Salem Chapel. Oh, yes, thou hast no need to be ashamed of thy father, though he did play me a scurvy trick in marrying Fani Hughes; but he couldn't help it, poor fellow! They say Fani's brother threatened to shoot him if he hadn't married her!"

"Perhaps your God took my child, then, to punish me for your sins," said Gwen, with a sneer.

"Sins!" said Lallo, opening her eyes. "'Twas a misfortune that might have happened to thee or anyone. Sins, indeed! That's the first time I have ever had that word thrown in my teeth!" and, much hurt, she began to rekindle the fire.

Gwen made no answer, but angrily pulled away the pocket-handkerchief which covered the little window. She spoke little during the day, and the following morning was at work in the sail-shed, pale and sulky, refusing every offer of help, and receiving the condolences of her neighbours with a silent contempt.

A few days afterwards the Mishteer wrote to Ivor Parry a letter in his round, firm hand, one that Ivor treasured for years, taking it out of his breast-pocket, sometimes, when the curling smoke from his evening pipe carried up in its wreaths thoughts and memories of the sweet and bitter past.

"Come back, mach-geni," it said. "I cannot do without thee. The work calls for thee, my heart calls for thee, and the work-people all desire thy presence. Thou shouldst never have gone! there was no need. No new tie could ever loosen the cords of friendship that exist between thee and me. Nothing has gone well with me since thou art gone. I have had complaints of the work from several quarters. Sweet Gwladys is not well; and, truth to tell, I myself am wanting something, and it must be thee, lad, so come back to Mwntseison, and all will be well." In a postscript he added: "Of course thy pay shall be the same as that thou art receiving now. Indeed, I have raised the wages of all my best workmen."

And Ivor had answered:

"I will come, for I have quite failed to make my home at Carnarvon; and besides, if I can truly be of help to thee, nothing will keep me away. The Aden Ydon goes across next Monday, and I on board; but remember I will take no more pay than I have always had of thee. It was good pay, and I never wanted more; so fforwel till we meet."

Hugh was in good spirits next day, and came homewards at noon waving a letter round his head.

"Good news, Gwladys fâch! Ivor will be here next Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday at latest. Everything will be alright now. I feel like a new man," and so absorbed was he with the prospect of his friend's arrival, that he ate his dinner without noticing Gwladys' embarrassment.

"Next week! so soon should she be called upon to bear so much I so much bitterness, and alas! so much joy! But the joy must be smothered—be crushed out, and perhaps it would die some day."

She ate no dinner, and was thankful that Hugh did not notice the fact. From that moment a restless feeling took possession of her, and as the time for the arrival of the Aden Ydon drew nearer, she was consumed with a feverish dread of meeting Ivor.

Mari Vone often dropped in on one pretext or another, and though the subject uppermost in both their minds was never mentioned between them, she always left Gwladys more calm and courageous than when she entered.

On Monday the weather was dark and lowering, what wind there was blowing from the land, the waves scarcely breaking as they rippled on the shore.

"The Aden Ydon won't sail to-day," said Hugh, as he looked out under the thatched eaves of his window in the early morning. "But to-morrow, perhaps, the weather will have changed."

And so it was. On Tuesday the wind blew fresh and full from the north-west, and, standing at the door of the sail-shed, telescope in hand, Hugh watched for the first glimpse of the Aden Ydon's white sails.

"Yes, there she is!" he said, turning round to address his people. "Here, now, one of you boys, run up and tell the Mishtress that Ivor Parry will be with us before to-night."

Gwladys tried hard to keep her thoughts from roaming out to that blue bay, which seemed to be more en evidence than usual to-day. Through every window and open door she saw it spreading fair and broad before her. The swish, swish of the waves filled her ears, the air was laden with its briny odour, and nearer and nearer from the dim blue hills, eighty miles away, came the white-winged ship that bore such a freight of sorrow for her.

"Oh, God forgive me!" she cried, whenever her thoughts went over those blue waters; and when, in the glow of the sunset, she saw the little ship sail in to land, and disappear round the cliff that towered high between Mwntseison and Abersethin, she fell on her knees under the wide chimney, and with hands crossed on her bosom, remained a few moments in silent prayer. She rose calmer, and endeavoured once more to busy herself in her household duties.

At last, when the evening shadows were closing in, and the glow in the west had faded away, she heard voices and footsteps coming down the opposite hillside, and across the wooden footbridge, and she knew that Hugh was returning from Abersethin, and was bringing Ivor with him.

Now the sound ceased, and she knew they were coming up the road. Her heart beat so violently that she felt suffocated, and went to the doorway, partly to meet her fate and partly for a breath of air.

"What should she say?—how would he look? What would Hugh think if she should faint or falter? God help me!" she said as the footsteps came nearer, and in the twilight the two dark figures entered the cwrt.

"Here he is, Gwladys," said Hugh boisterously, "just come in to see thee on his way to his lodgings."

Gwladys blindly held out her hand, and Ivor took it in his.

"Well, Mishtress, and how are you?" he asked, in as cool a manner as he could command. A slight tremor in his voice was the only sign of feeling—there was not even the friendly "thee" and "thou." There was no tender, meaning glance—no pressure of the hand. She had not expected it—nay, would have resented it—but still the tone of indifference was painful to her, although she was perfectly aware it was assumed, and she answered in the same commonplace tones:

"I am well, thank you."

And Hugh filled up the silence that followed with his loud and hearty greetings.

"You will stay and have supper with us?" said Gwladys.

