d evidently lately been drawn by
some loving hand towards the little window. A muslin curtain fluttered
in the evening breeze, on which came the sound of a voice. Cardo knew
it at once. It was Valmai singing at her work, and he longed to break
through the elder bushes and call her attention. He was so near that
he could even hear the words of her song, softly as they were sung.
She was interrupted by a querulous voice.

"Valmai," it said in Welsh, "have you written that?"

"Oh! long ago, uncle. I am waiting for the next line."

"Here it is then, child, and well worth waiting for;" and, with
outstretched arm marking the cadence of its rhythm, he read aloud from
a book of old poems. "There's poetry for you, girl! There's a
description of Nature! Where will you find such real poetry amongst
modern bards? No, no! the bards are dead, Valmai!"

"Well, I don't know much about it, uncle; but isn't it a modern bard
who writes:

"'Come and see the misty mountains
In their grey and purple sheen,
When they blush to see the sunrise
Like a maiden of thirteen!'"

That seems very pretty, whatever."

"Very pretty," growled the man's voice, "very pretty; of course it
is--very pretty! That's just it; but that's all, Valmai. Pwff! you
have put me out with your 'blushing maiden' and your 'purple sheen.'
Let us shut up Taliesin and come to 'Drych y Pryf Oesoedd.' Now, you
begin at the fifth chapter."

There was a little sigh, which Cardo heard distinctly, and then the
sweet voice began and continued to read until the sun sank low in the
west.

"It's getting too dark, uncle. Will I go and see if the cakes are
done?"

"No, no!" said the old man, "Gwen will look after the cakes; you light
the candle, and come on with the book."

How Cardo longed to spring in through the lattice window, to fling the
old books away, and to draw the reader out into the gold and purple
sunset--out over the breezy cliffs, and down to the golden sands; but
the strong bonds of circumstances held him back.

The candle was lighted, and now he could see into the room. Old Essec
Powell sat beside the table with one leg thrown over the other, hands
clasped, and chin in the air, lost in the deep interest of the book
which his niece was reading.

"He looks good for two hours longer," thought Cardo, as he saw the old
man's far-away look.

There was a little tone of weariness in her voice as, seating herself
at the table by the op