By Berwen Banks

Had Valmai been better acquainted with the coast, she would not have

dared to cross the bridge in the face of the storm which was every

moment increasing in violence. The tide was down, and the rocks were

bare, and the high wind helped to hurry her over the pools and craggy

points. Gathering her red cloak tightly around her she made her way

safely over to the island, which was a frequent resort of hers, as here

she found the warm love and welcome for which her heart craved, and

which was so sorely missing in her uncle's house.

Amongst the sandy dunes and tussocks were scattered a few lonely

cottages, in one of which Nance lived her uneventful life; its

smoke-browned thatch looked little different from the rushes and coarse

grass which surrounded it, for tufts of grass and moss grew on the roof

also, and Nance's goat was frequently to be seen browsing on the

house-top. At the open door stood Nance herself, looking out at the

storm. Suddenly she caught sight of Valmai, who was making a difficult

progress through the soft uneven sand, and a look of surprise and

pleasure came over her face.

"Oh, dear heart, is it you, indeed, come to see old Nance, and on such

a day? Come in, sweetheart, out of the storm."

"The storm indeed," said Valmai, in Welsh as pure as Nance's own, as

the old woman drew her in to the cottage and closed the door. "Why,

you know nothing about it on this side of the island, nothing of what

it is in the village. The boats have all been drawn up close to the

road, and the waves are dancing and prancing on the beach, I can tell

you."

Nance loosened her cloak and hat, and smoothed her hair with her horny

hands.

"There's glad I am to see you, merch fach-i, and if you have no grand

friends to keep you company and no one to look after you, you have

always got old Nance to love you."

"Yes, I know that, Nance, indeed. What do you think of my new frock?"

said the girl, holding out her skirt to the admiring gaze of the old

woman, who went into raptures of admiration.

"Oh, there's pretty. 'Tis fine and soft, but white, always white you

are wearing--"

"Yes, I like white," said Valmai.

"And didn't I dress you in your first little clothes? Well I remember

it."

"There's just what I wanted to ask you about, Nance; I love to hear the

old story."

"After tea, then, merch i, for now I must go and fetch water from the

well, and I must milk the goat."

"I will fetch the water," said Valmai; "you can go and milk."

And taking the red stone pitcher from the bench by the wall she went

out, and, sheltered by the ridge of rocks behind which the cottage

stood, made her way to the spring which dripped from a crack in the

cliffs. While she waited for the pitcher to fill, she sang, in sheer

lightness of heart, the old ballad which not only floated on the air of

Abersethin and its neighbourhood, but which she had heard her mother

sing in the far-off land of her childhood.