"Oh, no!" interrupted Hugh; "I am going to sup with him to-night. I will ask Mari to come and stay with thee."

"No," said Gwladys, "I would rather not. I have enough to do to fill up my time to-night."

"Wel, nos da, Mishtress," said Ivor; and he and Hugh left, disappearing together through the gloaming.

Gwladys looked after them with a set white face, and then turned wearily up the stairs. Calling to Madlen, she said, in a calm voice:

"When the Mishteer comes in, tell him I was tired and went to bed."

On reaching her bedroom, she bolted the door, and, falling on the bed, gave way to a storm of tears.

"Oh, Hugh, Hugh!—my kind husband—oh! good friend and true!—why has God brought such sorrow upon thee? But, no! he shall not suffer—only me! only me!"

And then another flood of tears. She rose and went to the window, gazing silently at the leaden waters of the bay, silvered here and there by the moon, which was rising behind the village; then in a whisper she said:

"Ivor, Ivor! didst feel it as I did? Yes. I know by the tremble of his voice—'How are you, Mishtress?'—'I am well, thank you.' That is all—and that is all that must be between us. Ivor is strong and good—I must be the same!" And for the rest of the evening she lay still and thoughtful.

And thus began Gwladys' martyrdom—and no less that of Ivor's. To meet in the ordinary course of daily life, though not oftener than could possibly be avoided, was a trial under which, at first, both suffered acutely; and Gwladys drooped and wilted visibly in the stress of the storm through which she was passing. She turned her face daily towards the path of duty, endeavouring to take up every thread of interest which her life presented to her, and to brighten her husband's path, even though her own had been stripped of all beauty and joy; and gradually she earned the reward of comparative calm and peace—a peace which added a new charm to her beauty—so much so, that the villagers often remarked—"Wel wyr! the Mishtress grows prettier every day."

Hugh rejoiced much in the cheerfulness which she seemed to have somewhat regained.

"'Tis thy coming back, mach-geni," he would say to Ivor sometimes. "I put every good down to that as I put every evil to thy going away."

And Ivor would push his hat further back on his head, and attack his work with more vigour, saying:

"I am glad, Mishteer, if it is so."

In the sail-shed, the work-people rejoiced to have him once more amongst them—the same as ever in his frank and genial manner, though much changed in outward appearance; for it was remarked by all how much his illness had aged him.

"Why, thee look'st ten years older, man!" they said, with the usual outspokenness of the peasantry.

And Ivor would only smile and say—"No doubt, no doubt!" while he applied himself with extra care and interest in the Mishteer's concerns. Morning, noon, and night he was busy, apparently feeling that he could not do enough for his friend.

And once more in the sail-shed could be heard the swinging chorus of—

"Torn sails and broken mast—
But the boat is safe at home at last!"

[1] Supernaturally wise.

[2] Watch-night.

[3] English.

In case of a quarrel between man and wife, or between two neighbours, the woman whose temper has been most seriously ruffled appears next day with her shawl over her head, and held tightly under her chin, as a sign she is in no humour for frivolous conversation; and the sign is so interpreted by her friends and neighbours. So that when Gwen carried her red pitcher to the well in one hand, and with the other clutched her grey shawl under her chin, every one knew the death of her child was weighing sorely upon her, and they passed her with a nod only, or a formal "Dachi!"[1]

A few days later, the nod was not returned, but Gwen looked straight before her with a glitter in her eye and a set look on her lips which her neighbours noted with a sigh.

"Poor thing! poor thing! she's very bad. Lallo fâch! you must get Mari Vone in to chat a bit and hearten her up!"

Lallo shook her head mournfully.

"I don't like it at all, Madlen fâch. She will break her heart if she does not cry or something; never a word day or night, but just that silent, angry look. Indeed, what should I do if it were not for the pig? But even with him she seems to be offended!"

When, later on, Gwen not only appeared invariably hooded by her grey shawl, but held that shawl crossed over her mouth, she was observed with more serious and sympathising looks. A woman who had quarrelled with her husband would sometimes appear with a shawl held under her chin; but few except the insane held their shawl over the mouth, exhibiting only the nose and eyes. And as Gwen hurried through the village or roamed about the cliffs, she was followed by many a sigh and shake of the head. The village children, against whom she directed spiteful glances as she passed them on the shore or on the cliffs, soon learned to fear and hate her, and when she appeared amongst them they would fly in all directions like a flock of sparrows.

"Wel, wyr!" said Sara Pentraeth, as she looked after the miserable woman. "Peggi Shân has come back to Mwntseison, I think. Ach y fi! she looks angry with the sun himself."

Her place in the sail-shed was often unoccupied, and the Mishteer remarked upon it with reproof as well as pity in his tone, when one day she appeared, late in the afternoon, and sullenly took her seat, and, after a few minutes' desultory work, rose and began her way to the open doorway.

"Stop, Gwen!" he said kindly. "What's the matter, merch i? Sorrow and hiraeth[2] we can all understand after such a loss; but what is the meaning of that anger and sullenness? Why, lodes,[3] art offended with the Almighty?"

"I am offended with you, Hugh Morgan! you have no business to speak to me as if I was a child, indeed, though you are the Mishteer."

"If you are a woman, Gwen, act like one, and remember that sorrow, if properly borne, may turn to a blessing."

