"Of course!" he said, "I want to know how 'n'wncwl Jos is."

He listened at the open door for a minute to the sound of voices within. No! Gwladys' clear tones were not there; but 'n'wncwl Jos's "Hegh! hegh! hegh!" was distinctly to be heard.

"Hello!" he said, in a cheery voice as he entered, "no need to ask how the sick man is!"

Mari placed a chair for him by her uncle's side, who was bubbling over with tales and laughter, his wooden leg once more in its proper place, and the usual quid of tobacco in his cheek.

"Hooray, mach-geni! there's glad I am to see thee! Wel wyr! they have been nearly killing me here with their pills and their draughts and things; but old 'n'wncwl Jos has diddled them all this time!" And with a poke in Ivor's ribs, he laughed and stumped with something like his old jollity.

"Don't listen to him, Ivor bâch!" said Mari; "thee know'st him of old. There never was a man more ready to take his physic, so anxious he was to get well; not a pill nor a draught would he miss, and all day he watched that clock to keep me up to time with his doses!"

"Listen not to her, lad," said 'n'wncwl Jos, rather shamefaced; "she's a woman, and they always know how 'to change the feather to the colour of the river.' And how dost get on at Melyn Berwen?"

"Oh, very well so far!"

"Don't thee take too much toll now," said the old man, with another nudge. "Mari's got two Winchesters of barley for thee to grind next week."

"Da iawn![2] and how does Mwntseison get on without me? How is Gwen?"

"Oh, indeed, better, I think," said Mari, throwing a fresh log on the fire; "she does not wander about the village so much—goes over the cliffs and speaks to no one. Hugh Morgan thinks it is a pity to put her into an asylum just yet, while she is so quiet."

"Clap her in! clap her in!" said 'n'wncwl Jos; "she'll be safe there, that's my advice."

"Well, indeed, it seems cruel to say so; but I think so, too," Ivor answered; and he proceeded to tell them of her eccentric behaviour on the cliffs the previous night, and the uncanny nature of her song.

Mari Vone laughed heartily; looking up from her knitting, she said:

"Why, Ivor bâch, hast forgotten thy childhood completely? Dost not remember that old game? Why, we played it in a ring on the sands in the summer evenings, singing those words all the time. Every child in Mwntseison knows it!"

"Well, b'tshwr!" said Ivor; "what a ffwlcyn[3] I was! Well, indeed, I thought it seemed familiar to me somehow; and Robert Owen, too, said he thought he had heard it somewhere."

'N'wncwl Jos was extremely amused.

"Well, there's two fools you were! 'There's a pair of you,' as the devil said to his wooden shoes."

Ivor joined in the laugh, and felt relieved by the discovery of his mistake, more particularly when Gwen herself entered the house suddenly and silently. She stood a moment, with her white face and piercing eyes half hidden under the shade of her grey shawl. A silence fell upon them as they encountered her cold stare, and Ivor was the first to speak.

"Well, Gwen fâch!" he said kindly; "and how art thou and Lallo?"

"I am quite well, Ivor Parry, and my mother is quite well. How art getting on at the mill?" And without waiting for an answer, she went quietly away.

"We can't call that woman mad enough for an asylum, poor thing!" said Mari.

"I say, clap her in!" said 'n'wncwl Jos; "she'll be safe there. Clap her in!"

"Well, she seemed quiet enough to-night, and sensible. Perhaps I have been too easily frightened," said Ivor. "Wilt promise me, Mari, to send over to the mill if she shows any signs of mischief?"

"I promise."

"Then good-night," said Ivor; "I was a fool not to know the old game song."

As he passed Gwen's cottage, Lallo stood at the door.

"Well, I am glad," she said, "that thou hast not quite left us, Ivor Parry. Come in, come in, and have a chat, for I am all alone."

"Where is Gwen, then—and how is she?"

"Oh, she's better—very quiet indeed, and gone to bed."

"Da iawn!" said Ivor, "that is good news." And making the lateness of the hour an excuse for not entering, he returned over the cliffs to Traeth Berwen.

Acsa was still up when he entered the mill kitchen, stooping over the fire and crooning an old Welsh hymn. With an oar-shaped porridge spoon, she stirred the "bwdran" which babbled in the iron pot hanging from a chain in the chimney. In her quaint Welsh costume, a red cotton handkerchief tied under her chin, her hard-featured face catching the light of the glowing fire, she looked like a witch who stirs the broth in her cauldron.

"Caton pawb, woman," said Ivor, as he entered and bolted the door, "why art not in bed? I wish I had one of those new machines for taking pictures—I believe I would make my fortune by selling a few of thee, sitting there over thy bwdran in the peat smoke."

Acsa laughed, and disclosed a toothless upper gum.

"Do then, indeed," she said—"'twould be the first time old Acsa had been of use to anyone."

"Oh, halt there," said Ivor, sitting down to his supper. "I don't know how I should get on here without thee. Give me a bowl of bwdran."

"Well," she said good-naturedly, as she laid the steaming bowl before him, "I am a good watch-dog; I can watch my master's property as well as any policeman, and as for the foxes—they find me much too sharp for them. Never a fowl can they get from Berwen Mill." And she mumbled on while Ivor hurried through his supper, and, leaving her still clattering amongst her pans and dishes, went to bed, and quickly to sleep.

He had not slept more than an hour or so, when Acsa, as if to maintain her character of "watch-dog," thumped at his bedroom door.

"Mishteer, there's a strange light in the sky—a fire in Mwntseison, I think."

"A fire in Mwntseison!" And almost before she had spoken the words, Ivor was up, and hurrying on his clothes. "A fire in Mwntseison! Had he not dreaded it, pictured it?—was he not even dreaming of it when Acsa gave the alarm?"

