into the green depths of the valley. There was a
pleased look on his face and a gleam in his black eyes, which Valmai
saw, and which made her heart beat faster and her cheek flush a more
rosy red, but she shrank further back into the shade of the hazel bush,
and only peeped out again when she heard by the horse's hoofs that his
rider was remounting; then she ventured over the stile and looked at
the retreating figure, with his broad shoulders, his firm seat, and his
steady hand on his bridle as he galloped out of sight. A flood of
happiness filled her heart as she re-crossed the stile and began her
way again down the shady path.

What mattered it that at every moment the wind rose higher, and the
branches creaked and groaned above her? What mattered it that the
birds were silent, and that the roar of the sea reached further than
usual into the nut wood? She would go home and eat her frugal dinner
of brown bread and bwdran,[1] and then she would set off to Ynysoer to
spend a few hours with Nance Owen, who had nursed her as a baby before
her parents had left Wales. In spite of the increasing storm she
reached the beach, and turned her face towards Ynysoer, a small island
or rather a promontory, which stretched out from the shore. At low
tide a reef of rocks, generally known as the Rock Bridge, connected it
with the mainland, but at high tide the reef was completely under
water, the sea rushing in foaming breakers over it as if chafing at the
restraint to its wild freedom.

Had Valmai been better acquainted with the coast, she would not have
dared to cross the bridge in the face of the storm which was every
moment increasing in violence. The tide was down, and the rocks were
bare, and the high wind helped to hurry her over the pools and craggy
points. Gathering her red cloak tightly around her she made her way
safely over to the island, which was a frequent resort of hers, as here
she found the warm love and welcome for which her heart craved, and
which was so sorely missing in her uncle's house.

Amongst the sandy dunes and tussocks were scattered a few lonely
cottages, in one of which Nance lived her uneventful life; its
smoke-browned thatch looked little different from the rushes and coarse
grass which surrounded it, for tufts of grass and moss grew on the roof
also, and Nance's goat was frequently to be seen browsing on the
house-top. At the open door stood Nance herself, looking out at the
storm. Suddenl