"Mrs. Caradoc Wynne,

c/o Rev. Meurig Wynne,

Brynderyn,

Abersethin,

Cardiganshire, Wales."

"Oh, my God, I thank Thee," were the only words that escaped the

Vicar's lips while he hurried home through the brewing storm, the

letters clutched in his hand and pressed against his breast; but these

words were repeated several times.

At last, in the quiet of his study, he opened his son's letter and

hungrily devoured every word of its contents twice over. After its

perusal he took up the second letter, and, with visible emotion, poured

over every line of the address, turning the envelope over and over, and

pondering in deep but silent thought, from which Betto's knock,

announcing dinner, startled him.

As he stood for a moment to say grace, before sitting down to his meal,

Betto raised her eyes to his face, and was so startled by the changed

and softened look that, with round eyes of surprise, she asked: "Mishtir bâch! what is it?"

"Mr. Cardo is coming home."

And Betto, quite overcome, plumped herself down on the sofa, throwing

her apron over her head and shedding some surreptitious tears of

sympathy; while the Vicar, forgetting his dinner, recounted to her the

chief incidents of his son's absence--his long illness, and subsequent

loss of memory--Betto following the tale with a running accompaniment

of ejaculations.

"And this, Betto," said her master, slowly laying the other letter on

the table before her, "look at it--but I forgot you can't read English."

"Howyer bâch! not I."

"Well, it is addressed to 'Mrs. Caradoc Wynne.' Did you know anything

of this?"

Betto's face exhibited a succession of expressions, which followed each

other like dissolving views, astonishment, indignation, fear of her

master's displeasure, determination to champion Cardo in any course of

combat, all ending in a broad grin of delight as she saw an

unaccustomed curve on the Vicar's lips.

"Did I know it? No; if I had, I wouldn't have had words with so many

people in the village. Oh! my boy, bâch! didn't I always say he was a

gentleman!" And her varied emotions culminated in a rain of tears.

"Twt, twt!" said the Vicar, clearing his throat, "no nonsense, Betto;

bring me the potatoes."

And that meal was finished with more cheerfulness than had lightened up

that dark old room for many a long year.

From that day forth the Vicar seemed to gain strength and gladness with

every hour. He took long walks in his parish, and showed more tender

sympathy with the ailments and troubles of his ancient congregation.

The wonderful change in the "Vicare du" was the subject of remark at

many a cottage hearth, and in many a roadside conversation.

"Oh! it's his son's coming home that has brightened him up so much; and

John Jones, postmaster, says he took the other letter as meek as a

lamb. But what has he done with it nobody knows. John Jones is saying

that it has never been posted again, so he must have got it still."




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