By Berwen Banks

"Hast seen the picture," said Ebben, "Mr. Ellis has made of her and

Corwen? Splendid!"

"No," said Dye; "has he? What will the Vicare say? Jâr-i! there'll be

black looks!"

But Gwynne Ellis had been wiser than to show his sketch to the Vicar;

he was learning like Cardo that if there was to be peace at Brynderyn,

neither Essec Powell nor his flock nor his family must be mentioned.

The last full wain of sweet scented hay had been carted into the

haggard, amidst the usual congratulatory comments of the haymakers, who

had afterwards trooped into the farm-yard, where, under the pale

evening sky, with the sunset glow behind them, and the moon rising full

before them, they seated themselves at the long supper table prepared

by Betto and Shan in the open yard.

First the bowls were filled with the steaming cawl, and then the wooden

platters were heaped with the pink slices of home-cured bacon, and

mashed up cabbages. Last of all came the hunches of solid rice

pudding, washed down by "blues" of home-brewed ale; and the talk

and the laughter waxed louder and merrier, as they proceeded with their

meal.

Gwynne Ellis sat perched on the wall under the elder tree sketching the

group, and evidently affording them much amusement. The Vicar looked

at them through his study window, but Cardo, who had worked hard all

day in the field, was absent.

Down in the shady path by the Berwen, he and Valmai walked and sang

together. Of course she could sing, with the clear, sweet voice and

the correct ear common to most Welshwomen, and Cardo sharing also in

the national gift, their voices frequently blended together in song,

and the sylvan valley often echoed to the tones of their voices, more

especially in the old ballad, which tradition said had been composed by

a luckless shepherd who had lived in this valley, "By Berwen's banks my love hath strayed," etc.

The June roses bent down towards them, the trailing honeysuckle swept

her cheek, and as the sunset faded and the clear moon rose in the sky

their voices were low and tender.

"I have seen so little of you lately, Valmai."

"So little!" said the girl, in feigned astonishment. "Indeed you are a

greedy man. How oftentimes has Gwen called me and I have been absent,

and even my uncle asked me yesterday, 'Where dost spend thy time,

child; on the shore?' and I said, 'Yes, uncle, and by the Berwen.'"

"How strange it is," said Cardo, "that no one seems to come here but

you and me, and how fortunate."

"Well, indeed," returned the girl, "there was scarcely any path here

till I came, the ferns and nut trees had quite shut it up."