Owain Seithenyn.

——◆⟡◆——

BOOK I.
THE TRACKLESS SANDS.

——◆⟡◆——

INTRODUCTION.

IN an old chest of drawers in an old house, long since in ruins, I found one day a dingy pile of papers fastened together loosely by a faded green ribbon. Time had almost washed its hue away, but here and there remained a trace of its once bright colour.

       It was with a sad smile that I untied the band, and let the torn dusty manuscript see once more the light of day. How long, how long ago was it, that it had been thrown aside and forgotten? How long ago since the hand that had traced these curious characters had become motionless and cold? A ray of sunshine kissed the well-worn leaves, as if paying a tribute to the nameless dead; to me there was something terrible, awful in the thought that the skeleton of a life lay here, breathing out its passions, its hopes, its doubts, its fears, long, long after passions, hopes, doubts, and fears are of no avail. Good God! What a mockery it seemed of life itself! Oh, the tears, the sighs, the joys contained within its pages! the record of a life which is now so silent, so mysteriously, so sublimely silent! So silent as to make me silent too, for my thoughts can find no utterance.

       Written in the language of the Cymri, it took me some time to decipher; but when I had at last done so, I determined on a bold plan, a plan which I was conscious would meet with no success, a plan which might possibly entail ridicule, but youth is brave, and thus I sat down to translate into English, indifferent English perhaps, the old manuscript.

       The translation I have set down in these pages; for the story I claim no especial merit, but I trust that there may be some who will be touched by the writer's sufferings, his odd humours, strange fancies, and more, will profit by its many lessons, for it has many.

       My task, as you will readily believe, has been no light one, and has occasioned me many an hour of uneasiness and perplexity; here and there I came upon a word for which the English language possesses no equivalent, whilst sometimes I have been so troubled about whole passages that I was inclined to give up my self-imposed task, and destroy what I had done; but I persevered and am now thankful I did so, for in return I have gained a thorough knowledge of the Cymro and his literature; since, in order to rightly translate these pages, it became necessary for me to spend much time in libraries, and ponder over many dictionaries; and besides this, I have gained a friend in Owain. He is to me a foster-brother, and I ask you who know him, to pardon his faults and remember his mental anguish, and his gloomy nature, which were fed by the scenes and circumstances with which he was surrounded.

       Gwilym is to me only a little less than he was to Owain; of the other characters in this book I shall not speak, leaving them to speak for themselves.

       Whether the name Owain Seithenyn is a real or a bardic title I cannot undertake to say, though I am inclined to the latter belief; the manuscript itself had no title, therefore I cannot believe it would be well for me to give it one, so I have simply called it by the name of its author, OWAIN SEITHENYN.

TO GWILYM.

       Friend! To thy loving memory, thy tender friendship, thy ever-gentle counsel and wise instructions I dedicate the simple record of my life — to read it now is beyond thy power, though angels may weep over the sins, and be glad at the repentance of those whom they love.

       The dead, men say, have lost their influence, their power to guide, but Gwilym, it is not true, this is not what I have felt. In life I have often mourned thy absence, now thou art ever with me. Oh! be with me still; stretch forth thine hand, and although it is dark I can grasp it; look upon my face, and though it is twilight I can see it there; speak, and though all is hushed I can hear.

       What means gloom to souls that blend? What means death to hearts that love? What means silence to lips that speak in a language of their own? Gwilym! If there be many beacon lights in this world, but one fell to my share, and that heaven claimed! God gives us few lights, and those He does give us He removes; yes, all but sorrow! but shall I repine? Now, yea, now-when it is so late . . . and all is growing dark . . . . . . .

---

CHAPTER I.
THE GREAT PILGRIMAGE IS BEGUN.

What shall men obtain of the world, And pomp of land and riches, But a fathom of grave to lie in, and one Small shroud in all? — JOHN KENTCHURCH.

       OWAIN SEITHENYN — that is the name which for eighty long years I have borne, that is the name which I shall bear till my spirit hath winged its flight to the unseen land. A little while hence and some indifferent hand will carve those two words on the stone that marks my lonely resting place, two words for a stranger's eye to trace, and may be for a stranger's sigh to breathe on.

       Alone shall that tomb, those letters, bear record of my life, alone shall they tell that he who so silently sleeps beneath the sod lived out his dream of hope of doubts, and tears — the dream which vanished when his soul awoke and left him sleeping here.

       Hope is thought to be rather the support of youth than the staff of old age, but with me hope has come with sunset. In my earlier days I looked out upon a sad prospect; misty because of my own tears. But now, a belief in the rest, the peace to come has filled my being with a new joy and awakened my slumbering soul to light.

       How many names must yet be read from the great roll-call before mine shall be reached, before my lips must answer "here"?

       The calm of death is wafted to me across the boundless ocean of eternity, and soon, yea, very soon all but my name shall be no more, and time, perchance may enviously remove that: I see, even now, the lichen covered stone, the inscription dimmed alike by sun and rain, the grassy mound, the overgrown path, and the graves stretching around; but, gentle friend, I would fain lead thee from the last scene of the human drama to the first — from the last cold silence to the first fresh awakening!

       Long past are the years of which my recollection now is faint, when I was a child — yes, a child, hard as it is to believe; and it is very hard, so hard that looking at myself now, infirm and lined, I have to keep saying over and over again to convince myself of its truth, "Owain, you were once young" — and even then on the threshold of life the shadow of an ever-growing pain swept across my path, blotting out the sunshine nature lovingly sends to all in the green springtime of existence. Even then I measured step by step, hour by hour, the wide margin that divides the suffering from the happy, learning the lesson misery alone can teach, that we may laugh with many, but must weep alone. Oh, God! it was sad to understand so early the great loneliness that comes with sorrow, the awful solitude that encourages despair.

