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. Suddenly she caught sight of Valmai, who was making a difficult
progress through the soft uneven sand, and a look of surprise and
pleasure came over her face.

"Oh, dear heart, is it you, indeed, come to see old Nance, and on such
a day? Come in, sweetheart, out of the storm."

"The storm indeed," said Valmai, in Welsh as pure as Nance's own, as
the old woman drew her in to the cottage and closed the door. "Why,
you know nothing about it on this side of the island, nothing of what
it is in the village. The boats have all been drawn up close to the
road, and the waves are dancing and prancing on the beach, I can tell
you."