By Berwen Banks

"Here it is then, child, and well worth waiting for;" and, with

outstretched arm marking the cadence of its rhythm, he read aloud from

a book of old poems. "There's poetry for you, girl! There's a

description of Nature! Where will you find such real poetry amongst

modern bards? No, no! the bards are dead, Valmai!"

"Well, I don't know much about it, uncle; but isn't it a modern bard

who writes: "'Come and see the misty mountains

In their grey and purple sheen,

When they blush to see the sunrise

Like a maiden of thirteen!'"

That seems very pretty, whatever."

"Very pretty," growled the man's voice, "very pretty; of course it

is--very pretty! That's just it; but that's all, Valmai. Pwff! you

have put me out with your 'blushing maiden' and your 'purple sheen.'

Let us shut up Taliesin and come to 'Drych y Pryf Oesoedd.' Now, you

begin at the fifth chapter."

There was a little sigh, which Cardo heard distinctly, and then the

sweet voice began and continued to read until the sun sank low in the

west.

"It's getting too dark, uncle. Will I go and see if the cakes are

done?"

"No, no!" said the old man, "Gwen will look after the cakes; you light

the candle, and come on with the book."

How Cardo longed to spring in through the lattice window, to fling the

old books away, and to draw the reader out into the gold and purple

sunset--out over the breezy cliffs, and down to the golden sands; but

the strong bonds of circumstances held him back.

The candle was lighted, and now he could see into the room. Old Essec

Powell sat beside the table with one leg thrown over the other, hands

clasped, and chin in the air, lost in the deep interest of the book

which his niece was reading.

"He looks good for two hours longer," thought Cardo, as he saw the old

man's far-away look.

There was a little tone of weariness in her voice as, seating herself

at the table by the open window, Valmai drew the candle nearer and

continued to read.

Outside in the dusky twilight Cardo was gazing his fill at the face

which had haunted him ever since he had seen it on the road from Caer

Madoc. Yes, it was a beautiful face! even more lovely than he imagined

it to be in the dim evening light. He took note of the golden wavy

hair growing low on her broad, white forehead, her darker eyebrows that

reminded him of the two arches of a beautiful bridge, under which

gleamed two clear pools, reflecting the blue of the sky and the glint

of the sunshine, the straight, well-formed nose, the pensive, mobile

mouth, the complexion of a pale pink rose, and added to this the

indescribable charm of grace and manner which spread through her

personality.