While he dressed he looked out at the sky, and over the brow of the hill before him; the glow reddened and spread. He was quickly crossing the yard and climbing up the rugged path to the cliffs; and having reached the top, he ran with breathless speed towards the village, every moment nearing the crimson glow, now mixed with sparks, which illumined the sky before him.

A few hours earlier, just as Ivor was entering Mwntseison and hesitating as to where he should begin his search for Gwen, Hugh Morgan and his wife sat down to their comfortable tea together, while Madlen hovered about, or drank her tea on a bench under the chimney, helping herself from her own special tea-pot, which sat snugly in the embers on the hearth.

"There's quiet the village is, now that Gwen Owen is better," she said. "Indeed it is heaven upon earth not to hear her screaming and laughing. Lallo will be glad she didn't send her to the 'sayloom."

"Yes, poor thing," said Hugh; "I am very thankful I have been saved that horrid job. 'Twould have gone hard with me to take one of our village lasses to that big grey building at Caer Madoc. It always gives me a shudder when I pass it, though I never had a relation there; hadst thou, Gwladys?"

"No, indeed, as far as I know, whatever; but I can't bear to see it, too, so many of our friends are there, poor things. Poor Laissabeth Davies, whose two sons were drowned together."

"And Sianco, the lobster man," said Hugh.

"Yes, and Nell who used to paddle with me; poor Nell."

"Ach y fi! yes," said Madlen from her chimney corner; "and there's two or three more from Mwntseison would be locked up there if their friends were not so quiet about them."

"Perhaps they would be better off in the 'sayloom," said Gwladys. "Indeed, I thought so to-day when I passed poor Reuben Pentraeth's window at the back of his mother's house all boarded up. It must be so dark inside, with only those chinks to let in the light. I often hear him singing when I pass."

"Yes, he doesn't lose his fine voice," said Hugh, rising; "it makes my heart ache to hear him. But I must go, merch i; I daresay I will be late coming home to-night, for I have my last accounts to make up. Everything will be finished to-night, and to-morrow Josh Howels and I will sign our names to the contract; and then good-bye to the old sail-shed for ever. Don't sit up for me, merch i. Leave the door on the latch."

"Oh, anwl! I'm afraid of Gwen, Hugh."

"No, go to bed, Mishtress," said Madlen. "I will be up with the brewing till four o'clock, and I will let the Mishteer in."

And with a pleasant nod Hugh Morgan left the house. It requires nothing less than a death, or a parting for years, to make a Welsh husband kiss his wife before stranger eyes.

Gwladys, when she had finished her own part of the brewing, went to bed and to sleep, while Hugh sat over his accounts in the sail-shed until his candle burnt low and the last column was added up. Then, with a satisfied "There!" he pushed the book away from him, and leaning back in his chair, fell into a heavy sleep, quite unconscious that a grey, ghost-like figure hovered round and round the old sail-shed, sometimes pressing her ear to the keyhole, sometimes peering in through the tiny window of the office; making no sound on the soft turf that crept up close to the boarded walls of the shed, for she carried her wooden shoes in her hand while she watched the busy man bending over his accounts, and at last, in healthy fatigue, throwing himself back for a refreshing sleep. Yes! so heavily Hugh Morgan slept, that he did not hear the creeping footsteps outside, nor yet the crackling of burning wood around him, nor smelt the sickening fumes from burning sails and ropes, which served to deaden his oppressed senses.

When Ivor Parry, "with his breath in his throat," reached the burning building, he found the whole population of Mwntseison gathered round it, everyone eager to help, but all paralysed by the horror of the scene. Where was the Mishteer? he who would have been foremost in helping and directing the surging crowd; his absence took the nerve and pluck out of everybody, and the fear that he might be in the shed intensified the excitement.

Gwladys, overcome by terror, lay swooning in her mother's arms. She opened her eyes when Ivor's voice reached her ears.

"Save him, Ivor, thy friend! save him if thou lov'st me!"

Her mother, who overheard her words, looked round in affright, lest any other ear should have caught the frenzied accents.

Ivor was gone in a moment. Leaving the crowd, he passed round to the back of the shed where the little office was situated, and which the flames had not yet reached. One woman was already there. It was Mari Vone, who, in frantic excitement, dragged at the boards which formed the walls of the building. Her whole being seemed centred in the effort to break a way into the office. Ivor wasted no time in words, but joined her at once in her mad tearing at the boards, and with his additional strength, one at length gave way, and in a few seconds a hole large enough to pass through rewarded their efforts. A column of smoke rushed with such fury through the opening that, for a moment, both were thrown back. But, not to be beaten, Ivor pressed in through the blinding smoke, followed closely by Mari. They heard the shouts and cheers of a small portion of the crowd, who had now assembled on that side of the building and watched their efforts; but there was no time for thought, for fear, or for conjecture; only one mad impulse, to search on the ground while their breath lasted. Not at the desk! not at the cupboard! Even at that moment of strained suspense the memory of a tune passed through Ivor's brain.

"Come, flames of yellow, red, and blue,
Help! for you are my servants true!"

Stumbling at the door, he stooped, Mari with him, and felt the Mishteer's body lying prone across the threshold. A heavy beam lay over his chest; his feet and legs were already licked by the curling flames; while his head and shoulders lay within the little office. Ivor saw or felt the situation at once, and Mari, whose busy fingers groped with his in the smoke, understood it, too. With almost superhuman strength, he lifted the heavy beam, while Mari dragged Hugh gently, but firmly, away from its crushing weight.

