By Berwen Banks

In less than ten minutes the two young men had left Caer Madoc behind,

and were fast lessening the distance between them and Brynderyn.

"Very kind of you to meet me; and what a splendid horse," said Gwynne

Ellis. "Carries his head well, and a good stepper."

"Fond of horses?" asked Cardo.

"Oh! very," said the high-toned voice; "riding and painting are the

chief delights of my life--"

"We can give you plenty of riding--'Jim,' here, is always at your

service; and as for the painting--well, I know nothing about it myself,

but I think I can show you as pretty bits of scenery as you ever saw

within the four sides of a gilt frame." And as they drew near the top

of the moor, where they caught sight of the long stretch of coast, with

its bays and cliffs and purple shadows, the new-comer was lost in

admiration.

Cardo, who had been accustomed all his life to the beauties of the

coast, was amused at his friend's somewhat extravagant exclamations.

"Oh, charming!" he said taking off his glasses and readjusting them on

his well-shaped nose; "see those magnificent rocks--sepia and cobalt;

and that cleft in the hills running down to the shore--ultra marine;

and what a flood of crimson glory on the sea--carmine, rose

madder--and--er--er--"

"By Jove! it will be a wonderful paint box that can imitate those

colours," said Cardo, with a nod at the sunset.

"Ah, true!" said Gwynne Ellis, "one would need a spirit brush dipped in

ethereal fire, "'A broad and ample road whose dust is gold,

Open, ye heavens! your living doors--'"

"I suppose so; but a farmer's life is poetry itself, in its idyllic

freshness and purity."

Cardo shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know so much about that, but it is a life that suits me. I

was meant for a farmer, I am sure--couldn't soar much above turnips and

hay, you know. See here, now, there's a crop of hay to gladden a

farmer's heart! In a week or two we shall have it tossed about in the

sun, and carried down through the lanes into the haggard, and the lads

and lasses will have a jolly supper in the evening, and will give us

some singing that will wake the echoes from Moel Hiraethog yonder.

Then the lanes are at their best, with the long wisps of sweet hay

caught on the wild rose bushes."

"Aha! my friend, I see I am right," said Ellis, "and a farmer is a

poet, whether he knows it or not."

Cardo laughed heartily, as they alighted at the front door.