"I want neither blessing nor cursing," said Gwen, "but only to be let alone. Go home, Hugh Morgan, and attend to your own affairs; you will find plenty to do with them," and she flung her shawl over her head and left the shed. Taking no notice of the scared looks of her fellow-workers, she walked homewards, straight and unbending, and passed her much-enduring mother in the cwrt without a word. Lallo looked after her sorrowfully, and went to the pig-stye door, over which she leant in a musing attitude for some time.

When the soft grey November days had commenced, "Tewi du bach," or the "little black weather," as it is called at Mwntseison, the sea looked still and dreamy under its sheeny leaden surface, and the land seemed to lie in a cold swoon, for the summer and autumn were dead, and the sharp winter weather had not arrived; it was coming steadily and rapidly behind that grey haze which looked so calm and innocent on the north horizon of the bay. The boats were overhauled, and the nets were gathered in from the stretchers. As the evening shadows fell, over the steely glitter of the sea there came a rippling roughness, and an oily movement on the tide, which told its tale to the watchful fishermen. The doors of the sail-shed were closed, and down the grey beach the boats were pushed into the plashing waves; lights glimmered on the bay, and every man in Mwntseison was full of interest in the hauls of silver herrings which the boats brought to land.

"Come home and sup with me, Ivor," said Hugh, after one of their fishing excursions; "thou art tired out."

"Man alive!" answered Ivor, "am I fit to enter any clean house covered with tar and herring-scales like this? No, no, another time!"

"To-night it must be, or thou wilt offend me," said Hugh. "Go home and wash off thy herring-scales, lad, for I know Gwladys has a wheaten loaf and a fine lobster for supper; and I'll take no more of thy 'no, no's.'"

"Well, I'll follow thee," said Ivor, seeing a grave look in Hugh's face.

"I'll go and tell Gwladys thou art coming," said Hugh; and as he went up the uneven road, carrying a string of herrings, he fell into a deep study—one of those reveries which had become rather frequent with him of late.

"What can be the matter with Ivor?" he thought. "What ails the man that he never darkens my door? I thought when once he came back we should be always together; but no—it is always 'not to-night, Hugh,' or 'another time, Mishteer.' I cannot make him out. And Gwladys, too! what ails her? When I say 'I will ask Ivor to come in to-night,' she never seems glad, but turns away without a word. Have they had any quarrel, I wonder? but no!" and again a shadow fell over his face, and an uneasiness crept into his mind, which had hitherto been a stranger there; but he chased it away as he entered the house and handed the herring to Gwladys to be fried for supper.

Ivor had tried so hard to put off his friend's frequent offers of hospitality. To-night he had no choice but to accept. When, cleaned and brushed, he entered the cottage, he would have given worlds to be able to rush away and hide his eyes from the sight which he knew awaited him there. Yes, there she was, busying herself with the arrangements of the simple supper, and, in the fitful light of the blazing log fire, looking more beautiful than ever, though paler and more pensive.

"Wel, Mishtress, I hope you are well," said Ivor, hurrying over the awkwardness of meeting, while Hugh made him welcome with hearty greeting.

Gwladys' answer was low and rather unsteady. She set herself to her duties of hostess, and endeavoured to enter naturally into the conversation, but with very indifferent success, for which Hugh suddenly called her to account.

"Wel, wyr! Gwladys, Ivor will think he has come at an inconvenient time if thou art so thoughtful and silent. Come, lass, sprack up a bit, and give my friend a welcome, if thou hast none for me."

Never before had she heard the slightest tone of blame in her husband's words, and to-night the overstrained courage gave way for a moment, and her eyes filled with tears, while she offered her poor little excuses; but she quickly conquered her weakness.

"Indeed, Hugh, I am ashamed of myself; but Ivor knows I have not been well lately, and he will forgive me, and thou must, too."

"Why, of course, of course, merch i; I only want to see the smiles and roses come back to thy pretty face," and Hugh, as if trying to make amends for his slight tone of reproach, passed his arm round her waist, and drew her playfully towards Ivor. "Here she is, Ivor. Doesn't look as if we could be very angry with her, eh?"

Gwladys drooped her head shyly, though she tried to join in Hugh's merry laugh, while Ivor felt the blood rush to his head, and every pulse in his body beating painfully.

When they were at last seated at supper, Gwladys talked and laughed with unnatural excitement, her eyes gleaming, and her cheeks burning with even more than the old richness of colour. Suddenly a little sound or movement drew their eyes to the doorway, and there in the gloom stood a grey figure, silent, and with glittering eyes fixed upon the trio at the table.

"Ach y fi! Gwen, is it thee, then? Indeed, this is the second fright thou hast given me to-day. Wilt sit down to supper?" said Gwladys.

But Gwen only shook her head, and, pointing to Hugh, went into peals of laughter—laughter which they continued to hear as she left the house, and took her way homewards.

Hugh shuddered.

"I believe she's crazy," he said. "That laugh did not sound like that of a sane woman; and, since she has taken to wear that grey shawl over her head, she looks the image of her old grandmother. I believe it's the very shawl old Peggi Shân used to wear. No wonder the children call after her, 'Avaunt, witch!' I feel inclined to say the same myself."

"Wel, indeed, she frightens me often," said Gwladys. "In the garden or here by the fire, or leaning over the brewing tub, I look up, and there she stands, saying nothing, but just staring, staring at me; and her eyes seem to pierce me through and through."

"She has been distraught ever since her child died, I think," said Ivor; "but we must see to her. She must not trouble the Mishtress in this way."