       For me, the end of winter draweth nigh, and no man's eye may see the greenness and freshness of more than one spring. When next its beauty dawns over the ridge of snowy winter, when next its fairness startles nature into a smile, the old man who speaks to you from out the past shall have passed away with the winter's snow.

       I can scarcely dare to hope that other eyes than mine will trace these lines written by one so feeble, so unknown, but if they should, let them remember that I wrote it only to teach the lesson, that in seeking to lighten our own burdens we but add to their weight, but that in the consolation of others we lose the cross and gain the crown.

       Friend! From my earliest infancy I have been deformed. Whatever is odd or rare attracts, even whilst it repels. There are those, I believe, whose sympathy or curiosity leads them to be interested in the lives of such as I — to such, then, I address myself.

       "Deformed people," writes Bacon, "are commonly even with nature, for as nature has done ill by them, so they do ill by nature." The philosopher may be right, but whether he be or not, to my mind deformity needs no vindication; itself should be its only plea. After all it signifies little whether we be as physically perfect as Hercules, or as renowned as Charlemagne: "Death comes to all alike." Sparing neither sweetness nor worth, weakness nor strength, ever and anon he follows, gaining vigour from our drooping energies, power from our faltering steps; strongest when we are weakest, mightiest when we fall, hourly he steals the roses from our cheeks, the vigour from our minds, yet so gradually, so imperceptibly that we are long unconscious of the theft.

       Death is not a noisy conqueror, but silent, he enforces silence.

       In my youth I often lamented that I had been born deformed, for there is nothing hallowing, nothing softening about deformity, and my vivid imagination loved to dwell on heroes otherwise afflicted, heroes whose sorrows made them nobler and mightier. But now I have ceased to repine as I realise that mental strength is as far above physical force as the soul is above the body; beauty has only influence when present, genius is ever potent.

       Beyond the purple range of the Breconshire hills is the great world, but into its arena I have never plunged; in my own wild land in which I was born I have lived, and, please God, I will die in it. Here amid my country's chain of dusky hills; here, in my beloved country, with its gloomy ascents and lowly dells, with its sweeping bays and old baronial castles, with its legend-strewn earth and rugged coast; and my country has contented me. I have never prayed, never asked to go beyond the hills into that mysterious noisy battlefield men call the world. And now, now, when I am so old, so weary, so lonely, I still trust to fall asleep in sight of those purple peaks, whose heights first led my thoughts heavenward. The wild weird verses of the bards, David ap Gwilym, Taliesin, and Aneurin, the old-world romance of the "Greal," and the Mabinogion, were the literature whose poetry and romance made meat times forget that I was an ugly and deformed creature, hateful in the sight of nature.

       My friends were the mountains; even now, standing on the narrow edge of this world, I love them as of yore with the same devotion, the same earnest affection; I love them — the shadowy hills, whose violet hue the on­coming night does but deepen, the changless hills over whose peaks the waning day glides into night, over whose lofty brows the glancing sunbeams war till they fall prostrate, a trailing veil of burnished gold; the patient noble hills, over whose summits the chaste moonbeams descend in a winding net of frosty silver; the gloomy hills, which through all the long long centuries have defied the pallor, the infirmity of age; the cold, indifferent hills which have stood untainted by the passing touch of each fading year, undaunted by the storms of endless generations, unmoved by the wintry blasts that shake the relentless heavens; the steadfast calm hills, stretching into infinite space, whose pride no man can humble, whose crests no man can lower; the silent hills, which in silence more impressive, more eloquent than words, speak of that mighty Hand whose monuments they are.

       Peradventure one day this history may fall into the hands of you to whom I speak, My brother, remember even while you condemn to pity; even while you reprove to pardon; remember that once like yours, the hand that traced these lines was strong and firm, and the eyes that bent over these pages were once keen and bright. But now, neither sympathy nor reproof can affect the writer, nature will deck his grave as beautifully as though he had been other than he was; the daisies will grow over him as thickly as though they shaded the tomb of an Emperor, the sunlight will play over his sepulchre as though a hero rested beneath, and the dark shades of coming night cast its shadows over him as though he lay asleep at home.

       "My life." How much to us, how little to others lie in those two words, for who so humble as to imagine the time when he shall be forgotten?

       Alas, for our egotism! The majority of our lives are as beads strung together on one great necklace; it is the vast number of the beads which makes each taken separately so insignificant, yet each one is necessary to complete the whole.

       May God grant that when Owain Seithenyn sleeps someone will grow wiser and better by the perusal of his simple history.

       There are those who can paint a picture with only a few loose petals as the model, and others who can compose a poem with a fallen tear for the subject, or write a history of the meanest poorest life; this power, gentle friend, I lack. Oh! could I but teach other climes about my beloved country; could I but make them understand that the small tract beyond the Severn has its poets, its scholars, its heroes; could I but point out to its conquerors that their highest aim should be to conciliate those whom by superiority of numbers alone they have conquered, then surely I have not lived in vain!

