He was longing to find out who his fellow-traveller was. He saw in the
dim light she was slim and fair, and had a wealth of golden hair; he
saw her dress was grey and her hood was red. So much the moonlight
revealed, but further than this he could not discover, and politeness
forbade his asking. As if in answer to his thoughts, however, her next
words enlightened him.

"I am Valmai Powell, the niece of Essec Powell, the preacher."

A long, low whistle escaped from the young man's lips.

"By Jove!" he said.

The girl was silent, but could he have seen the hot blush which spread
over her face and neck, he would have known that he had roused the
quick Welsh temper. He was unconscious of it, however, and strode on
in silence, until they reached a rough-built, moss-grown bridge, and
here they both stopped as if by mutual consent. Leaning their elbows
on the mossy stone wall, they looked down to the depths below, where
the little river Berwen babbled and whispered on its way to the sea.

"There's a nice noise it is making down there," said Valmai. "But why
do you say a bad word when I tell you my uncle's name?"

"A bad word? In your presence? Not for the world! But I could not
help thinking how shocked my father and your uncle would be to see us
walking together."

"Yes, I think, indeed," said the girl, opening a little basket and
spreading its contents on the low wall. "See!" she said, in almost