With the pardonable pride of a middle-aged husband, Hugh again drew Gwladys forward, saying:

"No, no, she sha'n't be troubled by anything! The best little woman that ever trod the sands of Mwntseison, in spite of her silent ways sometimes. Eh, Ivor?"

The latter felt he was expected to make some reply, while Gwladys stood flushed and perturbed before him. His lips were dry and parched, and his generally pleasant voice sounded harsh and hoarse as he answered:

"Wel, everybody knows that you picked the flower of Mwntseison; and everybody knows too, that only you, Mishteer, are worthy of her."

"Oh, halt there, lad, halt there! I think sometimes I have stolen her from a better man," and, as he loosened his arm from her waist, and seated himself at the supper table, a serious look came over his face, and a shadow seemed to have fallen upon his spirits. He had scarcely meant anything by his words; but even while he spoke there came to his mind a dim foreboding, and to his heart a sharp suspicion, of he knew not what, for he had not failed to notice the change in Ivor's manner—the difficulty with which he had brought out his words,—and, turning to look at Gwladys, he felt that those downcast eyes and that troubled face were not the signs of a young wife's pride in her husband's tender touch and admiring praises. But he smothered the feeling, and applied himself to his supper, and the meal was gone through with some outward show of hilarity. Having finished, Hugh pushed the brown jug of ale towards his friend. "Wilt drink, lad?" he said. "Wilt drink to my health and Gwladys'?"

"I will keep to the meth,"[4] answered Ivor; "'tis the best I ever drank; it still tastes of the wild thyme and the sweet brier. Mishtress! here's to your good health and the Mishteer's, and long life and happiness to you both!"

There was a strange light in his eyes, as he stood with his head thrown back, the glass of meth in his hand, and as he drank down its contents, a deadly paleness spread over his face. Sitting down again he drew a long breath, and his hand trembled visibly as he replaced the glass on the table.

"Canst thank him, Gwladys?" asked Hugh, looking keenly at his wife, who shook her head with a smile on her lips which looked unnatural and strained.

"Well, I will, then! Ivor, they are fair words, none could be better, and I thank thee for them."

"Words!" said Ivor, starting to his feet, and stretching out his hand across the table, "Hugh Morgan! there are no words which could ever make plain my friendship for thee. Health and happiness to thee and thy sweet wife! God knows I would gladly shed my blood to bring it to thee!"

"Good, then!" said Hugh, taking his hand; "there's no more to be said. Art going? Well, it is late, I suppose. Nos da!"

"Yes, and a storm is rising. Nos da, Mishtress," said Ivor as he left the house.

It was true the storm was rising fast, dark clouds scudded over the moon, the wind moaned and wailed round the cliffs, the sea seemed to swell and lash itself into threatening fury, and Ivor felt the tumult of the elements accorded well with his feelings.

"Dear God!" he exclaimed, as he made his way through the buffeting wind, "I can never go through that again—never! never! not even to please thee, Hugh Morgan."

Meanwhile, in the cottage, Gwladys was clearing away the remains of the supper, and endeavouring by busy employment to cover the distressing awkwardness which her husband's manner had awoke in her. As she passed him sitting thoughtful under the chimney, he rose, and drawing her towards him, held her face between his two hands, and, gazing steadily at her:

"Dost hide any secret from me behind those brown eyes?" he asked, in a serious, tender tone; and before his honest black eyes her own quailed, and a deep crimson flooded her face.

Hugh slowly drew away his hands with a heavy sigh, without waiting for an answer.

All next day the storm gradually increased, with a sullen persistency which seemed to threaten a more furious outburst for its tardy consummation. The wind soughed up the valley in fitful gusts; the sea seemed swelling with repressed anger. There was a heavy stillness in the air, in strange contrast with the flying clouds which passed at a high altitude from the north-west. Every cottage door was closed, the boats were safely moored, and the geese on the upland farms flew with loud cackling in flocks from one stubble field to another.

At the door of the sail-shed Hugh Morgan stood, lost in thought; the stormy atmosphere around him accorded well with the deep unrest which had taken possession of him. The dark suspicion which had darted into his mind on the previous evening had, with the suddenness of a flash of lightning, disclosed to him a truth, which, if it had ever before dawned upon his mind, had lain dormant, soothed to sleep by Gwladys' gentle ways and his own mad infatuation.

He and Ivor had met at intervals as usual in the course of the day's work, and each had felt that an undefined shadow had fallen between them; and of the two, Ivor had suffered most. He was conscious that in Hugh's mind had awoke a suspicion that he could never allay without a lie, for deep in his own heart he knew that his love for Gwladys was unquenchable and eternal. It was so with him, and nothing could alter the unhappy truth; he knew it, and he knew now that his friend knew it; but there was another thing that Hugh did not know, and Ivor writhed under the impossibility of making clear to him the depth and reality of his own unswerving devotion to his friend. As he had tramped home the night before, he had evolved out of the turmoil of his thoughts one idea, which he clung to with some gleam of comfort; he must leave Mwntseison; he must part from Hugh Morgan; he must escape from the sight of Gwladys. He would close with the offer made him by Robert Rees, the miller. At Traeth-Berwen the old mill was to be let, as Robert had become wealthy and portly and lazy, and had offered to sell his business on very generous terms to Ivor Parry. Yes! he would take the old mill, and pass the rest of his days in the dreamy little valley. True, it was only a mile away, and he would still see Gwladys and Hugh on Sunday at Brynseion Chapel; and, moreover, perhaps she would come to the mill sometimes with the corn to be ground; but that would be better than seeing her every day. A sudden sharp stab is better than a continual probing! and he had seized a moment of respite from work to rush down to "The Ship," to catch Robert, and to settle the bargain with a slap of the hand and a blue of ale, and for the rest of the day he had felt somewhat less perturbed.