The density of the smoke was not quite so great on the floor as it was higher up, and to this fact Hugh Morgan hitherto owed his life. He was quickly carried to the breach in the wall, which willing hands had enlarged during the few seconds occupied in his deliverance, and, when Ivor and Mari emerged with their silent burden, a shout of joy rose from the people—a shout which quickly subsided into an awestruck silence when the straightened form lay motionless on the grass before them. Not a moment too soon had they made their escape, for the office was now in a blaze of swirling flames.

Quickly the news of Hugh's safety was conveyed to Gwladys.

"He's alive, Mishtress! Ivor and Mari have brought him out!"

But she did not hear them. At the words, "He's alive," the reaction from the terrible fear that had paralysed her was so great that she fainted, and in this condition was carried home.

A stretcher had been quickly improvised from an old sail, and Hugh, gently laid upon it, was also carried home by loving hands, and laid tenderly upon his own bed, Mari Vone refusing to allow anyone but Ivor and herself to lift him from the sail to the bed. He moaned once or twice during the removal, and afterwards lay still and motionless, with closed eyes.

Dr. Hughes, who, together with all the inhabitants of Abersethin, had seen the fire at Mwntseison, was quickly on the spot, and attending to Hugh Morgan, while Gwladys, white and rigid, tottered in like a ghost and flung herself down at the bedside in an abandonment of grief. The sound of her sobs reached Hugh's ears, and, opening his eyes, he tried to speak, but failed in the attempt.

"Not yet," said Dr. Hughes; "lie quite still until you are stronger. Now take this—and you, Gwladys, be quite silent if you wish to save your husband's life."

Gwladys smothered her sobs, and, sitting still and shivering beside her husband, said, in piteous accents:

"Don't send me from him! let me stay and do something."

"You can do nothing but be calm and quiet."

"I will," she said; and she kept her word.

In the early dawn of the next morning, pale and worn with the night's watching, she looked out through the low thatched window on the leaden waters of the bay, stretched out before her in the cold grey stillness of the late autumn morning. There was a pale yellow light in the eastern sky, but down on the waters of the bay the dark curtains of night had scarce yet been drawn. She shuddered as she looked at the broad expanse of even silence, unruffled by a wave, untouched by the morning's sun. "What would the day bring forth?" and she turned again to watch the quiet form upon the bed.

He had been restless with pain in the early part of the night, but for the last hour he had lain silent and still, the dark eyelashes resting upon his pale cheek, the masses of black hair lying damp and matted on the sunburnt forehead, his breathing scarcely audible. "Was it sleep? was it unconsciousness? was it death already creeping over him?" The anguish of the thought was too great for her over-strained nerves, and she shrank on her knees by the bedside, and, burying her face in the bedclothes, sobbed convulsively:

"Oh, not that! not that! Oh, God, not that!"

She would have given worlds for time to repair the wrong she thought she had done—to bring peace and happiness to the heart to which she had caused so much sorrow. "Was it too late? Would God listen to her prayer, and spare him yet a while? Oh, God! give me one more chance," was her continual cry.

But the wheels of life rolled on, unchecked by their course, the still form moved not, scarcely breathed, and the morning hours passed wearily on. Her mother brought her a cup of tea; Mari Vone came gently into the room, gazed a moment at the sleeper, and passed out again, leaving Gwladys to her watch alone. It was her place, and, without comment, everyone acceded to her earnest request, "Let me be with him! let me watch him!" only they hovered near within call, while Gwladys still watched on.

[1] Away with you!

[2] Very good.

[3] Fool; a dolt.

"Dear God!" said the scared villagers, "who'd have thought of such a thing! 'N'wncwl Jos was right after all! Oh, vila'nes! vila'nes!"[1] And not even the gruesome sight before them could quite restrain their expressions of horrified anger. But a silence fell upon them when Lallo appeared in their midst.

"Oh, is it true what I hear?" she cried; "that my Gwen is burnt? that she did this dreadful deed? Gwae fi[2] that I had taken the Mishteer's advice before it was too late! Oh, merch anwl i! my beloved daughter!" and turning with imploring hands to the crowd of bystanders, she pleaded for their forgiveness. "Don't be too angry with her. Remember my beloved child was not wise; ever since she lost her baby she wasn't wise. Oh, my Gwen! don't judge her too harshly!"

Even the strong men were touched by her sorrow, and gently led her away, while all that remained of poor Gwen was reverently gathered together.

Meanwhile, in the quiet room under the thatch, Gwladys still watched, and Mari Vone crept silently in and out, carrying down scraps of information to Ivor and 'n'wncwl Jos, who sat in the deserted kitchen, hoping for some news of improvement.

Ivor's arm was tied in a sling, for it had been badly injured in his frantic efforts to lift the heavy beam under which he had found Hugh. The flesh had been lacerated almost from wrist to elbow, yet he had felt nothing until Hugh had been carried home, and there was no more for him to do. The flames had caught his hands, too, and he was suffering much, in spite of Dr. Hughes' soothing dressing; but he heeded nothing—scarcely felt his pain, so intense was his anxiety.

Mari escaped without a burn. The same extraordinary Providence that had carried her through life unscathed and unmarred by the ravages of time seemed to have preserved her unhurt through the terrible experiences of the preceding night.

Ivor was struck afresh by the ethereal beauty of her appearance. She seemed lifted above the sorrow which he knew was pressing so heavily upon her. In the stress of her agony the night before he had overheard the words: "Oh, Hugh fanwylyd!" and Ivor, so accustomed to the continual haunting void in his own heart, required no word of explanation. He knew it all, and realised with a sudden intuition the long years of crushed hopes and unselfish devotion of this woman.

At length there was a little movement on the boards above their heads, and Mari once more crept half-way up the stairs and listened, returning with a smile on her lips.

"He is better! I hear them talking quietly. Let us go and leave them together." And they went out, gently drawing the door on the latch.

