the day's work was over, unable to restrain his curiosity and
impatience any longer, he determined to take a closer survey of the old
house on the hill, which for so many years he had seen with his outward
eyes, though his inner perception had never taken account of it. At
last, crossing the beach, he took his way up the steep path that led to
Dinas. As he rounded a little clump of stunted pine trees he came in
sight of the house, grey, gaunt, and bare, not old enough to be
picturesque, but too old to look neat and comfortable, on that
wind-swept, storm-beaten cliff. Its grey walls, marked with patches of
damp and lichen, looked like a tear-stained face, out of which the two
upstairs windows stared like mournful eyes. Downstairs, in one room,
there was a little sign of comfort and adornment; crimson curtains hung
at the window, inside which a few flowers grew in pots. Keeping well
under the hedge of elders which surrounded the cwrt or front garden,
Cardo passed round to the side--the pine end, as it is called in
Wales--and here a little lattice window stood open. It faced the
south, and away from the sea a white rose tree had ventured to stretch
out its straggling branches. They had evidently lately been drawn by
some loving hand towards the little window. A muslin curtain fluttered
in the evening breeze, on which came the sound of a voice. Cardo knew
it at once. It was Valmai singing at her work, and he longed to break
through the elder bushes and call her attention. He was so near that
he could even hear the words of her song, softly as they were sung.
She was interrupted by a querulous voice.

"Valmai," it said in Welsh, "have you written that?"

"Oh! long ago, uncle. I am waiting for the next line."

"Here it is then, child, and well worth waiting for;" and, with