To Hugh, on the contrary, life seemed to hold out no loophole of escape from the miserable dread which had dawned upon him. At first he had been filled with a dull aching anger that another man should dare to love his wife; and that man his friend, whom he had trusted—whom he had loved as a brother; and that he, Hugh Morgan, who had always been considered, and who thought himself, too calm and deliberate to be deceived, should thus have made a mistake in the most important step in his life! There was no anger against Gwladys.

"Poor child! poor child!" he was thinking, as he stood there at the door, with his hands clasped behind him; "it was not her fault; I see it all now. She never loved me—she loved Ivor; and I, fool that I was, thought my own love was enough, and would arouse the same feelings in her; but—thou hast been a fool, Hugh Morgan, and thou must open thine eyes now to thy folly, and make the best of a bad bargain. Well, this will help me to make up my mind on one point. I will leave the sail-shed, I will give up my business; I have enough and to spare, and poor Gwladys shall not be left so much alone." And he looked down the village road with gloomy forebodings in his dark eyes.

At this moment a large bunch of greenery came round the corner of the shed, and stooping under it, and looking through the golden and green leaves came Mari Vone, her shapely arms, crossed over her bosom, held the restraining cords which bound her bundle of bracken on her shoulders. Her brick-red petticoat made a spot of brightness in the gloomy landscape, and as she approached Hugh, her blue eyes looking out between the overshadowing ferns like harebells in the grass, even his sad face lightened as he met the sunny smile in the eyes, and marked the perfect lips and the dimpled cleft in the chin.

"Caton pawb! Mari, where'st been through the storm?" he asked, leaving the shed door, and accompanying her up the village road.

"Wel wyr! Now, thou'st never guess, Hugh. 'N'wncwl Jos had to go to Caer Madoc to-day to receive his pension, storm or no storm, so he borrowed Peggi Pentraeth's donkey-cart, and he does whip the poor donkey so. I hid the whip in the big furze bush by our house; but, oh, dir anwl! I couldn't hide his wooden leg, so I'm afraid he will use that instead. No, no! I will not loosen my bundle, so let it be. 'Tis a bed for the poor donkey to-night; I gathered it above Traeth-y-daran, for I knew the poor creature would be tired. Here's Peggi's donkey shed; wilt wait while I spread his bed for him?"

"Nay, I will come and help thee, lass." And in the little shed they spread the sweet fresh litter in readiness for the weary beast.

"Always comforting some poor, weary creature, thou art, Mari; 'twill be me next, lass. Hast any salve for a miserable man?"

"Hugh," said Mari, instinctively pressing her hand to her side, "what is it? Gwladys—is she ill?"

"No—what am I saying? Yes, she is sick—I am sick! Come home, lass, and let me tell thee."

And when they had strewn the litter of crisp bracken they went out together, and reaching her cottage door, Mari went in, Hugh following in silence. She pushed the rush chair towards him without speaking; and, leaning his elbow on the table, with his hands shading his eyes, he unburdened his mind to the ear which had never failed to listen with interest to every word that came from his lips. It was not a long story. A very few words served to reveal the dismal tale—alas, too common—of disappointed hopes and dire misgivings; of ruined happiness in two hearts caused by one foolish step.

"Yes," said Hugh, bringing his fist down heavily on the table, "I have been a fool, Mari—a blinded, headstrong fool! Had I been a boy, or even a young man like—like Ivor, there might have been some excuse for me; but a man of my age, one who had lived so long in quiet and wise solitude, and especially a man who had Mari Vone for his friend! Why didst not say to me," and he grasped her wrist fiercely, "'Stop, stop, Hugh, for she loves another'? That would have been real friendship, such as I thought thou hadst for me; but it seems I was wrong there too. I was mistaken in everything."

"I didn't know it, Hugh; indeed, I didn't know it!"

"Didst not?"

"No, indeed!" and the tears welled up into her eyes; but she resolutely kept them in check while she answered, "Hugh bâch, I am grieving for thee; but there are two things thou canst be certain of in all this sea of trouble—my true and firm friendship, and that sweet Gwladys is as pure as an angel."

To this Hugh made no answer, but continued for some time brooding darkly, while Mari sought in vain for any words that might comfort him. At last he spoke.

"I am getting tired of my life, Mari—tired of myself. Everything seems wrong with me, and I feel like the outside world around me these days, full of suppressed storm and unrest. It is not only Gwladys' want of love for me, not only that; but I myself am wrong. I am dissatisfied with myself. Come, guardian angel, and tell me what to do!"

"What is it, Hugh bâch?" said Mari, standing tall and fair beside him, and looking down with eyes of love and pity upon the storm-tossed man, who sat with his elbow leaning on the table, and his hands shading his troubled eyes.

"No! 'tis not Gwladys only who does not love, but I myself have changed. I, who thought my love for her was unchangeable and true, have awoke to find it was only a tempestuous passion which laid hold of me and carried me away, until I was cast shipwrecked and torn and broken against the rocks. Wilt despise me, Mari, when I tell thee that Hugh Morgan, who thought he loved his young wife, has ceased to do so? At the first dawn of suspicion, his love died out. Pity, deep pity, and the tender love of a father for his child, or an elder brother for his sister—that I still feel; but the passionate ardour with which I began my married life is gone—died suddenly, Mari—never to live again. Thou art silent, lass, because thou art sorry to hurt thine old friend by telling him how thou despisest him."

