, I can
get along anywhere; but without them I am lost." And he busied himself
in finding and dragging down his luggage.

In less than ten minutes the two young men had left Caer Madoc behind,
and were fast lessening the distance between them and Brynderyn.

"Very kind of you to meet me; and what a splendid horse," said Gwynne
Ellis. "Carries his head well, and a good stepper."

"Fond of horses?" asked Cardo.

"Oh! very," said the high-toned voice; "riding and painting are the
chief delights of my life--"

"We can give you plenty of riding--'Jim,' here, is always at your
service; and as for the painting--well, I know nothing about it myself,
but I think I can show you as pretty bits of scenery as you ever saw
within the four sides of a gilt frame." And as they drew near the top
of the moor, where they caught sight of the long stretch of coast, with
its bays and cliffs and purple shadows, the new-comer was lost in
admiration.

Cardo, who had been accustomed all his life to the beauties of the
coast, was amused at his friend's somewhat extravagant exclamations.

"Oh, charming!" he said taking off his glasses and readjusting them on
his well-shaped nose; "see those magnificent rocks--sepia and cobalt;
and that cleft in the hills running down to the shore--ultra marine;
and what a flood of crimson glory on the sea--carmine, rose
madder--and--er--er--"

"By Jove! it will be a wonderful paint box that can imitate those
colours," said Cardo, with a nod at the sunset.

"Ah, true!" said Gwynne Ellis, "one would need a spirit brush dipped in
ethereal fire,

"'A broad and ample road whose dust is gold,
Open, ye heavens! your living doors--'"

"That is very pretty," said Cardo, "but I am not much acquainted with
English poetry--a farmer's life, you know, is too busy for that sort of
thing."

"I suppose so; but a farmer's life _is_ poetry itself, in its idyllic
freshness and purity."

Cardo shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know so much about that, but it is a life that suits me. I
was meant for a farmer, I am sure--couldn't soar much above turnips and
hay, you know. See here, now, there's a crop of hay to gladden a
farmer's heart! In a week or two we shall have it tossed about in the
sun, and carried down through the lanes into the haggard, and the lads
and lasses will have a jolly supper in the evening, and will give us
some singing that will wake the echoes from Moel Hiraethog yonder.
Then the lane