By Berwen Banks

Valmai sighed and blushed. "Oh, what dreams, Cardo; I cannot reach so

far. My thoughts stop short at the long winter, when that glistening

sea will be tossing and frothing under the fierce north-west wind. Oh,

I know how it looks in the winter; and then to think that all that lies

between me and you. What a trouble has come upon us when all seemed so

bright and glorious."

"Yes, I have brought sorrow and unrest into your peaceful life. Will

you give me up; will you break the bonds that are between us; and once

more be free and happy?"

"Cardo," was all her answer, in a pained tone, as she placed her hand

in his, "what are you talking about?"

"Nonsense, love, foolish nonsense. I know too well that nothing on

earth or heaven can break the bonds that bind us to each other. And

this terrible parting. I could bear it far more easily if you were

mine, my very own, my wife, Valmai. Then I should feel that nothing

could really part us. Can it not be? Can we not be married here

quietly in the old church, with none but the sea-breezes and the

brawling Berwen for company?"

"And the old white owl to marry us, I suppose. Oh, Cardo, another

dream. No, no; wait until you return from that dreadful Australia, and

then--"

"And then," said Cardo, "you will not say no."

"No," said the girl, looking frankly into his eager face, "I will not

say no. But I must go; I am late. Shoni begins to ask me

suspiciously, 'Wherr you going again, Valmai?' I am sure we could not

go on much longer meeting here without his interference."

"How dreadful to have Shoni's red hair and gaitered legs dogging our

footsteps in this fairy dell."

"To whom does this sweet valley belong, Cardo? To you?"

"To my father. If it ever comes into my possession, it will be so

guarded that no stray foot shall desecrate its paths."

Cardo was not without hope of being able to overcome Valmai's

reluctance to be married before he left the country, and as he and

Gwynne Ellis returned one day from a sail he broached the subject to

his friend.

"To-morrow will be the first of September," he said, as he watched the

bulging sail and the fluttering pennon against the blue sky.

"Yes," answered Ellis, "I am sorry my holiday is coming to a close."

"I don't see why you should leave, although I am obliged to go."

"Oh, it will be quite time for me; everything jolly comes to an end

some time or other."

"True," said Cardo, with a sigh.

"Well, you heave a sigh, and you look as grave and solemn as any of

Essec Powell's congregation, and, upon my word, I don't see what you've

got to look so glum about. Here you are, engaged to the prettiest girl

in Wales; just going out for a year's travel and enjoyment before you

settle down as a married man in that idyllic thatched cottage up the

valley--a year to see the world in--and a devoted father (for he is

that, Cardo, in spite of his cold ways) waiting to greet you when you

come back. And Valmai Powell following every step you take with her

loving and longing thoughts. No, no, Cardo; you have nothing to pull

such a long face about. On the contrary, as I have said before, you

are a lucky dog." (Cardo grunted.) "Besides, you are not obliged to

go. It seems to me rather a quixotic affair altogether, and yet, by

Jove! there is something in it that appeals to the poetic side of my

nature. You will earn your father's undying gratitude, and in the

first gush of his happiness you will gain his consent to your marriage

with Valmai. Not a bad--rather a clever little programme."