Ivor went home with them, for "Dear God!" he said, "I cannot go to the mill till he is better; and, besides, I will be nearer Dr. Hughes, and for thy kind nursing."

"B'tshwr, Ivor bâch. 'Twill save me the walk over the cliffs, for I will not lose sight of thee until thy arm is well. Thou hast risked thy life for the Mishteer. Come and stretch thyself on 'n'wncwl Jos's bed." And Ivor, worn out with his exertions, did as he was bid, and lay quiet for some hours, suffering much in mind and body.

In the sick-room, while Gwladys watched, Hugh Morgan had opened his eyes naturally and calmly, as one who awakes refreshed from a long sleep. Her heart leapt for joy, but she was learning to curb her feelings.

"Art better, Hugh bâch?" she said gently.

"Yes, merch i," was the quiet answer, after which he relapsed again into silence, while with observant eyes he looked around him, seeming to ponder thoughtfully the condition of things, taking in and arranging in his mind all he saw, and all that the scene suggested to him. This at least was Gwladys' impression, and she wisely waited a few moments before speaking again.

"This has been poor Gwen's work. Isn't it so, Gwladys?"

"Yes, Hugh bâch."

"Poor soul! poor soul! Thou hast gone through a bad time, merch i. Thou hast been called to bear much sorrow in thy young days."

Gwladys was crying silently.

"But thou art better now, Hugh, and the light is shining again! Oh! it will only be an ugly dream that passes away with the morning, now that thou art better. I cannot help crying; but it is for joy, Hugh bâch, thou hast slept so long! I feared thou wouldst never awake, and now the joy is too great for me."

He smiled. "Poor little thing! druan fâch!" and again the long silence and the deep pondering.

"Now I will fetch a cup of tea, Hugh; it will refresh thee." And she called down the stairs with such joy and cheer in her voice, though in hushed tones, that Madlen knew at once what had happened, and in five minutes the news had spread through the village, "The Mishteer was better!—was talking!—was going to have a cup of tea!"

But Hugh declined the proffered cup, and thus dashed Gwladys' hopes to the ground. To refuse a cup of tea after a long night's sickness seemed to her to point to something very serious.

"No; let me be till the doctor comes," he said. "I feel pretty easy lying here; but something tells me not to move. Sit by me, f'anwylyd, and let me ask thee a few questions. Who was it saved me from that deadly furnace? I awoke choking, and tried to stagger into the shed; but at the door of the office a heavy beam fell on me. Who lifted it and carried me out? Ivor Parry, I am sure! faithful friend and true! But I thought there were two?"

"Yes, Hugh, it was Mari Vone."

"God bless her, and thou, Gwladys! Where wert thou?"

"Oh, Hugh, those terrible flames seemed to scorch my life away. I was in a faint in my mother's arms. Thou know'st of old I am a coward!"

"Poor little one, no wonder!" After another pause, he asked, "Is there anything left of the sail-shed?"

"Nothing, Hugh bâch! but don't thee speak another word, until the doctor comes."

And so he once more lay silent and motionless, until Dr. Hughes' step was heard on the stair. Gwladys hastened to meet him with a smile of gladness.

"Oh, doctor, he is much better!"

"Well, go down, Gwladys, while I look at him." And she went, wondering at the doctor's serious looks.

"Well," said Dr. Hughes, after an examination of his patient, "I am glad to find you so easy, so free from pain; but we are old friends, Hugh Morgan, and I will not deceive you. You have been seriously—h'm, h'm—caton pawb! Why do women always pull the blinds down!" And he rose and fumbled awkwardly at the blinds to hide the moisture which gathered in his eyes. "You are a brave man, Hugh Morgan, and I think I ought to tell you——"

"Don't trouble to tell me anything, doctor. There is something broken here, which not all your skill can mend," and he laid his strong brown hand upon the region of his heart.

"Not there, my dear fellow—on this side and lower down."

"Perhaps indeed! it doesn't matter what—if it must end my life; only tell me how long I shall live—minutes—or hours—or days?"

Dr. Hughes took the hand which still lay upon his heart, as if the pain were there, and clasping it in both his own said gently:

"A few hours! It grieves me to the heart to say this, Hugh Morgan, but I will not deceive you. I advise you not to move. Lie perfectly still and you may escape all pain."

Hugh's breast heaved with the panting breath, but he showed no other signs of distress.

"When I am gone, will you send for Mr. Lloyd the lawyer from Caer Madoc? he knows all my affairs. There will be less than I thought for Gwladys, owing to the fire; but still, thank God! there will be enough to keep her comfortably. I am sleepy."

"I will go, then," said Dr. Hughes, "and will come again." And he went softly down the stairs, to find Gwladys impatiently awaiting him.

"Oh, doctor, he will live, won't he? he is better, isn't he?"

"You must be brave, Gwladys," he answered gravely. "There is a terrible sorrow in store for you, and it depends upon how you bear it whether you make your husband's last moments peaceful or unhappy. May God strengthen you, merch i! Where is Mari Vone? she will be a comfort to you." And leaving Gwladys standing in stony despair, he drove to Mari's cottage, and in a few words told her of Hugh's impending death.

She did not speak a word, but, turning a shade paler, she prepared at once to leave the house to comfort Gwladys.

Ivor still lay in the heavy sleep which had fallen upon him, and Dr. Hughes refused to awaken him.

"No, let him sleep while he can, and I will see him later on."

Then Mari took her way down the village road. All the sorrow and pain she had ever suffered seemed now to have reached their climax. She entered the comfortable kitchen, where Madlen sat crying on the settle.

"Oh, Mari fâch! what will we do? how can we live in this cold world without the Mishteer?"

