Valmai looked round her with awe and horror.

"Did these innocent-looking, simple people belong to that thronging

crowd who were hurrying on to their own destruction? was she herself

one of them? Cardo?--her uncle?"

The thought was dreadful, her breath came and went quickly, her eyes

were full of tears, and she felt as if she must rise suddenly and rush

into the open air, but as she looked round the chapel she caught sight

through one of the windows of the dark blue sky of night, bespangled

with stars, and a glow of purer and healthier feeling came over her.

She would not believe it--outside was the fresh night wind, outside was

the silver moonlight, and in the words of the poet of whom she had

never heard she said within herself, "No! God is in Heaven, it's all

right with the world!" Her joyous nature could not brook the saddening

influences of the Methodist creed, and as she passed out into the clear

night air amongst the crowd of listeners, and heard their mournful

sighs and their evident appreciation of the sermon, or rather sermons,

for there had been two, her heart bounded with a sense of relief; joy

and happiness were its natural elements, and she returned to them as an

innocent child rushes to its mother's arms.

Leaving the thronged road, she took the rugged path down the hillside,

alone under the stars, and remembering Cardo's question, "Will you come

home by the shore?" she wondered whether he was anywhere near! As she

reached the bottom of the cliff and trod on the firm, hard sand below,

she saw him standing in the shadow of a rock, and gazing out at the sea

over which the moon made a pathway of silver.

The fishing boats from Ynysoer were out like moths upon the water.

They glided from the darkness across that path of light and away again

into the unknown. On one a light was burning.

"That is the Butterfly," thought Valmai, "I am beginning to know them

all; and there is Cardo Wynne!" and with a spirit of mischief gleaming

in her eyes and dimpling her face, she approached him quietly, her

light footstep making no sound on the sand.

She was close behind him and he had not turned round, but still stood

with folded arms looking out over the moonlit scene. Having reached

this point, Valmai's fun suddenly deserted her. What should she do

next? should she touch him? No! Should she speak to him? Yes; but

what should she say? Cardo! No! and a faint blush overspread her

face. A mysterious newborn shyness came over her, and it was quite a

nervous, trembling voice that at last said: "Mr. Wynne?"

Cardo turned round quickly.

"Valmai! Miss Powell!" he said, "how silently you came upon me! I was

dreaming. Come and stand here. Is not that scene one to make a poet

of the most prosaic man?"




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