By Berwen Banks

When Nance opened her door and saw the figure of a woman standing

there, she was at first surprised, for the dress struck her at once as

not being that of a peasant.

"Nance, fâch! it is I!" said Valmai. "You will let me in?"

"Let you in! yes, indeed. Haven't I been longing to see you all day!

Come in, my child, from this bitter wind; come in and get warm. I see

you have brought your basket, that means you are going to stay the

night. Right glad I am. You will have the little bed in the corner.

Keep your red cloak on, dear little heart, because the wind is blowing

in cold here at nights, and you have been used to warm rooms. I am

well used to cold, and sickness, and discomfort."

"But, Nance--" and then the terrible revelation had to be made, the

truth had to be told, and then the loving arms were clasped round the

sorrowful girl, and words of comfort and hope were whispered into her

ear. No reproaches, no cruel taunts here; nothing but the warmth of

human sympathy, and the loving forgiveness of a tender pure woman.

In the early dawn, while Valmai still slept, Shoni's "yo-hoy!" was

heard from the rocks, through which he was guiding his boat. Nance

opened her door, and, in the gray of the morning, the "big box" was

brought in and safely deposited in the tiny bedroom, which it nearly

filled.

"Good-bye," said Shoni. "Take care of her, and if she wants anything

get it for her, and remember I will pay you." And he rowed away, and

was busily ploughing when Gwen went out to milk the cows in the morning.

"Where is she gone?" she asked. "That shameful girl."

"Gone away," said Shoni shortly, and Gwen knew it was useless trying to

get anything more out of him.

Thus Valmai slipped quietly out of her old life, though for some time

she was the subject of much gossip in the neighbourhood.

It was not long before Shoni found an opportunity of speaking to the

Vicar, and as he saw the effect of his tidings upon the cold, hard man,

a feeling of pity stirred within him.

"Is this all news to you?" he said. "Didn't you know that your son was

haunting the footsteps of this innocent girl, to bring her to ruin?"

"Had I known," said the Vicar, in a stern voice, "that my son held any

communication with the Methodist preacher's family, however innocent it

might be, I would have closed my doors against him."

"Where is he?" asked Shoni, clenching his fist.

"I don't know," said the Vicar, turning away.

Shoni called after him, "When he comes back he'll feel the weight of

this fist, if it's twenty years to come."