By Berwen Banks | Page 8

they have never really amalgamated, and to this
day the descendants of the Flemings remain a separate people in
language, disposition, and appearance. In Pembrokeshire, Gower, and
Radnorshire, we find them still flourishing, and for some distance along
the coast northwards from Pembrokeshire there are still families, and
even whole hamlets, descended from them, exhibiting traits of
character and peculiarities of manner easily discernible to an observant
eye.
Before the Vicar retired to rest he took down from a shelf an old Bible,
from which he read a chapter, and, closing the book, knelt down to pray.
As he rose from his knees, the last words on his lips were, "Caradoc,
my beloved son!"
For the next few days the turnips and mangolds seemed even more
interesting than usual to Cardo Wynne. He was up with the lark, and
striding from furrow to furrow in company with Dye and Ebben,
returning to a hurried breakfast, and out again on the breezy hillside
before the blue smoke had begun to curl up from the thatched chimneys
which marked the cluster of cottages called "Abersethin."
Down there, under the cliffs, the little village slumbered, the rising sun
just beginning to touch its whitewashed walls with gold, while up
above, on the high lands, the "Vicare du's" fields were already bathed

in the morning sunlight.
As he crossed from ridge to ridge and from furrow to furrow Cardo's
thoughts continually flew across the valley to the rugged hill on the
other side, and to the old grey house on the cliff--the home of Essec
Powell, the preacher. In vain he sought for any sign of the girl whose
acquaintance he had made so unexpectedly, and he was almost tempted
to believe that she was no other than a creature of his own imagination,
born of the witching moonlight hour, and absorbed again into the
passing shadows of night. But could he have seen through the walls of
that old grey house, even now at that early hour, he would have
understood what kept the preacher's niece so busily engaged that
neither on the shore nor on the banks of the Berwen was there a sign of
her.
In the cool dairy at Dinas, and in and out of the rambling old kitchen,
she was busy with her preparations for the guests who would fill the
house during the Sassiwn. She bustled about, with Marged Hughes in
attendance, looking very different, but every bit as charming, in her
neat farm dress as she had on her visit to Caer Madoc. The sleeves of
her pink cotton jacket, pushed up above the elbows, showed her white,
dimpled arms; while her blue skirt or petticoat was short enough to
reveal the neatly-shod feet, with their bows of black ribbon on the
instep.
Every house in the neighbourhood was busy with preparations of some
sort. At the farmhouses the women had been engaged for days with
their cooking. Huge joints of beef and ham, boiled or baked, stood
ready in the cool pantries; and in the smallest cottages, where there was
more than one bed, it had been prepared for some guest. "John, my
cousin, is coming from 'the Works,'" [5] or "Mary, my sister, will be
home with her baby."
Everywhere hearts and hands were full of warm hospitality. Clergymen
of the Church of England, though generally looking askance at the
chapels and their swarming congregations, now, carried away by the
enthusiasm of the people, consented to attend the meetings, secretly
looking forward, with the Welsh love of oratory, to the eloquent

sermons generally to be heard on such occasions.
Cardo, ruthlessly striding through the dew-bespangled gossamer of the
turnip field, heard with pleasure from Dye that the adjoining field,
which sloped down to the valley, had been fixed upon for the holding
of the Sassiwn. On the flat at the bottom the carpenters were already at
work at a large platform, upon which the preachers and most honoured
guests were to be seated; while the congregation would sit on the
hillside, which reached up to the Vicar's land. At least three thousand,
or even four, might be expected.
All day Cardo looked over the valley with intense interest, and when
the day's work was over, unable to restrain his curiosity and impatience
any longer, he determined to take a closer survey of the old house on
the hill, which for so many years he had seen with his outward eyes,
though his inner perception had never taken account of it. At last,
crossing the beach, he took his way up the steep path that led to Dinas.
As he rounded a little clump of stunted pine trees he came in sight of
the house, grey, gaunt, and bare, not old enough to be picturesque, but
too old