By Berwen Banks

"No, round the next shore, and up to the top of the cliff is our house."

"Traeth Berwen? That is where I live!"

"Well, indeed!"

"Yes, I am Caradoc Wynne, and I live at Brynderyn."

"Oh! are you Cardo Wynne? I have heard plenty about you, and about

your father, the 'Vicare du.'"

"Ah! poor old dad! I daresay you have not heard much good of him; the

people do not understand him."

"Well, indeed, the worst I have heard of him is that he is not very

kind to you; that he is making you to work on the farm, when you ought

to be a gentleman."

"That is not true," said Cardo, flushing in the darkness; "it is my

wish to be a farmer; I like it better than any other work; it is my own

free choice. Besides, can I not be a farmer and a gentleman too?

Where could I be so happy as here at home, where my ancestors have

lived for generations?"

"Ancestors?" said the girl; "what is that?"

"Oh! my grandfather and great-grandfather, and all the long dead of my

family."

"Yes, indeed, I see. Ancestors," she repeated, with a sort of

scheduling tone, as though making sure of the fresh information; "I do

not know much English, but there's good you are speaking it! Can you

speak Welsh?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Cardo, and his voice woke the echoes from Moel

Hiraethog, the hill which they were nearing, and which they must

compass before reaching the valley of the Berwen. "Ha! ha! ha! Can I

speak Welsh? Why, I am Welsh to the core, Cymro glan gloyw! What

are you?"

"Oh! Welsh, of course. You can hear that by my talk."

"Indeed no," said Cardo. "I did not know anyone at Traeth Berwen could

speak English as well as you do."

He was longing to find out who his fellow-traveller was. He saw in the

dim light she was slim and fair, and had a wealth of golden hair; he

saw her dress was grey and her hood was red. So much the moonlight

revealed, but further than this he could not discover, and politeness

forbade his asking. As if in answer to his thoughts, however, her next

words enlightened him.

"I am Valmai Powell, the niece of Essec Powell, the preacher."

A long, low whistle escaped from the young man's lips.

"By Jove!" he said.

The girl was silent, but could he have seen the hot blush which spread

over her face and neck, he would have known that he had roused the

quick Welsh temper. He was unconscious of it, however, and strode on

in silence, until they reached a rough-built, moss-grown bridge, and

here they both stopped as if by mutual consent. Leaning their elbows

on the mossy stone wall, they looked down to the depths below, where

the little river Berwen babbled and whispered on its way to the sea.