By Berwen Banks

She did not say, "my baby," as she had done at the doctor's. At the

first contact with the world beyond Ynysoer, where she had been so long

secluded and sheltered, a feeling of nervous shyness began to

over-shadow her.

"Dear, dear!" was all Dan's answer, Once on the island, Mr. Francis found it difficult to keep up with

Valmai's hurrying steps. He was full of pity for the beautiful girl

beside him, so young and so friendless, and was anxious to serve her,

and to cure her child if possible.

As they entered the cottage together, Nance endeavoured gently to

prevent Valmai's approaching the child.

"Not you, my dear, not you; let the doctor see him."

Mr. Francis was already attending to the little sufferer.

"No," he said, looking backwards, "not you, Miss Powell; let me manage

him."

Valmai turned white to the lips, and, gently putting the old woman

aside, took her place at the bedside, where a pitiful sight met her

eyes. Her little one lay in the terrible throes of "convulsions," and

again the doctor tried to banish Valmai from the scene.

"Let me be," she said, in a quiet voice, which astonished the young

man. "Let me be; I am used to trouble." And passing her arm under the

little struggling frame, she supported it until the last gasp put an

end to its sufferings.

Mr. Francis took the child into his own arms and laid it on the bed,

turning his attention to Valmai, who had fallen fainting on the floor.

"Poor thing! poor thing!" said the tender-hearted young man. "It is a

pity she cannot remain unconscious."

But he applied the usual restoratives, and she soon opened her eyes,

while Nance straightened the folds of the little night-gown with loving

fingers, tears coursing each other down her wrinkled face.

"Oh, dear heart! how will she bear it?"

Mr. Francis was silently bathing the girl's forehead.

"You are better now?" he asked.

"Yes," she said; "thank you. You have been very kind, but do not

trouble to stay longer; I am quite well," and she slowly rose from the

settle.

"I will go now," said the young man. "You would like to be alone, but

I will call in the afternoon. You will want someone to--to--make

arrangements for you."

"Arrangements? To have my little one buried? Yes, yes, of course. I

shall be thankful, indeed."

"Here, or at Penderin?"

"Oh, here--in the 'rock' churchyard."

"I will go at once," and he went out, gently closing the door upon the

two women in their sorrow.

In the afternoon he came again, and, being a man of very warm feelings,

dreaded the scene of a woman's tears and sobs, though he longed to

soothe and comfort the girl who so much interested him. But there were

no tears or wailings awaiting him.