a last good-bye, and immediately afterwards slipped
down in an abandonment of grief. She remained for some time sobbing
and moaning on the grass, until at last her passion of tears subsided.
Almost suddenly growing calmer, she stood up, and, not attempting to
dry her eyes, let the tears roll slowly down her cheeks. She clasped
her hands, and tried to steady her voice as, looking up at the flying
clouds above her, she spoke words of encouragement to herself.
"Valmai," she said, "you must learn to bear your sorrow in silence; you
are no longer a girl--you are a wife! and you must be a brave and good
woman!"

For a moment she continued to look steadily up at the clouds and beyond
them into the depths of blue sky which showed here and there between
the storm rifts, then she quietly put on her hat and returned down the
well-known path to the river, and with steady, set face and firm step
made her way homeward.

When her uncle appeared at the tea-table, he carried two large books
under his arm, and when the meal was over the lamp was lighted and the
red curtains drawn. Up here on the cliffs the wind was already blowing
furiously; it roared in the chimneys, and found its way in through
every chink in the badly-fitting windows.

"Now, let me see--chap. xii.--Valmai, have you found it? St. Antwn's
sermon to the fishes," and he settled himself in his usual position,
with legs crossed, head thrown back, listening with evident pleasure,
while Valmai read and read, her thoughts defying control, and for ever
following Cardo on his journey.

"Oh, how the wind is shrieking, uncle; it is like a human creature in
pain!"

"Wind?" said the old man, looking with dreamy eyes at the girl so full
of hopes and fears--"storm? Well, it does blow a little, but it's
nothing. Go on, Valmai, you are not reading so good as usual," and
once more she applied herself to the page, and endeavoured to keep her
thoughts from roaming.

CHAPTER IX.

REUBEN STREET.

All night the storm increased in violence, blowing straight from the
north-west with an incessant fury which tossed and tore the waters of
the bay. Against the black cliffs the foaming waves hurled themselves
like fierce animals leaping up to reach their prey, but the adamant
rocks, which had defied their rage for centuries, still stood firm, and
flung them back panting and foaming into the swirling depths below, to
rise again with ever-increasing strength, until the showers