her paler than before. She stood for a moment with her hands
clasped, and pressed on her bosom, looking at the door through which
Gwen had just passed, and then seating herself at the table, her eyes
suffused with tears, she began to pour out her uncle's tea.

"That's a fine piece, Valmai," he said, "how Clwyn went away and never
came back again, till the sea washed him one day at Riana's feet."

"Yes," said the girl, in a low voice. "Won't you eat your toast,
uncle?"

"Oh, yes, to be sure," said the old man, beginning on the buttered
toast which she placed before him.

When tea was over, the "Mabinogion" were brought out again and Valmai
continued to read till her uncle fell asleep. Then leaving him to
Gwen's care, she gladly retired for the night into her own little
bedroom. Here she might think as much as she liked, and well she
availed herself of that privilege. Here she would sit alone for hours
every day, with her head bent over some bit of work, her busy fingers
pleating and stitching, while her thoughts took wing over the leaden
wintry sea before her. Away and away, in search of Cardo. Where was
he? Why did he not write to her? Would he ever come? Would he ever
write? And with weary reiteration she sought out every imaginary
reason for his long silence.

New hopes, new fears had of late dawned in her heart, at first giving
rise to a full tide of happiness and joy, the joy that comes with the
hope of motherhood--woman's crowning glory; but the joy and happiness
had gradually given place to anxiety and fear, and latterly, since it
had become impossible for her to hide her condition from those around
her, she was filled with trouble and distressing forebodings, Her
sensitive nature received continual wounds. Suspicious looks and
taunting sneers, innuendos and broad suggestions all came to her with
exceeding bitterness. She knew that every day the cloud which hung
over her grew blacker and heavier. Where should she turn when her
uncle should discover her secret? In the solitude of her room she
paced backwards and forwards, wringing her hands.

"What will I do? what will I do? He said he would return in seven or
eight months--a year at furthest. Will he come? will he ever come?"

And, gazing out over the stormy sea, she would sob in utter prostration
of grief. Every day she walked to Abersethin and haunted the
post-office. The old postmaster had noticed her wistful looks of
disappointment,