       Whether from listening to Ursula, or having so often mused about it myself and all connected with it, the day when my young feet began to tread life's stormy road seems strangely familiar to me. Let me picture it to you as I love to picture it to myself; a calm summer evening, the mountains stretching a long azure line against the red heavens still warm with the parting caress of the sun, the twilight gently falling over the darkening earth, and the first star whispering, "It is lonely"; the broad-opened leaves, the distant mead all fresh with dewy splendour, all nature shining with its silver sheen; at so peaceful an hour, into so beautiful a world, 'twixt the shadows of dying day, the shades of approaching night, I came at the hour when the weary labourer, forgetful of this day's toil, sets his peace as high as heaven; at the hour when children at their mother's knee lisp the evening prayer; the hour when our beloved dead draw nigh us once again and breathe out in the darkness the silent past; the hour when the noisy reveller grows sober, and the blasphemer feels the greatness of the God he scoffs at (Oh! calm blest moments! when we stand at the portals of the night and watch the shadows creep over the grave of the day), dying lips pressed mine, dying eyes gazed upon my infant features, with the loving recognition of motherhood, dying hands grasped my baby-form as if to bear me away with them. Oh mother, mother! if you had let me perish in my innocence and youth, as still smiling faintly upon me, your child, you died, it would have been better!

       Thus I awoke to consciousness — my father regarding me as the destroyer of his dearest — nay, only treasure.

       It was ever our wont just towards the close of the day to gather round Ursula, and listen to legends of beautiful princesses, malicious hob-goblins, and malignant dwarfs, and often in the loud frank whisper of childhood I would hear the children murmur, "Like Owain, was he not, Nursie?" Then I scarcely heeded it, for it was pleasant to be a hero though a terrible one in their childish minds. In those early days they called me, "Mygnach Cor," a name well-versed in the stories of our country, well famed in Welsh lore. How it pleased me then to be named after one so brave and yet so small, but in the midst of my pride reason's harsh voice bade me be sad, and remember that no one would ever shrink from my hatred, or court my affection. Can you wonder that I love the dark vales, the lonely mountain side? Standing in the playground of nature, drinking in her beauties, worshipping her splendid magnificence, I was no longer the sullen child, who responded to neither taunt nor kind caress, no, it was then that my own individuality sank, and I became now, fierce Cidwim, pausing to relate his exploits on the frowning brow of Mount Mynydd; then Rhys Goch O'Ryri, the mountain-bard, flying from the Saxon's vengeance which he had excited by arousing his countrymen to rebellion; or sometimes Rhys ab Tewdwr, the staunch old warrior of Dinefwr, meeting without a sigh, without a tear, death on the dusky hills; or yet again Einion Llyglew pouring forth in all the strength of his love a passionate ode to fair Myffanwy enclosed within the grey grim walls of Dinas Bran.

       On the silent hills, by the throbbing river, in the wide ancient corridors, in the grey twilight, in the golden rush of noon, in the shadowy day, in the gloomy moonlight, a little deformed creature might sometimes be seen, with flashing eyes and animated features recalling the poetry of his country.

       There was no ivy-hung casement, no rusty sword, no silent harp, no dim cloister that did not arouse my patriotism, till in my bewildered senses I would pause and listen to the uplifted voices of the bards cursing Edward as they died, or count the martial tread of many feet marching onward to victory or defeat. In such a land, not known by the happy, not dreamt of by the prosaic, I scarcely felt the isolation that surrounds the afflicted, an isolation which is the outcome of suffering.

       We lived penuriously, father, Gwladys, and I, and Ivor, our cousin who almost lived with us. He was an orphan, and whilst we were so poor, he was rich, and would one day be master of a large estate. The stern lesson of poverty was taught practically at Bodelwyddan, its depressing features were ever present before our childish eyes; the old home was almost in ruins, indeed some of the chambers in the east wing were totally unfit for use, the sombre furniture reminded one of a departed day, the pictures lining the long gloomy walls of the galleries were dim and dusty, the tall narrow casements were rendered yet darker by the thick leaves and trailing creepers that outlined them, the heavy folds of the ancient curtains were thick with dust, and the dreary corridors were destitute alike of cloth or carpet; from out the many crevices and ledges peeped tufts of moss and clusters of ferns whose leaves the midnight owl, the prying bat loved to rustle; the grey steps were soiled with the constant dripping of the evergreen ivy that clung so steadfastly to the weather-stained walls; rank grass indulged weeds, licensed by the great licenser Time, choked the desolate gardens, green uneven patches grew up to the very portals, the wide neglected 'park afforded a resting place to every wandering animal, little squirrels leapt from bough to bough, and played at hide and seek amid the uncultivated shrubs. The kingly oak, the weeping willow, the beech grew so high that they seemed to touch the sky, gnarled roots and fallen trunks lined the shady pathways, stones decked with moss buried one another in hopeless confusion, primroses, snowdrops, bluebells and buttercups jostled each other in a brave struggle for existence, the golden laburnum, the blushing may, the flowery horse-chestnut, the purple lilac waved their fair rich tresses in self-conscious pride; and, amid it all we grew up, until each grass-worn path became a spot endeared by affection and memory.

       My father was what the world calls a misanthrope, the charitable, a broken-hearted man; to us, his children, he was ever grave and undemonstrative. Spending hours in his study, or bent on long solitary rambles, it was indeed but rarely we saw his face or heard his voice.

       The heavy gates on their rusty hinges swung back to admit no friend within its tangled wilderness save the minister and physician who came to dinner once or twice a year — the remembrance of these repasts is still fresh in my memory. I see once more the round and smiling countenance of Dr. Hughes, his tall and portly form bending down to shake me so kindly by the hand, uttering as he did so his never-failing speech, "If all my patients," regarding us three with a glance intended to be severe, "were as seldom ill as you, my little friends, how poor I should be." Nor is the spare form of the minister less distinct or his words less well remembered. "Children," he would say, "never attempt to satisfy self, for the more you obey its dictates the more it commands." As the years went on experience taught us the good man's meaning, whilst wisdom confirmed its truth. Few indeed were the times when my father's cheek pressed mine, rare the occasions when he called me an endearing name, seldom the moments when his grim lips relaxed into a smile or his eyes brightened. The morn it was my birthday I remember well how joyously I ran to meet him with arms outstretched and happy beaming face. I remember, too, how he stooped and kissed me, how the iciness of his touch, the coldness of his lips chilled my young heart, and left me sad and dispirited. Father," I cried with a sudden rush of tears, "kiss me as if you loved me!"

