By Berwen Banks

New hopes, new fears had of late dawned in her heart, at first giving

rise to a full tide of happiness and joy, the joy that comes with the

hope of motherhood--woman's crowning glory; but the joy and happiness

had gradually given place to anxiety and fear, and latterly, since it

had become impossible for her to hide her condition from those around

her, she was filled with trouble and distressing forebodings, Her

sensitive nature received continual wounds. Suspicious looks and

taunting sneers, innuendos and broad suggestions all came to her with

exceeding bitterness. She knew that every day the cloud which hung

over her grew blacker and heavier. Where should she turn when her

uncle should discover her secret? In the solitude of her room she

paced backwards and forwards, wringing her hands.

"What will I do? what will I do? He said he would return in seven or

eight months--a year at furthest. Will he come? will he ever come?"

And, gazing out over the stormy sea, she would sob in utter prostration

of grief. Every day she walked to Abersethin and haunted the

post-office. The old postmaster had noticed her wistful looks of

disappointment, and seemed to share her anxiety for the arrival of a

letter--who from, he did not know for certain, but he made a very good

guess, for Valmai's secret was not so much her own only as she imagined

it to be.

Her frequent meetings with Cardo, though scarcely noticed at the time,

were remembered against her; and her long stay at Fordsea, with the

rumour of Cardo's return there, decided the feeling of suspicion which

had for some time been floating about. There had been a whisper, then

mysterious nods and smiles, and cruel gossip had spread abroad the evil

tidings.

Valmai bore all in patient silence. Her longing for Cardo's return

amounted almost to an agony, yet the thought of explaining her

position, and clearing her name before the world, never entered her

head, or, if it did, was instantly expelled. No; the whole world might

spurn her; she might die; but to reveal a secret which Cardo had

desired her to keep, seemed to her faithful and guileless nature an

unpardonable breach of honour.

Gwen, who had not been immaculate herself, was her cruellest enemy,

never losing an opportunity of inflicting a sting upon her helpless

victim, whose presence in the household she had always resented.

The day following Gwen's sneering remark, Valmai took her daily walk to

Abersethin post-office.

The old man beamed at her over his counter.

"Letter come at last, miss," he said.

And her heart stood still. She was white to the lips as she sat down

on a convenient sack of maize.

"It is a long walk," said the postmaster, hunting about for the letter.

"Dear me, wherrs I put it?"