Mari's lips were white with suppressed sorrow. She could not answer, but passed quietly up the stairs.

In the sick-room Hugh still slept on, and Gwladys, white and rigid, sat beside him. There was a silent embrace between the two women, but no sound broke the stillness except the heavy breathing of the motionless figure before them, and so the long hours passed on.

In the afternoon Dr. Hughes once more came in, but only stood looking sorrowfully down at the sleeper.

As the evening shadows drew on, for the November sun was near its setting, and the little room grew darker, Hugh began to move restlessly, while Gwladys and Mari watched anxiously. Suddenly he opened his eyes, and, in the first moment of awakening, made an attempt to change his position slightly; but a look of anguish overspread his face, and a sharp cry escaped his lips, as he fell back once more into motionless silence.

Suddenly he called, "Ivor! Ivor Parry!" and quickly Ivor, who was now waiting below with Madlen, heard his own name, and hastened to the bedside.

Evidently Hugh Morgan's life was fast ebbing away.

Ivor was so overcome by the sight of his dying friend that for a few moments he could only stand speechless at the foot of the bed, until he heard again the broken voice which called him by name.

Gwladys had flung herself down by the side of the bed, and with her face buried in the bedclothes, tried to control the heavy sobs which shook her frame.

"Here I am, Hugh bâch!" said Ivor, bending over Hugh's prostrate form.

"Art there, lad? Give me thine hand. Wilt forgive me, Ivor, for all the pain I have caused thee? 'Twas done in ignorance; say thou wilt forgive me, lad. Let us part friends, as we have always lived."

"Oh, Hugh! I have nothing—nothing to forgive thee; only to be deeply grateful to thee. Thou hast filled my life with kindnesses, and above all, with thy friendship. I have not been worthy of it, but I have never wilfully done anything to betray it."

"No," said Hugh; "we can meet on the other side with open brows—friends for ever, Ivor! Gwladys—thine hand! Lift my head a little without moving my body." And Mari, seeing that Gwladys was too overcome to move, passed her arm gently under his head.

"That will do. Now I must make haste," and placing Gwladys' hand in Ivor's, he looked at him with serious but calm eyes. "Ivor, I leave her to thee; take care of her for my sake; thou know'st now my wishes. Fforwel, Ivor! I feel my life is going. Fforwel, Gwladys, my beloved child!"

There was a long silence, only broken by the panting breath and Gwladys' sobs.

Ivor had gently laid her hand on the coverlet, and retired once more to the foot of the bed.

"Who is holding my head?"

"'Tis me, Hugh—Mari Vone. Hast one word of fforwel for me?"

"No," he said; "lean forward that I may see thy face, lass." Already his words came broken and disjointed. "Death is always a revealer, and I see everything plainly now. Mari, no fforwel to thee."

Another long silence, while the face bleached visibly, and the dark eyelashes drooped on the waxen cheek. The lips moved, and stooping over him, Mari caught the words:

"Torn sails, broken mast!" and something about "in port at last!"

Breathlessly they waited for the end, when suddenly the eyes opened wide, and in clear though low tones, Hugh Morgan's voice was heard once more.

"Mari," he said.

"I am here; close to thee, Hugh anwl."

"Come soon," and with these words his spirit took its flight.

In a few days all that was mortal of Hugh Morgan was laid to rest in the little churchyard on the hill. Gwladys had completely succumbed to her sorrow, and she lay unconscious in the delirium of fever, while her husband's funeral left the house, thus escaping all the heart-searching accessories of a Welsh burial—the muffled tread of the crowd who assemble, the peculiar mournful monotone of the prayers, and above all, the wailing, sorrowful tones of the funeral hymn. In her absence, Ivor and Mari followed as chief mourners, and never in the memory of Mwntseison had there been so large a gathering.

All that remained of poor Gwen was buried in the same little churchyard on the brow of the hill, where the sea winds swept over her grave and Hugh's alike. The seagulls flew over them both, and the harebells nodded over them, and no stranger passing by would have guessed the tragedy that connected the two graves.

Gwladys lay long under the grasp of the fierce fever; but a healthy constitution and the vigour of youth at last conquered, and she came slowly back to consciousness and health.

Meanwhile, life in Mwntseison had returned outwardly to its usual routine, though the death of the Mishteer caused a blank in the lives of his work-people which Time was slow to fill up. But there is no one who, leaving his place vacant, is irretrievably missed; another is ready to step into his place, and the wheels of life go on with unchangeable uniformity.

Joshua Howels rebuilt the sail-shed, and once more the inhabitants of the village found their subsistence from their daily avocations there.

The loss occasioned by the fire fell upon Gwladys; but, in spite of this, Mr. Lloyd, the lawyer, was able to announce to her the possession of a small, but sufficient, competence for one in her position in life.

"His kindness reaches me still," she said. "Oh, mother, I wish I had been more worthy of it."

"Everyone knows thou hast been a good wife," said Nani, but without looking at her daughter.

She had an intuitive suspicion that the river of Gwladys and Hugh's married life had not flowed on unruffled; but she was a wise woman, and buried the knowledge, with many other secrets, in her tender heart.

Gwladys had come home to live with her once more, and Joshua Howels had married, and gone to live in the Mishteer's old house.

[1] Villain.

[2] Woe is me.

"Price Merthyr preached at Tan-y-groes Chapel last night, Ivor," she said one evening, as they walked slowly over the cliff together. "Gwladys and I went to hear him. Her mother questioned us close when we came home about the sermon; indeed, we remembered pretty well, both of us. There was the pwnc[1] after the sermon, and we stopped for that" (Ivor listened eagerly), "but not for the singing class, for, of course, Gwladys cannot join in that yet."

