on, or rather sermons,
for there had been two, her heart bounded with a sense of relief; joy
and happiness were its natural elements, and she returned to them as an
innocent child rushes to its mother's arms.

Leaving the thronged road, she took the rugged path down the hillside,
alone under the stars, and remembering Cardo's question, "Will you come
home by the shore?" she wondered whether he was anywhere near! As she
reached the bottom of the cliff and trod on the firm, hard sand below,
she saw him standing in the shadow of a rock, and gazing out at the sea
over which the moon made a pathway of silver.

The fishing boats from Ynysoer were out like moths upon the water.
They glided from the darkness across that path of light and away again
into the unknown. On one a light was burning.

"That is the _Butterfly_," thought Valmai, "I am beginning to know them
all; and there is Cardo Wynne!" and with a spirit of mischief gleaming
in her eyes and dimpling her face, she approached him quietly, her
light footstep making no sound on the sand.

She was close behind him and he had not turned round, but still stood
with folded arms looking out over the moonlit scene. Having reached
this point, Valmai's fun suddenly deserted her. What should she do
next? should she touch him? No! Should she speak to him? Yes; but
what should she say? Cardo! No! and a faint blush overspread her
face. A mysterious newborn shyness came over her, and it was quite a
nervous, trembling voice that at last said:

"Mr. Wynne?"

Cardo turned round quickly.

"Valmai! Miss Powell!" he said, "how silently you came upon me! I was
dreaming. Come and stand here. Is not that scene one to make a poet
of the most prosaic man?"

"Yes, indeed," answered the girl, standing beside him with a strangely
beating heart, "it is beautiful! I saw the sky through the chapel
window, and I was thinking it would be very nice down here. There's
bright and clear the moon is!"

They were walking now across the beach, at the edge of the surf.

"It reminds me of something I read out to uncle last night. It was out
of one of his old Welsh poets--Taliesin, or Davydd ap Gwilym, or
somebody. It was about the moon, but indeed I don't know if I can put
it into English."

"Try," said Cardo.

"'She comes from out the fold
And leads her starry flock among the fields of night.'"

"Yes, that is beautiful," said Cardo. "Indeed, I am glad you find
somethin