For the next few days the turnips and mangolds seemed even more
interesting than usual to Cardo Wynne. He was up with the lark, and
striding from furrow to furrow in company with Dye and Ebben, returning
to a hurried breakfast, and out again on the breezy hillside before the
blue smoke had begun to curl up from the thatched chimneys which marked
the cluster of cottages called "Abersethin."

Down there, under the cliffs, the little village slumbered, the rising
sun just beginning to touch its whitewashed walls with gold, while up
above, on the high lands, the "Vicare du's" fields were already bathed
in the morning sunlight.

As he crossed from ridge to ridge and from furrow to furrow Cardo's
thoughts continually flew across the valley to the rugged hill on the
other side, and to the old grey house on the cliff--the home of Essec
Powell, the preacher. In vain he sought for any sign of the girl whose
acquaintance he had made so unexpectedly, and he was almost tempted to
believe that she was no other than a creature of his own imagination,
born of the witching moonlight hour, and absorbed again into the
passing shadows of night. But could he have seen through the walls of
that old grey house, even now at that early hour, he would have
understood what kept the preacher's niece so busily engaged that
neither on the shore nor on the banks of the Berwen was there a sign of
her.

In the cool dairy at Dinas, and in and out of the rambling old kitchen,
she was busy with her preparations for the guests who would fill the
house during the Sassiwn. She bustled about, with Marged Hughes in
attendance, looking very different, but every bit as charming, in her
neat farm dress as she had on her visit to Caer Madoc. The sleeves of