       Yet if my father withheld his love from me, I do not think in those days that I loved anyone except my companions who spoke to me only in the moaning of the wind or the sighing of the trees, whose forms only dwelt in the deep caverns of imagination and memory; but even as I trace these lines the mountains rise before me and something seems to whisper "Owain, do not forget us." No, dear friends of my youth, sympathisers with my joys and pains alike, I will not forget you in this world, and in the next,-still shall you be remembered in that great beyond.

       In the silver moonlight, in the silent starlight, in the evening's flush, and the cloudy mists once more I will come and gaze upon your heights. Ursula, my old nurse, was very kind, but her intense compassion for my sufferings often irritated me so much that I would fly from her presence to seek relief in loneliness and tears.

       Thus year after year passed away on the soundless wheels of time, and every day the old home grew shabbier and more desolate. Mother's grave was my almanac and milestone, for it showed me how far I had advanced on the ever-changing landscape of the year. Over and over again I watched Spring's light feet chase Winter's lingering steps away, and Summer's golden bloom give way to Autumn's dying splendour. Seldom I neglected to visit my faithful guide, and the times were rare when I forgot to bring some plant or blossom, for "every grave should be a flower-bed"; warm with my kisses I would lay my simple offering on the resting-place of one who in thought alone I had learnt to revere so dearly. "See," I would cry to Ursula, "my flowers need no tears, Heaven supplies them with dew, and for eternal sunshine they have my love."

       One day I arose from planting a primula-root in the rich brown earth which still clung to my hands, and turned to my old nurse, who for some moments had been intently watching me, sobbing quietly as she did so. "Oh, poor dearie!" she kept reiterating, "my poor dear mistress!"

       "Ursula," I cried, "Ursula, why do you weep?"

       In reply she pointed to the tombstone; "Yes, yes," I cried impatiently, a sudden sternness prompting me "I know well that you weep for mother, but why?"

       My reproachful eyes were fixed on her ruddy face, I drew quickly near and caught one of her hands within my own. "Look!" I exclaimed, "look, and tell me what you see? See how everything decays! Yet you weep because one of God's children has gone home." Unconsciously as I spoke my eyes sought the grey peaceful sky which seemed to rebuke the restless tumult of my soul. "Heaven," I proceeded, my tone growing calmer, "is surely a fairer and brighter world than this!"

       "Yes, dearie, yes!" my listener agreed.

       "Here," I went on, "the flowers fade and the panting bosom of the earth thirsts for rain or sighs for sunshine, there the shining streets are watered by the ever-constant stream of love, here the fairest scene conceals some possible danger, there the whole landscape is bounded with the angels' sheltering wings and yet you weep."

       My vehemence had alarmed my nurse who, gazed upon me with startled features and gently tried to lead me away from the scene of my agitation.

       "Ursula," I said, kindly, "you must forgive me if I frightened you, I am always frightening someone, sometimes I frighten myself; you see I am so strange."

       "Oh, dearie, dearie," wept Ursula.

       "Listen, nursie," I said, when I had calmed and quelled her grief somewhat, "and remember when I die, never weep for me."

       After this Ursula seldom came with me to the churchyard so that my constant and oft-repeated visits to the dead were usually paid alone.

       "Pity you, my mother," I would often murmur, gazing up into the starry sky "even now perchance you are kneeling at God's white throne, seeking for my entrance through the golden gates. Mother, mother," I would end with a passionate sob, "oh beg Him to lead me in for I am so sad and lonely here."

       How oft on moonlight nights have I sat and traced the faint outline of angels' forms sailing over the crags of the Beacons, sat and watched their white wings entrapping the wandering moonbeams, then suddenly and proudly shaking them off to let them fall in silver showers on the expectant earth beneath. Often and often when over the mountain's purple height the mist would creep, the faint sweet strains of a distant melody fell on my listening ears, flooding my soul with its plaintive murmurs; even in my slumber it would still play on until I dreamed that the mountains were for ever left behind and that at last I had reached the haven.

       Ursula shook her head and declared it was "my wild imagination" when I told her of the strange things I heard and saw.

       My education was a matter of no trouble either to myself or others, for a time indeed Mr Evyans, my cousin's tutor, whom Ursula deemed "overcrowded," tried to teach me also, but in vain, the mountains would invite me to scramble over their rocky ledges, the river would tempt me to rest on its green banks and angle for the fish leaping in its cool depths, the sunshine would throw its rays on my face and blind my eyes to lessons. So after many futile invasions on my intellect, Mr. Evyans dismissed me with a mild oration that did more justice to his benignity than his eloquence, ending it with a prophetic shake of his head, and "knowledge, my young friend, is the foundation of all happiness."

       Just between the gathering shadows of "declining day" and the soft dews of coming night Gwladys and I would sit and listen half-delighted, half awestruck, as Ursula talked and sang of the mysterious "Afanc" bathing in Conway's babbling tide, of the nine weird sorceresses of "Peredwr," or of the alluring power of the treacherous "Tylwyth" until Gwladys clinging with fear to my arm would implore her to cease, but I would remain motionless, my great childish eyes fixed as though spell-bound on the face of the narrator.

