mention them to you again--"

"Good!" replied his father. "I have a letter here which I would like
to read to you, but not this morning, as I am very busy."

"All right, father--in the afternoon," said Cardo; and when Betto
appeared to clear away the breakfast things he was lost in a profound
reverie, his long legs stretched out before him and his hands buried
deep in his pocket.

Betto tried in vain to recall him to outward surroundings by clattering
her china and by sundry "h'ms" and coughs, but Cardo still remained
buried in thought and jingling his money in his pocket. At last she
_accidentally_ jerked his head with her elbow.

"Hello, Betto! what is the matter?"

"My dear boy," said Betto, "did I hurt you? Where were you so late
last night?"

"Oh, out in the storm. Have you seen my wet clothes? I flung them out
through my bedroom window; you will find them in a heap on the garden
wall."

"Wet clothes? Caton pawb! did you get in the sea then?"

"Oh, yes! tumbled over and over like a pebble on the beach," he said,
rising; "but you know such duckings are nothing to me; I enjoy them!"

Betto looked after him with uplifted hands and eyes.

"Well, indeed! there never was such a boy! always in some mischief; but
that's how boys are!"

Cardo went out whistling, up the long meadow to the barren corner,
where the furze bushes and wild thyme and harebells still held their
own against the plough and harrow; and here, sitting in deep thought,
and still whistling in a low tone, he held a long consultation with
himself.

"No! I will never try again!" he said at last, as he rose and took his
way to another part of the farm.

In the afternoon he entered his father's study, looking, in his manly
strength, and with his bright, keen eyes, out of keeping with this
dusty, faded room. His very clothes were redolent of the breezy
mountain-side.

Meurig Wynne still pored over apparently the self-same books which he
was studying when we first saw him.

"Sit down, Cardo," he said, as his son entered; "I have a good deal to
say to you. First, this letter," and he hunted about amongst his
papers. "It is from an old friend of mine, Rowland Ellis of Plas
Gwynant. You know I hear from him occasionally--quite often enough.
It is waste of stamps, waste of energy, and waste of time to write when
you have nothing special to say. But he has something to say to-day.
He has a son, a poor, weak fellow I have heard, as far