"B'd siwr!" said Ivor, with a shake of his head, for he knew, and felt himself, that to join in the singing would look like disrespect to the Mishteer's memory; "as far as that goes, 'twas a long time before I could sing myself. The first tones of my voice brought the memory of Hugh Morgan to my mind, and the singing seemed to die away."

"I cannot tell how it is," said Mari, "but I can sing. My heart seems strangely happy. It seems such a thin veil between us and Hugh, and life is so short! so very short at the utmost, it is not worth while mourning for anyone. But I must go. See those fishing boats going in? I must see if they have any fish for 'n'wncwl Jos's supper. Fforwel, Ivor!" and she waved her hand at parting.

He looked after her as her tall, graceful figure was lost to view behind the broom bushes.

"Jâr-i! she is a beautiful creature!" he thought. "How such a woman came to be born at Mwntseison I can't think!" And he trudged down the hill, whistling as he went, his thumbs in his armholes.

At the mill door stood a small boy who had come up over the sands from Mwntseison, the tide being low at the time.

"What is it?" said Ivor.

"'Tis Eynon Bryneithin is wanting to know, can he send his corn to be ground to-morrow? He was coming up to see you himself, but he got a hurt on his foot coming over the rocks, and there he is now sitting at 'The Ship,' and there he will be sitting till Catrine turns him out to-night. She sent me up to tell you."

"I will come back with thee and speak to him," said Ivor, "for I cannot grind his corn till Monday. There's Glasynys coming to-morrow, and Peutre-du next day," and Ivor took his way once more to the top of the cliff, accompanied by the boy.

The sun was setting in crimson and gold behind the sea; the silver crescent moon rising above the upland fields; the sea-gulls were flying homewards overhead; and the little sea-crows quarrelled and cawed as they settled down to their nests on the sides of the cliff. The sea shimmered and rippled in the gorgeous colours of the sunset, and the soft evening air was laden with the scent of the furze, which spread its golden mantle over every grassy knoll. Even the boy was struck by the beauty of the scene.

"'Tis a nice night," he said.

"Brâf!" said Ivor, drawing in a long breath of the perfumed air.

"What is that?" said the boy, pointing to something on the side of the path, a few yards in front of them.

"'Tis a woman," said Ivor, "resting; tired, I suppose, poor thing!" But as he approached nearer his eyes took a troubled, anxious look. "Can it be Mari Vone? 'tis like her red petticoat."

The boy ran on.

"Yis, 'tis Mari Vone, asleep, I think."

And Ivor hastened up to see a sight which in all the coming years he never forgot.

Yes; 'twas Mari Vone who lay there, half reclining against the grassy hedge, her cheek resting upon her hand, her pillow a clump of harebells and wild thyme. Evidently she had thrown herself down to rest, and rest was depicted upon every feature of her face, and every curve of her figure; the white eyelids were closed, the waxen cheek was scarcely paler than usual, and on the lips was a smile of ineffable sweetness.

"There's nice she looks!" said the boy, in an awed whisper, "like an angel!"

"Yes," said Ivor, chafing her hands, "like an angel as she is. Go, run to the village and bring somebody here, and a sail to carry her."

For there was no doubt about it, Mari Vone was dead. The heart had ceased to beat, and though she was still warm, and the fingers which Ivor rubbed and pressed were pliant as his own, he never doubted the fact; he knew that that gentle spirit had quitted the beautiful tenement in which it had lived for thirty-seven years; he knew that he should never more see it look out of those deep blue eyes, never hear it speak with that tongue now silent, and a flood of sorrow filled his heart. He sat beside her while the sun sank below the horizon; the grassy pillow upon which she lay shone with the burnished gold of its last rays, which threw also with its last kiss a rosy flush over Mari's face. Ivor gazed at her with something of the awe which the boy had felt.

"Was it possible that this was death?"

The sea sighed and whispered on the shore below, the evening breeze lifted the little stray curls of her golden hair. A thrush in a thorn-bush near sang its last song to the sinking sun; the flowers seemed to send up a stronger perfume as they bent and trembled in the sea-breeze; the clouds of gold and copper speckled the pale blue sky; everything in earth, sea, and sky seemed to speak of beauty and love, and in the next silent half-hour Ivor realised more vividly the nearness of things unseen than in his work-a-day life he had ever done before.

When help came at last, he felt almost a pang of regret at being robbed of that lovely form, in whose presence he had experienced such a vision of peace and beauty. With hushed voices and silent tread the villagers approached, and with awe struck faces gazed at the silent form on the green sward.

"There's beautiful—she's smiling!" said one.

"She has reason to smile, I expect," said Joshua Howels, preparing to tenderly lift her, and place her in the improvised stretcher brought from the sail-shed. "'Tis the same sail that carried Hugh Morgan," he said; and solemnly and slowly they carried their light burden to her home.

"There's pity! poor 'n'wncwl Jos and Gwladys Morgan are gone to Caer Madoc!" whispered one.

"Wel, indeed, there's sad news for them, whatever!"

"I hope she will alter before the funeral," said a sturdy sailor, who had helped to carry her in. "We won't like to bury her looking like that!" And the villagers crowded round to look at the familiar face, whose strange unearthly beauty struck even the children as something unusual.

Lallo and Nani Price attended to the arrangements of the death chamber, allowing themselves to be persuaded by Ivor to leave on the body of his friend the clothes in which she died, instead of arraying her in the grandeur of a Sunday gown and the best clothes which she possessed. They were rather scandalised, and gave way only upon Ivor's pointing out to them how speckless and fresh they looked—how snowy the kerchief crossed on her bosom!—how beautiful the crown of golden hair!—how pretty the dainty, shiny shoes! "You could never make her look better!"

