"But where will you go, my dear?"
"To my sister. Ever since this trouble has come upon me I have longed
for a sister's love, and now I think I will go to her I will tell her
all my troubles, and ask her to help me to find employment."
"Perhaps she has never heard of you--what do I know?--and perhaps she
will spurn you when she hears your story. If she does, come back to
old Nance, my dear; her arms will always be open to receive you. Yes,
begin the world again. Caton pawb! you are only twenty now You have
your life before you; you may marry, child, in spite of all that has
happened."
"Nance!" said Valmai, and the depth of reproach and even injury in
her voice made plain to Nance that she must never suggest such a thing
again.
"Don't be angry with me, my dear!"
"Angry with you! No, I am only thinking how little you know--how
little you know. But where shall I find my sister? You said once you
had her address, where is it?"
"Oh, anwl! I don't know. Somewhere in the loft--" and Nance looked up
at the brown rafters. "I haven't seen it for twenty years, but it's
sure to be there, I remember, then somebody wrote it out for me, and I
tied it up with a packet of other papers. They are in an old teapot on
the top of the wall under the thatch, just there, my child, over the
door. You must get the ladder and go up. It is many a long year since
I have climbed up there."
But Valmai's agile limbs found no great difficulty in reaching the
brown boards which lay loosely across the rafters.
"Now, straight along, my dear."
"It is very dark, but I have found it," and coming down the ladder
backwards, she placed the cracked and dust-begrimed teapot on the
table. "Oh, how brown and faded the papers are! Nance, what is this?
I do believe it is your marriage certificate!"
"Very likely, my dear, and you will find the bill for my husband's
funeral, too; and a pattern of my scarlet 'mantell,' the one I nursed
my children in; oh! I thought a lot of that, and here it is still, you
see, folded over my shoulders."
"What is this? You had bad ink, but I think it must be the address.
Let me see, here is 'Mrs. Besborough Power.'"
"I knew it was a hard, long name," said the old woman.
"'Carne,' but the last word, oh, Nance, what is it? It begins with M
o, and ends with r e--r e is the end of the shire, of course.
Merionithshire? No, it is M o, so must be Monmouthshire or
Montgomeryshire, stay, there is a t in the middle. Mrs. Besborough
Power, Carne--I will try Carne anyway," and next day she wrote to her
sister addressing the letter: Miss Gwladys Powell,
c/o Mrs. Besborough Power,
Carne,
Montgomeryshire.