off the sacred wedding dress, and, folding
it carefully, laid it away with its bunch of jessamine, while she
donned another much like it, but of a warmer material, for she loved
white, and seldom appeared in a coloured dress.

With Cardo the hours slipped by quickly. His father had many last
directions to give him, and Betto had endless explanations to make.

"You will find your gloves in your pocket, Mr. Cardo, and your clean
handkerchiefs are in the leather portmanteau; but only six are by
themselves in the little black bag."

Gwynne Ellis had accompanied his friends to their lodgings at
Abersethin, and after breakfast returned to Brynderyn; they had all
been charmed with the bride's appearance.

"By Jove! Ellis," Chester had said, "I think I envy that Wynne in spite
of the parting. I have never seen such a lovely bride!"

"Any more pearls of the sort to be found in this out-of-the-way place?"
asked Wilson.

"No, I have seen none," said Ellis; "and I doubt if you will find one
anywhere," for he was an enthusiastic admirer of Valmai.

"I have quite enjoyed the part we have taken in this romantic little
affair--eh, Wilson?"

"Ra--ther!" he replied.

"But don't forget it is to be a dead secret," said Ellis, as he left
the door.

"Oh! honour bright!"

At two o'clock punctually Cardo and his father seated themselves in the
light gig, which was the only carriage the Vicar affected, and when
Betto had bid him a tearful good-bye, with all the farm-servants
bobbing in the background, Gwynne Ellis, grasping his hand with a warm
pressure, said:

"Good-bye, Wynne, and God bless you! I shall look forward with great
pleasure to meeting you again when you return from Australia. I shall
stay here a week or two at your father's invitation."

"Yes," said the Vicar, in a wonderfully softened tone, "it would be too
trying to have the house emptied at one blow."

As they drove along the high road together and crossed the little
bridge over the Berwen Valley, the Vicar, pointing with his whip, drew
Cardo's attention to the stile beside the bridge.

"This is the stile which I saw Ellen Vaughan crossing the day I met
your mother waiting for her. I met my brother afterwards, and oh! how
blinded I was! But there, a man who is carried away by his passions is
like a runaway horse, which, they say, becomes blind in the eagerness
of his flight."

It was needless to call Cardo's attention to the stile. His first
meeting