happiness from youth to age.

The light returned to her eyes, and the rose to her cheek; her step was
once more light and springy, as she paced the lonely shore, dressed in
her favourite white serge, and carrying her little white-robed baby in
her arms. She was an object of great interest to the inhabitants of
the fishing village on the other side of the island, and they often
found an excuse (more especially the young sailor lads) to pass by the
cottage, and to stop at the open door for a drink of water or a chat
with Nance. They were as loud in their condemnation of her faithless
lover as in admiration of her beauty and pleasant manners.

Once more life seemed full of promise and hope for her, until one day
when the bay was glistening in the sunshine, and the sea-gulls, like
flecks of snow, flew about the rocks; the soft waves plashing gently
between the boulders, a little cloud arose on her horizon. Her baby
was fretful and feverish, and Nance had roused her fears.

"He is too fat, merch i," she said, "and if he had any childish illness
it would go hard with him."

Valmai had taken fright at once.

"Can you take care of him, Nance, while I go to Abersethin and fetch
Dr. Hughes?" she asked.

"Yes, but don't be frightened, cariad; I daresay he will laugh at us,
and say there is nothing the matter with the child."

"Being laughed at does not hurt one," said Valmai, as she tied on her
hat. "I will bring him back with me if possible."

She took a long look at the baby, who lay with flushed face on Nance's
knees, and ran with all speed across the Rock-Bridge, from which the
tide was just receding, up the straggling street of Abersethin, and
through the shady lane, which led to the doctor's house.

There was great peering and peeping from the kitchen window, as Valmai
made her progress between the heaps of straw in the farm-yard to the
back door, which stood open. The doctor's wife, who had her arms up to
her elbows in curds and whey, looked up from her cheese-tub as she
appeared at the door.

"Dear me, Miss Powell! Well, indeed, what's the matter?"

"Oh, it's my baby, Mrs. Hughes! Can Dr. Hughes come with me at once?"

"There's a pity, now," said Mrs. Hughes; "he is gone to Brynderyn. Mr.
Wynne is not well. Grieving, they say, about his son."

Valmai blushed, and Mrs. Hughes was pleased with her success.

"When will he be back, d' you think?"

"Not till evening, I'm afraid. But there's Mr. Franc