st-office, his hat tied firmly on, his
hands buried deep in his pockets, and his long, black cloak flapping
behind him. He walked on bravely. Every day he tramped over the sandy
beach, under the cliffs, and down the village street to the
post-office; this was quite a change in his habits, which drew many
comments from the gossiping villagers.

"Well, well; he might have been kinder to his son when he had him with
him; he'll never have the chance again," said Peggi "bakkare," peering
through her tiny, foam-flecked window.

"No," said Madlen, who had come in for a loaf; "having got safe away
'tisn't likely the young man will turn up here again, and small blame
to him considering everything."

"No, indeed, Madlen fach; serve the old Vicare right; but 'tis a pity
for the poor girl, whatever."

"And where is she, I wonder?"

"Well, now," said Madlen, "Mary, my sister, was coming home from Caer
Madoc last week, and on the roadside there was a tent of gypshwns; it
was dark and they had a fire, and there, sitting by the fire, was a
girl the very picture of Valmai."

"Dir anwl! I daresay it was her, indeed; but yet, I thought she was
too much of a lady to join the gypshwns. Well, well; strange things do
happen."

And the story of Valmai having been seen in the tent of the gypshwns
was spread abroad in the village, not that any one believed it, but it
was, at all events, better than no news, and was a little spicy
condiment in the daily fare of gossip.

"My papers," said the "Vicare du" laconically to the postmaster. "Is
your wife better?"

"Iss thank you, sir, and here is a letter for you--from Australia, I
think."

The Vicar took it without any show of feeling, though his heart had
given a sudden bound at the postman's news.

"Stormy day," he said, as he passed out of the narrow doorway.

He was longing to get home, but he would not hurry his step. He
stopped and looked impatiently as he heard the postman call after him.

"There is another letter from Australia, sir, but I dunno where was I
to send it. Here it is, sir." And he touched his hat apologetically
as he handed a second letter to him.

"Yes; my son's handwriting, I see. I will take charge of it."

He gasped for breath, though the postman saw no sign of emotion, and,
as he bent his head against the wind, he read the address on the second
letter.

"Mrs. Caradoc Wynne,
c/o Rev. Meurig Wynne,
Brynderyn,
Abersethin,