By Berwen Banks

"Never!" said Ellis. "I see exactly how you felt, and can enter into

your feelings thoroughly; it only grieves me to think what a low

opinion you have formed of men in general."

"You see," said Gwladys, bending her head, "I have led such a retired

life, and have known so few men--none intimately, except those three."

"Let me dare, then, to hope that in time you will come to believe that

all men are not like the miserable specimens whom you have met. Will

you believe that I, at least, am only sorry to hear you will be so

rich? I cannot expect you to believe me, but it is the truth."

"Yes, I believe you," she said.

"Then let us see what we can do to retrieve your mistake. Will you

take my word for it that Cardo Wynne is all that is honourable and

true?"

"Yes, oh, yes; I am sure he would not be your friend if he were not so."

"Then the path is easy and plain before us. You will write to Valmai,

and I will write to Cardo, and the cloud that has darkened their path

lately will be swept away, and your hand and mine will be permitted to

let in the light."

"I don't deserve such happiness," she said.

Ellis felt tempted to say, "Yes, your deep love for your sister made

you do this, and it richly deserves this fulfilment of its endeavours,"

but he did not, and the omission was noticed by Gwladys, but it did not

tell against him.

They sat some time in silent thought, Gwladys's little foot tossing up

the moss.

"I have not told auntie, but I should like to do so now."

"I think you are right," said Ellis, gathering his painting

paraphernalia together; "let us go and tell her at once."

There was something delightful even in the simple fact of "going

together" to tell Mrs. Power the story of Valmai's sorrow and Gwladys's

mistake, and when he left it was with the clear understanding that they

should not let a day pass without enlightening Cardo and Valmai.