By Berwen Banks

Before the Vicar retired to rest he took down from a shelf an old

Bible, from which he read a chapter, and, closing the book, knelt down

to pray. As he rose from his knees, the last words on his lips were,

"Caradoc, my beloved son!"

For the next few days the turnips and mangolds seemed even more

interesting than usual to Cardo Wynne. He was up with the lark, and

striding from furrow to furrow in company with Dye and Ebben, returning

to a hurried breakfast, and out again on the breezy hillside before the

blue smoke had begun to curl up from the thatched chimneys which marked

the cluster of cottages called "Abersethin."

Down there, under the cliffs, the little village slumbered, the rising

sun just beginning to touch its whitewashed walls with gold, while up

above, on the high lands, the "Vicare du's" fields were already bathed

in the morning sunlight.

As he crossed from ridge to ridge and from furrow to furrow Cardo's

thoughts continually flew across the valley to the rugged hill on the

other side, and to the old grey house on the cliff--the home of Essec

Powell, the preacher. In vain he sought for any sign of the girl whose

acquaintance he had made so unexpectedly, and he was almost tempted to

believe that she was no other than a creature of his own imagination,

born of the witching moonlight hour, and absorbed again into the

passing shadows of night. But could he have seen through the walls of

that old grey house, even now at that early hour, he would have

understood what kept the preacher's niece so busily engaged that

neither on the shore nor on the banks of the Berwen was there a sign of

her.

In the cool dairy at Dinas, and in and out of the rambling old kitchen,

she was busy with her preparations for the guests who would fill the

house during the Sassiwn. She bustled about, with Marged Hughes in

attendance, looking very different, but every bit as charming, in her

neat farm dress as she had on her visit to Caer Madoc. The sleeves of

her pink cotton jacket, pushed up above the elbows, showed her white,

dimpled arms; while her blue skirt or petticoat was short enough to

reveal the neatly-shod feet, with their bows of black ribbon on the

instep.

Every house in the neighbourhood was busy with preparations of some

sort. At the farmhouses the women had been engaged for days with their

cooking. Huge joints of beef and ham, boiled or baked, stood ready in

the cool pantries; and in the smallest cottages, where there was more

than one bed, it had been prepared for some guest. "John, my cousin,

is coming from 'the Works,'" [5] or "Mary, my sister, will be home with

her baby."