Mari laid her hand gently on his bowed head. Her heart was strangely moved within her; she would have been more than human had she felt no joy at hearing that the love which she had craved for all her life—if not hers—was, at all events, not another's! But the strongest feelings that prompted her words were sympathy for him and for Gwladys, and an earnest longing to comfort them.

"Thou art altogether wrong, Hugh; I do not despise thee, but pity thee, and sympathise—oh! with my whole heart. Thou hast not ceased to care for thy wife; it is only the passion, the earthly part of thy love, that has died out. The best part, the enduring, wise love remains, and will remain for ever, to guard sweet Gwladys—to comfort her and to guide her; for after all, Hugh, she is but a child, and thou must be very gentle and patient with her. I am as fond of her as if she were my own sister."

"Keep close to her, Mari fâch!" said Hugh, rising, "for she will need all thy tenderness—and I, too, Mari," and he held out his brown hand. "Don't turn me out of thine heart."

She took his hand in both her own, and pressed it in a warm clasp.

"Never, Hugh! while life shall last!"

"Right, merch i!" was all Hugh's answer, as he stooped his head under the low doorway. He turned back for a moment, while she still stood pensive at the table. "The old spar is drifting amongst the waves at present, Mari; thou must help to guide it into calm waters."

She looked up from the finger with which she had been absently writing on the table.

"I will, Hugh! Galon wrth galon!"[5]

When Hugh returned to the sail-shed it was to hear the astonishing news that Ivor Parry was about to break off his connection with the sail-making, and to enter upon the less arduous duties of a miller's life.

"Well, indeed," said Hugh, with forced cheerfulness, "this will be a day to be remembered by the gossips, for I, too, have a piece of news to give you." And raising his voice a little, so that everyone in the shed could hear him, he continued, "I meant to have called a meeting this evening to let you know that I am thinking to give up my business; but as Ivor Parry has already fired the pistol, I need not be afraid to let off the gun! Joshua Howels and I have had many talks on the subject, and I have now made up my mind to give up the sail-shed to him. I have made enough money to keep my wife and myself in comfort as long as we two live, and therefore I will not stand in the way of another man's doing the same thing. Now, I want you not to make any remarks about this to me to-night. You know I am one of those foolish creatures who cannot spend the greater part of every day under the same roof with other people without letting them into his heart, and I don't want you to think little of me at the last. So, anwl frindiau,[6] let us go on quietly, until some evening I slip out silently after work, and Joshua Howels comes in next morning instead of me. We need not say good-bye, as I am not going away from Mwntseison, and I have no doubt that, whenever I have an hour to spare, my feet will turn naturally towards the old sail-shed, so that we shall meet often; only, I will not be the Mishteer any longer."

Here his voice was drowned by an uproar of voices, and cries of "Mishteer! Mishteer!" filled the air.

"There has never been another Mishteer in Mwntseison," cried somebody in the crowd, "and there can never be another!"

The warm Welsh hearts of his work-people were touched to the quick by his evident emotion at parting with them. When they saw him reach down his straw hat, and turn towards the little office opening out of the shed, and they realised the meaning of the speech, a hush fell upon them more eloquent than words.

The Mishteer was unstrung. He was sorrowing at parting with them. There was a moisture in his eyes, the tears were not far off—and all for them; and as they dropped their voices, and passed silently out through the big doors, Hugh Morgan had never been so completely master of their hearts.

Of course, next day Mwntseison was moved from hearth to roof—from the Methodist chapel on the cliffs to the little church on the top of the hill. Over the whole neighbourhood the news was spread abroad, and amongst others, Nell Jones and Sara Pentraeth had met early to exchange ideas. Their washing had been hurried over in a very perfunctory manner, in the desire to reach the "hanging-out" stage of the proceedings; and as good luck would have it, just as Nell began to spread out her heavy Welsh flannels, Sara came out too with her basket, and they were soon engaged in deep conversation over the low hedge of blackened broom bushes which divided their sandy gardens.

"Nell fâch, didst ever hear of such a thing? There's news! there's an odd thing! that the Mishteer should change his mind like that—and all of a sudden, too! And, Nell anwl, to be handed over to Josh Howels like a bowl of cawl! Ach y fi!"

"Will he pay us as well? that's the thing!" said Nell; "for I've heard tell he's a man who wants the penny and the pen'orth!"

"Perhaps indeed! shouldn't wonder; he is nearly related to his father, and we all know what he was! But there's one good thing, we sha'n't have to call Gwladys 'Mishtress' any more—Mishtress indeed! with her airs and her pride. Ach y fi! shoes, if you please, instead of clocs!" and, with another expressive "ach y fi," she flung a garment over the hedge so roughly as to tear it, thus adding to her own irritation. "Madam's pride will come down now, Nell fâch; for two women, whose grandfathers and great-grandfathers have lived at Mwntseison, to have to say Mishtress to Nani Price's daughter is very hard; for who was Nani Price's father, I should like to know?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Nell. "What does that matter? and, indeed, I can't say I have seen any pride in the Mishtress."

