father, the 'Vicare du.'"

"Ah! poor old dad! I daresay you have not heard much good of him; the
people do not understand him."

"Well, indeed, the worst I have heard of him is that he is not very
kind to you; that he is making you to work on the farm, when you ought
to be a gentleman."

"That is not true," said Cardo, flushing in the darkness; "it is my
wish to be a farmer; I like it better than any other work; it is my own
free choice. Besides, can I not be a farmer and a gentleman too?
Where could I be so happy as here at home, where my ancestors have
lived for generations?"

"Ancestors?" said the girl; "what is that?"

"Oh! my grandfather and great-grandfather, and all the long dead of my
family."

"Yes, indeed, I see. Ancestors," she repeated, with a sort of
scheduling tone, as though making sure of the fresh information; "I do
not know much English, but there's good you are speaking it! Can you
speak Welsh?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Cardo, and his voice woke the echoes from Moel
Hiraethog, the hill which they were nearing, and which they must
compass before reaching the valley of the Berwen. "Ha! ha! ha! Can I
speak Welsh? Why, I am Welsh to the core, Cymro glan gloyw![1] What
are you?"

"Oh! Welsh, of course. You can hear that by my talk."

"Indeed no," said Cardo. "I did not know anyone at Traeth Berwen could
speak English as well as you do."

He was longing to find out who his fellow-traveller was. He saw in the
dim light she was slim and fair, and had a wealth of golden hair; he
saw her dress was grey and her hood was red. So much the moonlight
revealed, but further than this he could not discover, and politeness
forbade his asking. As if in answer to his thoughts, however, her next
words enlightened him.

"I am Valmai Powell, the niece of Essec Powell, the preacher."

A long, low whistle escaped from the young man's lips.

"By Jove!" he said.

The girl was silent, but could he have seen the hot blush which spread
over her face and neck, he would have known that he had roused the
quick Welsh temper. He was unconscious of it, however, and strode on
in silence, until they reached a rough-built, moss-grown bridge, and
here they both stopped as if by mutual consent. Leaning their elbows
on the mossy stone wall, they looked down to the depths below, where
the little river Berwen babbled and whispered on its way to the sea.

"There's a nice noise it is making down there," said Valma