in allusion to his black hair and eyes,
and also to his black apparel, sat in his musty study, as he had done
every evening for the last twenty-five years, poring ever his old
books, and occasionally jotting down extracts therefrom. He was a
broad-shouldered man, tall and straight, about sixty-five years of age.
His clean-shaven face was white as marble, its cold and lifeless
appearance accentuated by his jet-black hair, strongly-marked eyebrows
of the same dark hue, and his unusually black eyes; his nose was
slightly aquiline, and his mouth well shaped, though wide; but the
firm-set lips and broad nostrils, gave the whole face an expression of
coldness and hardness. In fact he had a peculiarly dour and dark look,
and it was no wonder that when he walked through his parish the little
children left their games in the road, and hurried inside their garden
gates as he passed.

He was perfectly conscious of this, and it pained him, though no one
guessed it except his son, who felt a tender pity for the man who led
so isolated and solitary a life.

The cause of his cold reserve Cardo had never been able to discover;
but he somehow connected it with his mother's name, and therefore
shrank from inquiring into his father's past life, preferring to let
old memories sleep, rather than hear anything which might bring sorrow
and pain into his life.

The Vicar was evidently uneasy, as he looked up listening, with one
thin finger marking the place on the page he was reading. Cardo was
later than usual, and not until he had heard his son's familiar firm
step and whistle did he drop once more into the deep interest of his
book.

As Cardo approached the house he saw the light in his father's window,
and pictured to himself the cold, pale face bending over the musty
books. "Poor old dad!" he murmured. Some sons would have tapped
playfully at the window, but Cardo did not, he turned round the corner
of the house, passing by the front door, which was closed, and did not
look inviting, to the other side, where the clatter of wooden shoes and
a stream of light from the open doorway made some show of cheerfulness.
And there was Betto, his old nurse and his father's housekeeper, in
loud, angry tones, reproving the shepherd boy who stood leaning against
the door-post.

"Hello! what's the matter, Betto?" said Cardo in Welsh; "what mischief
has Robin been up to now?"

"Machgen bach i (my dear boy!), is that you?" said Betto; "there's