By Berwen Banks

A bitter north wind, laden with sleet and rain, blew over Abersethin

Bay, tearing the surface into streaks of foam. The fishing boats were

drawn up on the grassy slope which bordered the sandy beach, and

weighted with heavy stones. The cottage doors were all closed, and if

a stray pedestrian was anywhere to be seen, he was hurrying on his way,

his hands in his pockets and his cap tied firmly under his chin. On

the cliffs above, the wind swirled and rushed, blowing the grass all

one way and sweeping over the stunted thorn bushes. In the corners

under the hedges, the cows and horses sheltered in little groups, and

the few gaunt trees which grew on that exposed coast groaned and

creaked as they bent away from the storm.

At Dinas the wind blew with bitter keenness through every chink and

cranny, roaring and whistling round the bare gray house, rattling the

doors and windows with every angry gust. In the little parlour at the

back of the house it was not heard so plainly. A bright fire burned in

the grate, and the crimson curtains gave it a look of warmth and

comfort which Essec Powell unconsciously enjoyed. He was sitting in

his arm-chair and in his favourite position, listening with great

interest to Valmai, who was reading aloud in Welsh from the

"Mabinogion." The tale was of love and chivalry, and it should have

interested the girl more than it did the old man who listened with such

attention, but her thoughts refused to follow the thread of the story.

She stopped occasionally to listen to the wind as it howled in the

chimney. All through the short, dark afternoon she read with untiring

patience, until at last, when the light was fading, Gwen brought in the

tea and put an end to the reading for a time.

Valmai had stayed at Fordsea until her uncle had quite recovered from

his accident; and the New Year was well on its way before he had wished

her good-bye at the station. She left him with real sorrow, and the

old feeling of loneliness and homelessness returned to her heart. He

had received her with such warmth, and had so evidently taken her into

his life, that the friendless girl had opened her heart wide to him;

and as his rough, hairy hand rested on the window of the carriage in

which she sat, she pressed her lips upon it in a loving good-bye.

There were tears in the kind old eyes, as he stood waiting for the

train to move.

"Won't you write, sometimes, uncle?" she asked.

"Well, Ay won't promise that, indeed, may dear; for there's nothing Ay

hate more than wrayting a letter; but Ay'll come and see you as soon as

you have a house of your own. And don't you forget to look out for a

little cottage for me at Abersethin. Ay'm determined to end my days

near you, and you know who."