"That's true, indeed, whatever," said Nani Price; "and, after all, Mari Vone was different to anybody else."

"Caton pawb! yes," said Lallo; "never a speck nor a smot upon her! But I would be sorry to be buried in anything but the clothes I go to meeting in, or a decent shroud."

"Well," said Nani, closing the door softly, as they all left the room together, "Mwntseison will be no better than any other village, now that Mari Vone and Hugh Morgan have left it! Ivor Parry, wilt go and meet 'n'wncwl Jos and Gwladys and break the news to them?"

"No," he said. "Go you, Nani fâch; it will come better from a tender woman than a hard man like me. I will go to Dr. Hughes. There must be a 'quest, I suppose."

In less than a week Mari Vone was laid to rest in the little wind-swept churchyard on the hill; and none of the villagers seemed surprised when Gwladys expressed a wish that her grave should be dug close beside the Mishteer's. Their hearts had been too deeply moved for gossip, and they seemed to have been impressed with the reality of something beyond and behind the fleeting scenes of life.

Later on, a simple white cross stood between their graves with the words:

"In memory of Hugh Morgan (The Mishteer), who died November 18th, 18—, aged 45. And of his friend, Mari Vaughan, who died May 1st, 18—, aged 37.

"They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided."

[1] A kind of catechism in which the preacher questions the people, who all answer in monotone.

"There's good she is to me, calon fâch!"[1] she would say. "As isel[2] as ever! You would never guess she had money in the bank."

Indeed, "the money in the bank" was little more than a myth to Gwladys. Mr. Lloyd, the lawyer, looked after her affairs with great interest, and the respect which every Welshman feels for those who will not touch their capital. He sent Gwladys her dividends regularly; but the blue envelope which brought them was always an anxious mystery to the simple girl, and its receipt was invariably followed by a journey to Caer Madoc in Peggi Pentraeth's donkey-cart, where, having deposited the money in the bank, she and her mother returned with lightened hearts, feeling very rich with a few sovereigns in their pockets. 'N'wncwl Jos generally drove them on these occasions, managing to receive his "pinshwn" on the same day. The journey was always kept a dead secret beforehand, for "who knew but that a donkey-cart bearing two such wealthy people as Gwladys and 'n'wncwl Jos might not be waylaid, and its occupants robbed on the road."

Not that any inhabitant of the village would do such a thing! but stray sailors from far-off ports did sometimes find their way to Mwntseison, and English tramps often passed through in their wanderings.

'N'wncwl Jos had found a comfortable resting-place for his latter years, for Lallo had come forward with kindly offers of hospitality.

"Come and live with me and Siencyn," she had said, when on his return from Mari's funeral, the old man had begun to look mournfully around him. "Thou wilt be company for Siencyn when he comes home, and when he is away thou canst help me with that andras of a pig, for he wants a firm hand over him."

"Oh, he'll get that," said 'n'wncwl Jos, "if I come to live with you; and a firm leg, too, if he doesn't behave."

And so it was settled, and Lallo found something to occupy her time and thoughts; and the old man, though he lost much of his jocularity, regained by degrees his old cheerfulness, and spent much of his time with Nani Price and Gwladys. He was always a welcome guest, not only because of his connection with Mari, but that sometimes he rowed up to Traeth Berwen, and stumped up as far as the old mill to see Ivor Parry.

"Jâr-i! Ivor is getting on," he said one evening, while Gwladys, at her work, listened with fluttering heart. "He's getting a reg'lar jolly miller; and there's beautiful cwrw Acsa brews! without my secret, too. But his heart is at Mwntseison still, though so many friends are gone from here. There's questions he asks me. 'How is Josh Howels?' he sez. 'And how is Nani Price and her daughter?'

"'Oh, quite well,' sez I; 'and Gwladys is as ugly as ever.'"

Gwladys smiled pensively.

"'How is it you never come up to see us at Mwntseison?' sez I; and he didn't answer, but looked up after the smoke to the chimney."

A few evenings after this conversation Gwladys took her way over the cliffs which stretched at the back of the sail-shed towards the valley of the Berwen. She was bent on the same kindly errand that had frequently taken Mari Vone on this path, namely, to gather ferns for Peggi Pentraeth's donkey. She never went more than half-way to Traeth Berwen, partly shrinking from passing the grassy mound on which her friend had breathed her last, alone and unattended, and, moreover, a little proud reserve withheld her footsteps.

If she went further than half-way, Berwen mill would be in sight, and perhaps she might be seen from the mill. Not for worlds will a well-brought-up Welsh girl give her lover a shadow of reason to think that she is seeking him. She is not slow to respond to advances on his part, but will never make any of her own. So she turned down a cleft in the cliffs, and gathered her baich[3] of green and golden bracken, and, tying it into shape with a strong cord, sat down upon it for a moment to watch the setting sun before she slung it on her back.

Behind her the rounded hills rose brown and flushed in the sunset light; around her the rushes whispered in the evening breeze, the green sward glowed in the sun's last rays, and every nodding flower caught its crimson light. The sea murmured on the rocks below, the floating sea-gulls still rose and fell on the heaving waters, and though it was late autumn, a calm, serene beauty brooded over land and sea, as though summer had returned with a last lingering good-bye. Gwladys sat and watched the fading tints, filled with tender memories of the past, not unmixed with an awakening flood of hope in the future; not untinged, too, with a feeling of resentment against Ivor, who had been very chary of his visits to Mwntseison of late. She had been thankful to him at first for his avoidance of her; it spared her so much embarrassment. But latterly, the longing to see him again had grown upon her, and the old haunting hunger for his love was again rising within her—not that it had ever died, nor even slept, but that it had been repressed and buried under the sad events through which she had passed. But now she was evidently loosening the bonds which had kept it in check, for it rose again within her, and threatened once more to flow in upon her in waves of unrest. True, she had sometimes met her old lover on the way to and from chapel, or market, or fair, but never alone, and always Ivor had been calm and undemonstrative.

