Betto looked after him with uplifted hands and eyes.

"Well, indeed! there never was such a boy! always in some mischief; but
that's how boys are!"

Cardo went out whistling, up the long meadow to the barren corner,
where the furze bushes and wild thyme and harebells still held their
own against the plough and harrow; and here, sitting in deep thought,
and still whistling in a low tone, he held a long consultation with
himself.

"No! I will never try again!" he said at last, as he rose and took his
way to another part of the farm.

In the afternoon he entered his father's study, looking, in his manly
strength, and with his bright, keen eyes, out of keeping with this
dusty, faded room. His very clothes were redolent of the breezy
mountain-side.

Meurig Wynne still pored over apparently the self-same books which he
was studying when we first saw him.

"Sit down, Cardo," he said, as his son entered; "I have a good deal to
say to you. First, this letter," and he hunted about amongst his
papers. "It is from an old friend of mine, Rowland Ellis of Plas
Gwynant. You know I hear from him occasionally--quite often enough.
It is waste of stamps, waste of energy, and waste of time to write when
you have nothing special to say. But he has something to say to-day.
He has a son, a poor, weak fellow I have heard, as far as outward