"Quite well; gone to Pen Morien, and not coming home till to-morrow;
but tell me now, Nance fâch, of all that happened so long ago--when I
was born."

"Not so long ago for me, dear heart, as for you. It is a whole
life-time for you, but for me--" and the faded blue eyes filled with
tears, and the wrinkled lips trembled a little as she recalled the
past--"for me! I had lived my life before you were born. My husband
was dead, my boy drowned, and my little Mari, the last and brightest,
had suddenly withered and died before my eyes--a fever they say,
perhaps it was indeed; but the sun has never shone so brightly,
whatever, since then; the flowers are not so sweet--they remind me of
my child's grave; the sea does not look the same--it reminds me of my
boy!" and she rocked herself backwards and forwards for some time,
while Valmai stroked with tender white fingers the hard, wrinkled hand
which rested on her lap. "Well, indeed," said the old woman at last,
"there's enough of my sorrows; let us get on to the happy time when
your little life began, you and your twin sister. When you were washed
and dressed and laid sleeping together in the same cradle, no one could
tell which was which; but dir anwl! who cared for that? too much joy
was in our hearts that your dear mother was safe. No one at least,
except the grand English lady who was lodging there at your
grandfather's house. Her husband was dead, and she was very rich, but
she had no children; and when she heard your mother had twins, she
begged of us to let her have one for her very own, and she was like
thorns to us because we could not tell for sure which was the oldest."

"Well, go on, Nance," said Valmai, as the old woman stopped to rake the
peat embers together.