"Oh, dir anwl!" said Sara spitefully, "who could show pride to a poor, humble creature like thee. I have seen how thou hast flattered and fawned upon her; but I don't think thy porridge will be any the thicker for it. As for me, I never cringe to anyone. I can hold up my head with anyone in the village. My father was never suspected of sheep-stealing, and my uncle's wife's brother never had occasion to keep accounts to satisfy his master. No! nor my mother never promised to make a quilt for four shillings, and then charge six shillings for it!"

This last thrust, alluding to something that was within Nell's memories, was unbearable.

"Dost dare to say that my father stole sheep?" she said, with arms akimbo, and looking with flashing eyes across the broom hedge. "Dost dare to say my uncle's wife's brother stole his master's money? I'll have the law upon thee as sure as——"

"The law!" said Sara. "I defy the law, and thee into the bargain! I never said thy father stole a sheep. I only said my father never did. No! and I'll tell thee another thing—my daughter never tripped on her way to the marriage market!"

At this last shaft, poor Nell was completely crushed, and finished spreading out her flannels in silence, while Sara retired up the garden with flying colours.

[1] Good-day!

[2] Longing.

[3] Girl.

[4] A drink made of fermented honey.

[5] "Heart to heart!"—A Druidical motto.

[6] Dear friends.

"There," she said, with satisfaction, "let her go to her wind and rain. Tan i marw![1] I'm afraid of her."

When Hugh came down, he entered upon the subject of his intended retirement from business.

"'Twill be better for thee, merch i," he said, "than being so much alone. Perhaps I have been wrong to leave thee here all day to fret thyself. I will try not to be in the way of the household work, Gwladys."

"Oh, Hugh," said the girl, her voice trembling with emotion, "thou hast not left me to fret. Thou hast filled my life with kindness; thou hast been everything to me—husband, friend, brother,—and I will try—oh, I will try!—to be all I can to thee. Have patience with me, Hugh." And, with timid attempts at reconciliation, she surrounded him with little nameless attentions, piling his plate with the frizzled ham, cutting thin slices of bread and butter from the long barley loaf, and stooping herself to tie his shoe strings; but Hugh's thoughts were absent, and he took no notice of the little tendernesses. The cloud was on his brow and the dark shadow of suspicion in his heart, and, though his words were as kind, perhaps more so than ever, there was an absence of the loving look and the warm embrace, which cut his young wife to the quick. After he had left the house, she flung herself down in the rush chair in the chimney corner, and, with her hands clasped listlessly on her lap, she mused long and sorrowfully, making no answer to Madlen's frequent allusions to the storm.

"There's yellow the sea is," said the latter, peeping out through the little side window, which looked down to the bay. "All the sand in the bay is mixed with it, and oh, anwl! the waves are rising as high as steeples! Wel wyr!"

Gwladys still sat on in a turmoil of miserable thought. What was to become of her? How should she bear the long life before her, always mistrusted by her husband, and always fighting with this terrible dear love for Ivor, which haunted her sleeping or waking, in the garden, on the shore, or at her household duties? and "I am so young! If I were old there would be some hope of an end of it. But so young—only twenty! It is impossible! I cannot bear it!" and in a paroxysm of bitter trouble she started up, and, flinging an old grey shawl over her head and shoulders, she went quickly out through the back door and into the sandy garden. She would battle with the wind and the storm! It would not be worse than the turmoil of thoughts within, which made her heart ache and her head burn. Out in the garden the wind almost took her breath away. The blackened broom bushes in the low hedge which separated the garden from the cliffs seemed to bend threateningly towards her; but she pushed her way through them. The long grass, beaten down by the pelting rain, obstructed her footsteps; but she hurried on persistently, almost unconsciously, scarcely feeling the cruel stings of the driving rain in her face, and struggling with the fierce wind, which clutched at her dripping garments and dragged her backwards.

"But I will go!" cried the girl, as she fought her way over the cliffs, sometimes stopping to take breath, but again resolutely renewing her battle with the storm. Where was she going? She knew not—cared not; but somewhere—anywhere—away from herself and the pitiless circumstances which pressed upon her! Yes; Gwen was right. The storm and the wind and the rain suited her better than the warm hearth and the kind voice of her husband.

Could she reach Traeth-y-daran? There she would sit on the rock where Ivor and she had spent their last hours together. Perhaps there she would find peace, for in vain she had sought it in prayer and supplication. She knew if she were once able to make her way down the dangerous path to the shore, the last step, which would be of necessity a leap of ten feet, would render a return impossible. A dim perception of this ran through her mind; but the frenzy which had taken possession of her sought only for its goal—oblivion, and a termination of her sufferings.

In calmer moments she would not have dared to tread that dangerous path in a high wind, but to-day she seemed possessed by some wild spirit of unrest, which drove her forwards and impelled her flying feet on—on—till the edge of the cliff was reached, and still on, down the dangerous, zig-zag path, clinging to the stunted bushes. Slipping, stumbling, and yet pursuing, she made her difficult progress, and when the path ended abruptly at the top of a smooth, perpendicular rock, she did not hesitate for a moment, but took the leap with streaming hair and swirling garments, and alighting on the beach below, sped onwards across the wet sands to where the low rocks still lay uncovered by the in-coming tide. At last she had reached her goal, and, flinging herself down, she gave way to the tears which she had hitherto restrained. Every moment seemed to add to the fury of the storm.

"Oh, wind, it is for me you are wailing and shrieking! Oh, rain, 'tis for me your tears are falling!" and she mingled her own passionate sobs and cries with the stormy sounds around her. Here she could cry aloud in her despair, for there was no one to hear—no one but God. "Does he hear me?" and she paused for a moment and looked out at the boiling, seething cauldron before her, and up to the streaming sky; but her survey brought her no comfort. "No, He does not! No! no! I am alone—alone!"