"Had he forgotten her?" she wondered. "Had the years brought him submission and indifference. She was still so young—only twenty-three. It was no wonder if that pensive curve of the lips and that moisture in the brown eyes betokened a little wistful rebelling against fate. Why! why should she not be happy? Why did Ivor so persistently avoid her?" and so lost was she in her own thoughts, that she did not hear a footstep which passed along the path above her.

It was Ivor Parry, sauntering up from the mill with the intention of paying one of his infrequent visits to Mwntseison. He had longed latterly more and more for a sight of Gwladys, and he chafed under the restraints which he had placed upon himself, and the proprieties of village life which kept them apart.

But surely here she was close beside him! every barrier removed from his path! no moral restraint to be fought with, as of old! nothing to prevent their intercourse! The suddenness and greatness of the thought took his breath away, and though, with a man's impetuosity, he never hesitated to grasp the opportunity, still the strong man trembled as he approached the unconscious girl.

"Gwladys!" he said at last, and in a moment she had started to her feet, the rich blood surging over neck, cheek, and brow.

"Ivor!" was all her answer.

And then, with the ridiculous combination of the commonplace and the romantic, their first embarrassed words were the usual remarks upon the weather.

"'Tis tewi brâf!" said Gwladys, who was the first to recover self-possession.

"Brâf, indeed!" said Ivor. "Wilt not sit down again?"

But she hesitated.

"Come!" he said, arranging the bundle of fern; "and will I sit by thy side?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Gwladys, looking round, as if for inspiration.

"Yes," said Ivor, laughing at her embarrassment; "look round at earth, sea, and sky, and see if thou canst find a reason why I should not sit on this bank beside thee?"

"Well, indeed, I suppose there isn't one whatever," she answered, laughing, and sitting down on the furze again, while Ivor stretched himself on the grass beside her.

Both felt the enchantment of the hour, and both endeavoured to relieve the tension by falling into a commonplace remark.

But what was the matter with the sea to-night? that in every pause of the conversation it sent up whisperings and murmurings, that bore in their tones such personal suggestions to both Ivor and Gwladys!

They could distinctly hear the dash of the waves on Traeth-y-daran, and in both their hearts arose the memory of the night they had spent together there.

A bright star followed in the wake of the sun, and though Ivor only said, "'Tis a fair sunset, and promises another fine day," to which she smilingly assented, yet in the hearts of both arose the memory of the star whose setting they had watched together.

Yes, though not a word of love was spoken between them, for Ivor still feared to startle his companion by a too sudden change of manner, still both felt that the barriers were down, that the cold wall of separation was broken, and that once more the tide of love was flowing full towards them.

At last, when the evening breeze grew colder, and warned them they must part, there came a louder swish from the waves below, and Gwladys, with drooping eyes, said:

"I don't forget what thou didst for me in the storm down there, Ivor. I have never thanked thee, oh, no! but it is all here," and she laid her hand on her heart.

"There is no need, lass. Between me and thee there is no need for words, we have gone through too many bitter things together not to understand each other now."

"Yes, indeed!" was all her answer; and, with great relief, from that hour she put away from her all that was bitter in the memory of the past, and began to make room in her soul for the flowers of hope that were springing up within her.

"Well, good-night, lass. I have had a happy hour—and thou?"

"Well, yes, I suppose indeed," was all she answered; but it was accompanied with such a happy smile that Ivor seemed quite content, and astonished Acsa by entering the mill yard with a merry song on his lips.

This night's meeting was the prelude to many more on the cliffs, on the shore, or on the bay, and when the winter came in real earnest, Ivor's visits to Mwntseison were of very frequent occurrence.

One evening in the early spring he walked again in the mill garden, and sought and found under the furze hedge a bunch of sweet violets, which he gathered before he took his way up the side of the hill to meet Gwladys.

"Vayolettes! vayolettes!" he thought. "Mari Vone was right, the name does suit them." And as Gwladys pinned them into her bodice, he was reminded of the sea-pinks which he had snatched from the table while 'n'wncwl Jos lay ill in his bed, and which he still treasured between the pages of one of the old brown books in the mill bookcase.

He would have told her of the incident had not a tender regard for Hugh's memory made him hesitate to speak of anything which should contrast their present freedom with the restraint of their former meetings.

Backwards and forwards over the velvet turf at the top of the cliffs they roamed together, the hours passing by unheeded, until, as they reached the green mound, now lying bathed in the silver moonlight, which they had named "Mari's pillow," Gwladys said:

"I must not go further, or my mother will be bolting the door."

"Wilt not come to the brow of the hill, 'tis only a little further, and I have something to show thee there."

And she made no demur, but continued her walk to the edge of the hill, which sloped down to the valley of the Berwen. The little river gurgled and whispered in the moonlight, as it ran below them on its way to the sea.

"We can hear the Berwen from here," said Gwladys; "but what hast to show me, Ivor?"

"Only the mill!" said he, pointing across the valley to where the old mill stood by the noisy little stream.

It was a picture of rural beauty as it stood there, like a grey sentinel at the opening of the valley. Landwards, the cwm gradually closed in, where the thick woods grew down to the water's edge; between them the old church, the home of the white owls, which made the glen their hunting ground, was dimly visible through the haze, the mill itself showing clear and sharp, with its silvered points and dark shadows, its ivy-covered gables well defined in the moonlight. There was a firelight glow in the broad kitchen window, and the smoke curled up from the grey stone chimney.