By Berwen Banks

Everywhere hearts and hands were full of warm hospitality. Clergymen

of the Church of England, though generally looking askance at the

chapels and their swarming congregations, now, carried away by the

enthusiasm of the people, consented to attend the meetings, secretly

looking forward, with the Welsh love of oratory, to the eloquent

sermons generally to be heard on such occasions.

Cardo, ruthlessly striding through the dew-bespangled gossamer of the

turnip field, heard with pleasure from Dye that the adjoining field,

which sloped down to the valley, had been fixed upon for the holding of

the Sassiwn. On the flat at the bottom the carpenters were already at

work at a large platform, upon which the preachers and most honoured

guests were to be seated; while the congregation would sit on the

hillside, which reached up to the Vicar's land. At least three

thousand, or even four, might be expected.

All day Cardo looked over the valley with intense interest, and when

the day's work was over, unable to restrain his curiosity and

impatience any longer, he determined to take a closer survey of the old

house on the hill, which for so many years he had seen with his outward

eyes, though his inner perception had never taken account of it. At

last, crossing the beach, he took his way up the steep path that led to

Dinas. As he rounded a little clump of stunted pine trees he came in

sight of the house, grey, gaunt, and bare, not old enough to be

picturesque, but too old to look neat and comfortable, on that

wind-swept, storm-beaten cliff. Its grey walls, marked with patches of

damp and lichen, looked like a tear-stained face, out of which the two

upstairs windows stared like mournful eyes. Downstairs, in one room,

there was a little sign of comfort and adornment; crimson curtains hung

at the window, inside which a few flowers grew in pots. Keeping well

under the hedge of elders which surrounded the cwrt or front garden,

Cardo passed round to the side--the pine end, as it is called in

Wales--and here a little lattice window stood open. It faced the

south, and away from the sea a white rose tree had ventured to stretch

out its straggling branches. They had evidently lately been drawn by

some loving hand towards the little window. A muslin curtain fluttered

in the evening breeze, on which came the sound of a voice. Cardo knew

it at once. It was Valmai singing at her work, and he longed to break

through the elder bushes and call her attention. He was so near that

he could even hear the words of her song, softly as they were sung.

She was interrupted by a querulous voice.

"Valmai," it said in Welsh, "have you written that?"

"Oh! long ago, uncle. I am waiting for the next line."