By Berwen Banks

"If you wish to do me a kindness, uncle, and you, too, dear aunt, you

will never mention the subject to me or to anyone else. It is a thing

of the past; let us bury it out of sight and hearing."

"We will do what you wish, my dear boy; but I am afraid, amongst these

gossiping villagers, you will often hear the subject alluded to in joke

or in earnest."

"Oh! I quite expect that," said Cardo, with an attempt at a laugh, but

it was a sorry attempt. "I am not going to play the rôle of a

love-sick swain, my grief will be buried too deep for a careless touch

to reach it, and I hope I shall not forget I am a man. I have also the

comfort of knowing that my sorrow is the consequence of my misfortunes

and not of my faults."

Soon things seemed to fall into the old groove at Brynderyn, as far as

Cardo and his father were concerned, except that that which had been

wanting before, namely, a warm and loving understanding between them,

now reigned in both their hearts, and sweetened their daily

intercourse. The west parlour and all the rooms on that side of the

house, which had been unused for so many years, were opened up again,

and delivered over to the care of Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Wynne, who kept

their own establishment there, thus avoiding the necessity of

interfering with Meurig Wynne's eccentric habits, and still enabling

them to meet round the cheerful hearth in the evening, or whenever they

chose.

As for Cardo, he threw all his energies into the busy work of the

farm--the earliest in the field in the morning, the latest to leave it

at night, nothing was too small for his supervision, no work was too

hard for him to undertake; and though he declared he was well, quite

well, still, it was evident to those around him that he was overtaxing

his strength. The flashing light had gone out of those black eyes, the

spring from his gait, the softness from his voice. He paid frequent

visits to Nance's cottage, always returning across the corner of the

churchyard. The stone-cutter had kept his promise, and had added the

surname of "Wynne" on the little cross, and Cardo read it over and over

again, with a sort of pleasurable sorrow. The banks of the Berwen he

avoided entirely, the thought of wandering there alone was intolerable

to him. Every bird which sang, every flower that nodded at him, the

whispering river, everything would ask him, "Where is Valmai?" And

what answer could he give to his own aching heart which echoed the

question, "Where is Valmai? Gone--worse than gone! changed, she whom I

thought was the counterpart of my own unchangeable nature. No, no,

anywhere but by the banks of the Berwen!" And he plodded on at his

work, doing his best to regain the placid calmness, though not the

bright joyousness of his life, before he met Valmai. But in vain; the

summer found him languid and depressed in spirits. It was Shoni who

first suggested to him the idea of a change of scene and companionship.

A strange friendship had grown up between these two men. Shoni had

been kind and tender to Valmai in her sorrow, and seemed to belong to

the bright, happy past which was gone for ever.