of their songs she could sing, and please them by singing to them. They
were not suspicious of her; at least, their women had open doors for her;
the men, if shy, were civil. She had only to go below, she was greeted
in the quick tones of their speech all along the street of the slate-
roofs.

But none loved the castle, and she as little, saving the one room in it
where her boy lay. The grey of Welsh history knew a real castle beside
the roaring brook frequently a torrent. This was an eighteenth century
castellated habitation on the verge of a small wood midway up the height,
and it required a survey of numberless happy recollections to illumine
its walls or drape its chambers. The permanently lighted hearth of a
dear home, as in that forsaken unfavoured old white house of the wooded
Austrian crags, it had not. Rather it seemed a place waiting for an ill
deed to be done in it and stop all lighting of hearths thereafter.

Out on the turf of the shaven hills, her springy step dispersed any misty
fancies. Her short-winged hive set to work in her head as usual,
building scaffoldings of great things to be done by Chillon, present
evils escaped. The rolling big bade hills with the riding clouds excited
her as she mounted, and she was a figure of gladness on the ridge bending
over to hospitable Plas Llwyn, where the Wythans lived, entertaining rich
and poor alike.

They had led the neighbourhood to call on the discarded Countess of
Fleetwood.

A warm strain of arms about her neck was Carinthia's welcome from Mrs.
Wythan lying along the couch in her boudoir; an established invalid, who
yearned sanely to life, and caught a spark of it from the guest eyed