       As I grew older Ursula's stories with her years declined, for time that added to my understanding renewed hers and she became childish. Truly, we climb but to fall, we fight only to succumb — yet while on our journey, from out the thorns and brambles we cull a few chance blossoms whose fragrance not even Time itself can rob us of, whose sweetness even furrowed age cannot destroy.

---

CHAPTER II.
THE GROWTH OF THE THORNS.

       "Its sea coasts and its mountains, its towns on the forest border, its fair landscapes, its dales, its waters, and its valleys, its white sea-mews, its beauteous women."

— WELSH POET ON WALES.      

       IT was a perfect evening, fragrant with the perfume of the errant honeysuckle, melodious with the full voiced carolling of the birds; not long since the flushed heavens had dismissed the golden courtship of proud Phœbus, not long since lost its dying beams had kissed the purple peaks of "Pen-y-Fan" and "Y-Fan-Coen Ddu," and now the world lay half in shadows waiting patiently for the uprising of the stars. Against the background of the cloudless sky, the eaves of the trees leant shivering, whilst over its clear margin the violet outline of the Beacons crept; it was a lovely picture, and nature's infinite peace and subtle influence stole even into my restless breast, and stifled for a while all its discontent and repinings.

       Along the quiet lanes roamed Ursula and I, aimlessly and silent. "Ursula," I cried at length, for the silence had grown oppressive, "dear nurse, take me to see mother and the daisies. Do you think," I said, with childish anxiety, "they are any bigger?" But she gave no response, save a deep sigh.

       "You may cry to-night," I added gently, and even as I spoke I saw that she was weeping. "You have begun already," were my next words, nor could I suppress the contempt her weakness had excited in my mind. For some moments Ursula made no comment, then she turned her wet eyes towards me.

       "Dearie, our tears neither obey our call nor are dismissed at our bidding. Their commander is our heart!"

       "So that when our body aches our tears fall, Nursie; how can that be, for my heart aches ever and yet I seldom weep?" Again my hearer made no comment, but only turned her face aside. "Perhaps," I went on, with a child's unconscious love of reasoning, "to save themselves trouble they never leave my eyes."

       "Perhaps," she assented, softly.

       "In our lives," I began again, after a brief pause, "I think, Ursula, that we weep far more for others, than for ourselves."

       "If we love those others, dearie," my nurse said, simply.

       "You love me, Nursie?"

       "Love you, Master Owain!" then she threw her loving arms around me and drew my head down on her fond bosom, and how inexpressibly sweet, nay precious, it was to me to feel that in the great wide universe one heart was indeed mine. I felt that I could never be lonely again.

       "Nursie," I murmured, when at length we continued our way, "is it because you love me so dearly that you weep for me so much?"

       Reading the answer in my eyes, she replied, hurriedly, "Oh well, dearie, tears are never far distant when we are old."

       "Nursie, Ursula," I cried, passionately, "if we could but change places, do not wonder" — for her eyes were fixed on my face — "but I long to be free, I want so much to be straight, and fair like Ivor, and how can I be either without going home?"

       "I am not so old as all that, Master Owain, for to be counting the days to the grave," reproved my listener almost sharply; and seeing that her pride was wounded, I hastened to turn the conversation.

       "Sing something, Ursula, something sad, not 'Sir Howel and the battleaxe, nor 'Davydd, the bards are coming,' but the 'Captivity of Owain Goch' or the 'Ballad of Morfa.'"

       "I will sing you 'Gwrgenen's Lament for his dead friend,'" my nurse said, who had recovered her natural good humour; "surely that is sad enough."

       Ursula's sweet clear tones fell upon the silent air, and sounded fuller and richer owing to the prevailing solitude. "The death of the ever mild Merwydd wets my cheeks with tears which flow fast and frequently; it is the age of man which causes them, for man is no longer-lived than a shadow."

       "No longer-lived than a shadow," I repeated, wondering. "Ursula, I hope my shadow life will soon pass: yet," I continued, more to myself than to my listener, "sometimes the shadow takes much time in fading, like that of old Tom Matthias." Poor old Tom, he had been in the days of his activity a pedlar who had travelled, as he himself declared, far faster than the coaches — and the roads were "just terrific," he would add; there was no end to Tom's adventures and hair-breadth escapes, no end to his stories of blood-thirsty villains and fierce highwaymen, no end to his tales of rescued ladies, and overturned coaches, of runaway lovers and maddened fathers; hour after hour have I sat and listened, urging him to be yet more explicit.

       Tom was now ninety, yet time's relentless power had but slightly touched his strong frame, or dulled his keen intellect. "When I die it will be because time claims me and won't be outdone," he always said, and it was as if he were right. It was growing somewhat late when we reached the churchyard, and the long shadows lay — as the shadows of our hearts lie — betwixt one mound and the other. "Poor flowers," I cried, as Ursula and I together bent over the daisy strewn grass, "shall I tell you what life may be likened unto? — a reel of cotton, which time unwinds!"

       "Lor! my dear," interposed my listener, reproachfully, "how can you talk so?"

       The red streaks in the sky had passed away, leaving an azure plain, serene and calm; the wind had risen, and the grim yew-tree shading mother's grave, bowed its head as if acknowledging its passing enemy. "Good-night, mother," I whispered, pressing my lips to the cold marble; "if you were but living how lovingly you would give back my kiss, now." I ended with a sudden sob of anguish, "You cannot even feel mine!" The waving grass, the flowers, the trees all seemed to murmur, "Fear not, our whispering lips shall bear its echo to the dead, we will be your messengers"; but with all grief's exactness I rebelled, "Of what use, oh, of what use all the echoes? All the messengers in the wide world cannot bring the flush of life to her pale cheek, or make her silent heart give one throb in answer to my message."

