By Berwen Banks | Page 9

to look neat and comfortable, on that wind-swept, storm-beaten
cliff. Its grey walls, marked with patches of damp and lichen, looked
like a tear-stained face, out of which the two upstairs windows stared
like mournful eyes. Downstairs, in one room, there was a little sign of
comfort and adornment; crimson curtains hung at the window, inside
which a few flowers grew in pots. Keeping well under the hedge of
elders which surrounded the cwrt or front garden, Cardo passed round
to the side--the pine end, as it is called in Wales--and here a little lattice
window stood open. It faced the south, and away from the sea a white
rose tree had ventured to stretch out its straggling branches. They had
evidently lately been drawn by some loving hand towards the little
window. A muslin curtain fluttered in the evening breeze, on which
came the sound of a voice. Cardo knew it at once. It was Valmai
singing at her work, and he longed to break through the elder bushes
and call her attention. He was so near that he could even hear the words
of her song, softly as they were sung. She was interrupted by a
querulous voice.

"Valmai," it said in Welsh, "have you written that?"
"Oh! long ago, uncle. I am waiting for the next line."
"Here it is then, child, and well worth waiting for;" and, with
outstretched arm marking the cadence of its rhythm, he read aloud from
a book of old poems. "There's poetry for you, girl! There's a description
of Nature! Where will you find such real poetry amongst modern bards?
No, no! the bards are dead, Valmai!"
"Well, I don't know much about it, uncle; but isn't it a modern bard who
writes:
"'Come and see the misty mountains In their grey and purple sheen,
When they blush to see the sunrise Like a maiden of thirteen!'"
That seems very pretty, whatever."
"Very pretty," growled the man's voice, "very pretty; of course it
is--very pretty! That's just it; but that's all, Valmai. Pwff! you have put
me out with your 'blushing maiden' and your 'purple sheen.' Let us shut
up Taliesin and come to 'Drych y Pryf Oesoedd.' Now, you begin at the
fifth chapter."
There was a little sigh, which Cardo heard distinctly, and then the
sweet voice began and continued to read until the sun sank low in the
west.
"It's getting too dark, uncle. Will I go and see if the cakes are done?"
"No, no!" said the old man, "Gwen will look after the cakes; you light
the candle, and come on with the book."
How Cardo longed to spring in through the lattice window, to fling the
old books away, and to draw the reader out into the gold and purple
sunset--out over the breezy cliffs, and down to the golden sands; but
the strong bonds of circumstances held him back.
The candle was lighted, and now he could see into the room. Old Essec

Powell sat beside the table with one leg thrown over the other, hands
clasped, and chin in the air, lost in the deep interest of the book which
his niece was reading.
"He looks good for two hours longer," thought Cardo, as he saw the old
man's far-away look.
There was a little tone of weariness in her voice as, seating herself at
the table by the open window, Valmai drew the candle nearer and
continued to read.
Outside in the dusky twilight Cardo was gazing his fill at the face
which had haunted him ever since he had seen it on the road from Caer
Madoc. Yes, it was a beautiful face! even more lovely than he imagined
it to be in the dim evening light. He took note of the golden wavy hair
growing low on her broad, white forehead, her darker eyebrows that
reminded him of the two arches of a beautiful bridge, under which
gleamed two clear pools, reflecting the blue of the sky and the glint of
the sunshine, the straight, well-formed nose, the pensive, mobile mouth,
the complexion of a pale pink rose, and added to this the indescribable
charm of grace and manner which spread through her personality.
The evening shadows darkened, the sunset glow faded, and the moon
rose in a cloudless sky. The distant sound of the regular plash of the
waves on the beach reached Cardo's ears. He thought of the long
reaches of golden sand lying cool and grey in the moonlight, and all the
romantic dreams of youth awoke within him.
Was it right that Valmai should be bending over a musty book in a
dimly-lit room? while outside were the velvet turf of the cliffs, the
plashing waves, and the silver moonlight.
But the reading still went on, the gentle