By Berwen Banks

"Let him go," said the Vicar. "What do you want?"

"Nothing, sir. For a moment I thought I would go back and take a last

look at the valley; but never mind, let us go on. How black it looks

in front!"

"A storm rising, I think," said his father.

"Yes. There will be a gale from the north-west; we shall catch it on

the Burrawalla, I expect. Well, I have often wished to see a storm

at sea."

His father did not answer, but looked gloomily on at the gathering

darkness in front. He was full of fears for his son's safety, but it

was not his nature to speak openly of any tender feelings. His late

confession, although it had comforted and soothed him, was yet a

mystery to himself, and he thought of it with a kind of awkward

surprise and something like resentment. He was, however, unusually

talkative and even gentle as they drove on together. When at last he

had seen Cardo fairly off in the coach, with his luggage piled on the

top, he turned homewards with a heavy foreboding at his heart.

Should he ever see his son again? Had he sent him from his native land

to be lost to him for ever? And how willingly he had given in to his

father's wishes! But, certainly there was nothing to attract him to

his home--nothing but his love for a surly old father!

"A fine fellow!" he soliloquised, with a side jerk of his head. "A

fine fellow! a son to be proud of!"

And when Gwynne Ellis joined him at tea, they vied with each other in

their praises of Cardo's character.

If Cardo had followed his impulse and returned to look over the stile,

he would have found on the mossy hedge inside a little white heap of

misery. For Valmai, who had watched for an hour to catch a last

glimpse of him, had been frightened when she saw the "Vicare du"

looking towards the stile, and evidently drawing Cardo's attention to

it; she had shrunk back until they had passed, and then standing on the

hedge, had waved a last good-bye, and immediately afterwards slipped

down in an abandonment of grief. She remained for some time sobbing

and moaning on the grass, until at last her passion of tears subsided.

Almost suddenly growing calmer, she stood up, and, not attempting to

dry her eyes, let the tears roll slowly down her cheeks. She clasped

her hands, and tried to steady her voice as, looking up at the flying

clouds above her, she spoke words of encouragement to herself.

"Valmai," she said, "you must learn to bear your sorrow in silence; you

are no longer a girl--you are a wife! and you must be a brave and good

woman!"