       "Dearie, what are you saying?" queried Ursula with a slight shiver as she peered anxiously into my face, but scarcely had her words fallen on the still night air, when a moan reached our ears; it was the moan of someone in anguish — the moan of a child, rather than of a man — the short convulsive cry of childhood; in vain we listened, naught but the rustling of the wind amongst the trees broke the silence; east, west, north, south, in dismal monotony stretched graves, some distinguished by no mark save waving tufts of grass, others by plain white stones, a few by marble crosses; it was a picture in which only life was strange, only sound rare.

       "It may be our fancy, Master Owain," said my nurse.

       "Our fancy!" I indignantly exclaimed, "you put everything unusual down to fancy. Hush!" for once more, louder than the wanton wind, a moan gradually breaking into a violent sob fell upon my ears, and aroused not only my curiosity, but my pity also. Motioning Ursula to follow I trod the grass-worn pathway, keeping my eyes resolutely bent upon the margin of the tombstones. What is that? On a newly-turned pile of brown earth, close to the heavy gates, there — my searching eyes fell upon the outline of a prostrate childish form. I moved forward more rapidly to where the dark-robed form lay. It was a little girl. On the ground near her lay a straw bonnet and a bunch of wild flowers, culled from the adjacent hedges; at first I feared to arouse her, for when brought face to face with despair, we feel how weak human consolation is, so that, for some moments, I stood gazing mournfully down on the childish creature; a child verily, yet sorrow had not disdained to lay her heavy hand on that young heart. I understood so well what grief and misery meant that my soul went out to the lonely little stranger, as I knelt beside her and captured one of the little hands that touched the cold brown clay. "Let me comfort you," I cried, but, with a quick movement, she turned, her tear-stained face towards me, and gave, as she did so, a short scream of horror.

       "Go away!" she gasped, "you ugly little dwarf, I am quite good."

       A dry sob choked my utterance, and for a moment made speech impossible; was even my sympathy to be repulsed, was I never to know the satisfaction of soothing another's sorrows, or healing another's wound, because I was deformed because God had burdened me with an affliction which He alone had power to take away; why should straight limbs and fair features outweigh the balance of a kind heart? A handsome person is indeed a letter of recommendation; many a gallant would cast his cloak over the mud to win but a smile from beauty's eyes that would scorn to guide an old blind dame across a dangerous pathway — the former deed means chivalry; some call the latter charity.

       "You nasty little creature," exclaimed Ursula, with all a woman's logic, "he's no more ugly than you."

       "Hush," I replied quickly, "you will but add to the terror she feels and cannot disguise." Nor was I wrong, for once more the rosy lips began to tremble, and the dark eyes to fill with tears. "Listen to me," I said, turning my face towards the little stranger who had so unconsciously wounded my spirit; "you see before you one who, without a dwarf's malignity, has alas! his form. O! do not add to his misfortune and because he is ugly deem him inhuman." Young as my listener was my simple appeal seemed to touch her, whilst it confirmed my sincerity and won me her confidence.

       "I believe you," she said, simply.

       "Thank you," was my grateful response; "and now," I added, "you will tell me why you weep."

       "There," she pointed almost savagely to the pile of upturned earth, and allowed a tear to fall on my hand, and as I almost mechanically followed its direction, I thought sadly, "how much of all our human griefs lie there."

       "Is it your mother?" I asked, looking over to where in the darkening shadows my own lay sleeping; but a vigorous shake of her long dark tresses told me that it was not.

       "Father?" Again a silent "no."

       "Friend?" The tearful eyes of the little girl gazed questioningly into mine; then turning impatiently away, she flung herself on the ground sobbing violently — "Alie, Alie, shall we never play together any more?" Feeling it was vain to attempt to calm such passion I waited patiently until the storm of noisy grief had passed, and nature became exhausted, then with all the acquiescence of weakness the tiny sufferer allowed me to pillow her curly head upon my breast.

       "If I were to tell you all about the beautiful country to which Alie has gone, I am sure you would not cry," I said.

       "Who told you she has gone there?" my listener asked. "God?"

       "Yes, God."

       "Did He tell you so Himself?"

       "Yes, just as He tells you and everyone."

       "I am quite sure He has never told me," asserted the child, firmly.

       "He speaks to the heart," I exclaimed. "He is speaking to your heart now,

       telling it not to mourn because one of His little lambs has entered the fold." "That's just what Gwilym said," explained my hearer, eagerly, "day after day he sat by Sissie's side and told her all about the shining river, and the sea that has no waves."

       I made no reply, right before my eyes, a great waveless ocean seemed to stretch.

       "They told me not to weep for Alie," went on the child, "but it is for myself I cry."

       "For yourself," I murmured, dreamily, my glance still fixed on that silent sea-fading, fading away into the gloom.

       "Oh, yes," she answered, "I shall be so lonely, and Alie will not miss me, God has made her an angel now."

       "He will make you one some day," I said.

       "Then, perhaps, I shan't want to be one," she replied, discontentedly. Gwilym says that the older we grow, the more we cling to earth."

       "Because each day death grows more mysterious, and life more real," I thought, as I fell to musing on human motives: we, selfish alike in joy and sorrow, in passion and love, deplore our own loss, forgetting the release of the sufferer, forgetting that our loneliness has gained for them Christ's eternal presence; that though our eyes are dim with tears, theirs are for ever dried; forgetting that our long weary night is the awakening sunshine of their morrow.