At that moment a huge wave broke with thundering force at a little distance from the shore, and, helped by the wind and in-rushing tide, it reached far up the beach, even to the rock on which Gwladys sat; and for the first time she realised that, in taking that flying leap, she had cut herself off from every chance of escape. As she watched the huge, curling waves rushing one after another towards her, a strange joy rose within her. She would be drowned!—and here would end all the sorrow and all the sin which had made the last three months of her life so intolerable to her.

How had she dared to think God had not heard her?—for here was the answer to her prayers. He was going to take her to Himself—to calm her troubled breast and to unloose the tangled skein of her life! And leaning back, her head on a bed of brown sea-weed, she set herself to wait for death—the great consoler. But when the cold streams of water reached her, and, encircling the rock, began to splash her face, already wetted by the rain, she moved a little further up the beach.

"Not just yet," she thought; "I must have time to ask for pardon, and to say good-bye to Ivor and dear Hugh!"

And again she threw herself back on the wet sea-weed—as wet and sodden herself as was her cold bed.

Steadily the tide came up—not slowly and gracefully as in the quiet summer mornings and evenings, but with rapid strides and far-reaching, foaming arms, that seemed to stretch out hungrily towards her. She closed her eyes as the drenching rain fell on her face, and with clasped hands waited—but not for long. For soon the roar became louder, the wind blew more fiercely, and once more she moved further up the beach, until at last there was only a small strip of sand under the cliffs left bare.

Gwladys rose, and wearily gained the narrow strand, and, seeing that the swirling tide already swept over it, she took her stand, leaning against the rocky wall, and once more prepared to wait her doom. Suddenly there was a break in the leaden sky, and while the waves now reached her ankles, the drift widened, and the sun peeped out and cast a fitful gleam on the tossing waves. It was only a gleam, but enough to waken in Gwladys the natural instincts of youth, which had slept within her lately. After all, life was dear! It was better to live miserable than to die miserable! After all, life might hold some solution of her perplexities; God might lighten her burden—to Him nothing was impossible. But it was too late! Already the water reached her knees, and many a wave splashed even over her head.

Meanwhile, in the sail-shed, Hugh and Ivor worked each at his own special work, avoiding each other as much as possible, but still showing no other sign of disturbance.

"I see Captain Roberts at 'The Ship.' Will I go and tell him his sail is done, Mishteer?" said Ivor at last, standing square and straight at the door of the little office.

"Yes," answered Hugh, "if thou canst get there through the storm."

"Twt, twt," was all Ivor's answer as he tied the ears of his cap under his chin. In a few minutes he had reached "The Ship" Inn, and delivered his message, having done which he came out again into the wind and rain. From the door of "The Ship" one could see over the jutting point which hid Traeth-y-daran from the rest of the shore; and Ivor, looking across the stormy waters, seemed struck by something he saw there.

Surely that was a human figure standing up against the bare rock! Yes, the grey form of a woman!—Gwen, no doubt—and she would be drowned for certain, unless he could save her. A few moments he stood uncertain, until, looking round him, he espied a man who slouched up the road to meet him.

"Hello, Will! is that thee, lad? Wilt come with me to Traeth-y-daran?"

"Ay, ay!" shouted the man in return, for the storm was too loud for the ordinary voice to be heard. He was one of those unfortunate creatures so common along the coast—a harmless idiot—a mental state politely described in the neighbourhood as "not wise!" He was always ready to risk his life, of whose value he was but dimly conscious.

Ivor knew it would be useless to ask anyone else to dare with him the fury of that boiling sea, "unless, indeed, Hugh was here," he thought, as he pushed out his boat, regardless of the entreaties of the knot of idlers who had immediately gathered round him.

"Here's the Mishteer!" said somebody, and Hugh was hastily making his way through the buffeting wind and spray.

"Come out, Will," he cried; "I will go." And laying hold of the boat, he prepared to leap in, but was pushed back by Ivor.

"Not thee, Hugh. Will and I are enough to risk our lives on yon boiling pot. Hast seen the woman?"

"Yes," said Hugh—"that mad Gwen in her grey shawl." And he still kept his hand on the boat. "Let me be, lad—I am not going to let thee go alone."

"Back!" shouted Ivor, endeavouring to spring past Hugh, who clutched at him and struggled to leap in. There was a moment's wrestling between the two men, each heated by his own passionate will and the new-born spirit of antagonism between them, until at length, "Remember thy wife!" cried Ivor; "I have no one to leave behind—back, man!" And with a violent thrust, he flung Hugh splashing prone in the shallow tide, and, springing into the boat, he pushed it from the shore, while Hugh rose angrily from his undignified position.

"Fool!" he cried, looking at the receding boat; "he will be drowned, as sure as he's there!"

"That's what he knows, Mishteer," cried a man in the crowd. "That's why he won't let you go with him. Tan i marw! I think you must both be tired of your lives!"

"As for me," said another, "I should say if Gwen put herself into that pickle, let her come out of it!"

"Why, man," said a third, "how can she get out of it? That wild sea before her, and a straight rock as smooth as a wall behind her!"

"Twt, twt!" said the first speaker, "Peggi Shân would come and help her! There he goes round the point, now he will be in the strame of the storm! Poor fellow—druan bâch!"