By Berwen Banks

Caer Madoc is a sleepy little Welsh town, lying two miles from the sea

coast. Far removed from the busy centres of civilisation, where the

battle of life breeds keen wits and deep interests, it is still, in the

opinion of its inhabitants, next to London, the most important place in

the United Kingdom. It has its church and three chapels, its mayor and

corporation, jail, town hall, and market-place; but, more especially,

it has its fairs, and awakes to spasmodic jollity on such occasions,

which come pretty often--quite ten times in the year. In the interims

it resigns itself contentedly to its normal state of lethargy.

The day on which my story opens had seen the busiest and merriest fair

of the year, and the evening found the little town looking jaded and

disreputable after its few hours of dissipation, the dusty High Street

being littered with scraps of paper, orange-peel, and such like

débris. The merry-go-rounds and the "shows" had departed, the last

donkey-cart had rattled out of the town, laden with empty gingerbread

boxes.

In the stable of the Red Dragon three men stooped in conclave over the

hind foot of a horse. Deio, the ostler, and Roberts, the farrier,

agreed in their verdict for a wonder; and Caradoc Wynne, the owner of

the horse, straightened himself from his stooping posture with a nod of

decision.

"Yes, it's quite plain I mustn't ride him to-night," he said. "Well,

I'll leave him under your care, Roberts, and will either come or send

for him to-morrow."

"Needn't do that, sir," said Roberts, "for I am going myself to

Abersethin on Friday; that will give him one day's complete rest, and

I'll bring him up gently with my nag."

"That will do better," said the young man. "Take care of him, Deio,"

he added, in good, broad Welsh, "and I will pay you well for your

trouble," and, with a pat on Captain's flank and a douceur in Deio's

ready palm, he turned to leave the yard. Looking back from under the

archway which opened into the street, with a parting injunction to

Roberts to "take care of him," he turned up the dusty High Street.

"Pagh!" he said, "it has been a jolly fair, but it hasn't sweetened the

air. However, I shall soon have left it behind me," and he stepped out

briskly towards the straggling end of the street, which merged into a

wild moorland country.

"There's a difference between him and his father," said Deio to his

companion, as they led Captain back to his stall. "See the old 'Vicare

du' hunting between his coppers for a threepenny bit! Jâr i man! you

would think it was a sovereign he was looking for."

"Yes," said Roberts, "the old Vicare is a keen man enough, but just;

always pays his bills regularly; he is not as black as they make him

out to be."