       Fearing that silence would allow her thoughts to wander again to the object of her sorrow, I aroused myself with a great effort and inquired in cheerful tone her name. "Nest or Nesta," she replied, "Alie used to call me Nestie." At this allusion to her sister she commenced to weep again.

       "It is a very pretty name," I said, "is it your mother's name?"

       "My mother's name?" the child repeated incredulously, "I did not know she had any other name save mother!"

       Her innocence amused me, and I smiled. Oh, Nesta! what a perfect daughter of the Cymri you were, with your lithe young limbs full of grace and health, your damask cheek and your piercing bright eyes, your passionate soul and fiery nature, quick to take offence yet always ready to forgive.

       We sat on thus till the shadows met the beautiful day, and hid it in its darkening folds, until the silent unseen monarch of the night stole upon the busy world and bade it be armed for the coming blackness; and Nesta told me of their home in the fair Vale of Neath where her father had died, and then of how they had come thither and of her sister's death only two weeks ago. "It is so hard," she concluded tearfully, "that God should love Alie so much better than me."

       "It is not because He loves her better that she is taken from you," I urged, "it is only that God needs your services down here below."

       In the dim light that skirts the margin of coming night we left the quiet churchyard, and our dead, in "yonder cold habitation of the tomb." Hand in hand through the narrow lanes and shadowy roads, brightened here and there by the rising moon, we crept, scarcely disturbing the hush the darkness had created, nor did we pause until we had reached the home of the little stranger; and a beautiful home it was, despite its air of desolation and loneliness, a heavy low building shadowed by many trees, amid which the ash, beech, and fir reigned supreme, and near whose branches the rippling Tarrall ran to join the turbulent Usk; the large porch opened on to a grassy plain where wandered a few deer restrained on the river-side by a long uneven fence, over which the ivy scrambled and the sweet wild roses peered in blushing confusion. Beyond a line of tall elms cast their dark shadows athwart the meadowland where the brown and black cattle rested in the red clover and daisies; down to the edge of the babbling waters the green fields spread skirt- ing the silver margin of the river, whose tide leapt from rocky ledge to ledge, falling in a tiny volume of frothy white over some steep ridge that disdained to let the waters pass without a struggle; here and there hilly pathways arose from a tangled wilderness of ferns whose delicate fronds reared their graceful heads, mingling with the coarser leaves of the bushes, whose growth was in proportion to their uselessness; the rugged carpet of the bracken swept from massive root to root, crushing with its rough grandeur the humbler plants that strove in vain to behold heaven's great broad space; around the gnarled trunks of leafy lime or oak, the soft dew-wetted moss clung, whilst over all the full moon shed its pale cold light, investing the meanest plant with an ethereal beauty, and clothing all the scene with a loveliness as sublime as it was impressive.

       At the low brown gates Nesta paused and waving her hand with an air of possession told me with pride that this was "Llanrhayadr," but as she spoke my eyes had swept over the whole domain, resting on a bent form near where we stood, who was tossing and turning the fresh rich earth; it was the figure of a man, one of the strangest I had ever seen; under his foot the newly raised sods were crushed, and at his side lay a fallen bush. As I gazed, a strange sensation moved me; it was as though I had seen that form before; right over our heads the pale-faced moon was shining, casting a stream of light on the river, and touching the trees with a silvery touch; its mystic light was thrown on the face of the man Nesta greeted as "Gwilym"; and I saw and read his countenance; it at once startled and impressed me; the strongly marked features bore the stamp of calm dignity, the pallor of his cheek afforded no contrast to the whiteness of the broad brow, swept bare of the long grey locks that fell in uneven tresses on his shoulders, the earnest, penetrating eyes glanced from under well-defined eyebrows; a weird, imposing mein marked him, impressing and attracting the onlooker, for in that strange visage I traced universal charity, but not too credulous love; the firm lips had a certain sternness in their resolute curves, the keenness of his eye denoted the firm regard for justice that in a weak nature grows into severity, but on his face no weakness was discernible, every line was expressive of determination and resolution.

       And it was thus, Gwilym, that I saw you first, with the upturned earth at your feet, and the moonlight serving as your torch, its glory all around you, it was thus that I saw you first, Gwilym. How and when shall I behold those beloved features again? In our ears the noisy waters of the Tarrall sounded; when next we meet a calmer and a purer river perchance shall sing its sweet melody, and lull our hearts to a peace as profound as its own.

       "Oh, Gwilym," the child cried eagerly, running towards him, and catching one long thin hand in her tender grasp, "I have seen the grave. I did want to see it," she continued earnestly, "but it was so cold, so lonely." The child shivered as she spoke, and shaded her eyes with her arm as if to shut out the dreariness, the sadness of the tomb. The thought of death is sad to the young, yet when he cuts down the newly sprung flower, he finds a more willing victim, than when he breaths on the plant whose leaves the bitter frost has bitten, whose blossoms age has withered. Is it because the fair young bud has expected more sunshine than it receives, and less of the cold piercing wind which it is learning to dread, and that the old plant has learnt to appreciate the little it gets, and grown callous to the breath of passing storms?

       "I thought," Nesta went on with a suspicion of tears in her voice, "that Alie would be so lonely just at first." Was it my fancy, or did the hand that clutched the spade so firmly shake? Yet Gwilym did not lift his bowed head, but continued his work as though he were trying to be more energetic; his silence did not evidently surprise or alarm the child, who, with the variableness of childhood's humour, changed her tone from its mournful expression to one of genuine concern. "Oh, Gwilym!" she cried, reproachfully, "what have you done to my flowers?" At his side, half hidden by the bush lay a dead fuchsia, a rose-tree, and a geranium, and leaning on his spade the man met her gaze sadly. "They died," he cried, "through your neglect." It was the first time I had heard his voice, and never shall I forget its fulness, it power. Nesta said little, but knelt on the path, and pressed the dead blossom to her heart. "Everything is dead," she wept. "Oh, why is death so cruel?"

       "Good-night, Nesta," I said at length, for I felt that she would be better without me; "do not weep for your flowers I will bring you some much more beautiful to-morrow."

       "But they will not be the same, they will be new," she murmured tearfully, "but Owain dear," she added as though trying to conquer her grief, "good-bye. I like you although you are so ugly." My quick eyes saw the indignant flush mount to my old nurse's face — we feel far more keenly for those we love than for ourselves — and taking her by the arm I led her quickly onwards. "Oh dearie," she burst out passionately, with all love's vehemence, mingled with anger and pity, "remember, come what may, you always have old Ursula to love you."

       "Yes, yes," I replied hastily, for somehow her words wounded me far more than Nesta's "although you are so ugly." Perhaps it was that I was proud, and chafed against the pity that almost sounded like a reproach, or perhaps, unwilling to attribute want of kindness to the speaker's words myself, I grew irritated that another did. "Yes, yes, nursie," I reiterated, as though by repetition to conceal my irritability, and stop her wrath. "I know that you both love and pity me." Try as I did I could not suppress a tinge of bitterness in my last words for who so noble, so great as to smile under the torture of pity, more galling to a proud spirit than the world's condemnation?

       "Indeed, I love you," she sobbed, the strong conviction of truth overpowering her, "nor shall I be afraid to meet your dead mother for I have done my best for her poor child. Oh, Master Owain," with a long sigh, "would she were alive!"

       In praising ourselves, we either grow remorseful or tearful, either being equally distressing to our listener; Ursula was weeping bitterly, merely because she had done her duty and kept her word.

       "Don't wish that," I said sternly; "up there," letting my eyes follow the direction of my thoughts, "there are no hunchbacks." My hearer did not respond, but leaned heavily on my shoulder and buried her face with the woollen shaw that draped her broad shoulders.

       "Nursie," I said, as we drew nigh home, "do you remember what the bard sings? somehow the words keep ringing in my ears to-night and they make me so glad, so happy; Nursie, he must have written them expressly for such as I," but still my companion never spoke, yet knowing by her attentive attitude that she heard, I began again: "I am a sufferer, am I not a sufferer, nursie?" I cried eagerly.

       "Oh dearie, oh dearie, yes!" sobbed my nurse.

       "Do not weep," I said, "the words — they are such beautiful words — should make you happy. Yes," I went on passionately, "they should make you, me, and all the world, long to be sufferers."

       The bent head of my nurse fell forward on her bosom, but no word did she speak — is there any emotion as deep as that which speaks in silence? "I used to think," I continued with the indifference of childhood to a pain that does not cry out, "that I was always to be miserable, but I know now 'tis false, 'tis false." At my passionate tones, Ursula lifted her head, and let her tearful eyes look fondly into my eager face. "When you suffer, nursie," I said, "let these words comfort you as they comfort me now; are you listening?" I inquired, "then turn your face to me. Suffering," I repeated slowly, "is a golden jewel that leads to heaven — Ursula, if those words are true then I am on the road."

(To be continued.)

Owain Seithenyn.

——◆⟡◆——

BOOK I.

——◆⟡◆——

CHAPTER III.
THE GUIDING HAND.

Strike then your harps, ye Cambrian bards; the Song of triumph best rewards a hero's toil. Let Henry weep, His warriors wrapt in everlasting sleep; Success and victory are thine, Owain Glyndyfrdwy divine! — GRUFFYDD.

DEFORMITY, like the lowest vice, is repellent. It offends the eye, like a coarse jest the sensitive ear, yet what is repulsive in man is often interesting in those of the lower creation.

       There were times when the humiliation, the sense of my own affliction almost overpowered me, times when the knowledge of my own deformity almost drove me wild, times when the thought that throughout life I must carry my cross and that each day would but add to its weight was almost insupportable, yet even for me existence had its compensations; I had the mountains, my silent companions, and Gwilym, — yes, from that memorable night when I saw you first in the glistening moonlight, I loved you with all the strength, the passion of my lonely, hungry soul. And what a barren soul it was! how it panted and longed for the light, the fulness of love! At first impressed by Gwilym's presence, day by day revealed to me in its true nobility, its solemn truthfulness, his noble character. I feel almost frightened at the grandeur of that soul, so far above my own; yet as the months went by, although my reverence grew no less, my confidence in him increased, for his was a nature to be both admired and loved. Severe on his own failings, he was ever gentle and forbearing to others' infirmities; prone to examine and judge every thought or action of his own, he shrank from attributing evil motives to his neighbours; he was the last to condemn, the first to pity. The scanty means with which Providence had endowed him were nearly all cheerfully laid aside for his poorer brethren; he did not seek the simplest comforts of life, an indulgence in which his age might justly have excused; his harp alone was his solace and his joy. Often have I found him in the midst of a ragged group whose noisy chatter had ceased in obedience to the sweet melody of his beloved instrument, for it was only by their silence they could show their appreciation, only by the rapt expression of their faces they could praise him. There was seldom a sick or dying bed to which Gwilym was not summoned; there was seldom a marriage or funeral without his presence; there was seldom an unhappy soul that he did not comfort, or a broken heart he did not essay to cheer; he gathered flowers for those who could not go forth into the meadowland, and brought the music of his harp into poor cottages to cheer the young and revive pleasant memories in the old.

       Oh, Gwilym, you have heard the Saviour's voice ere now, and reaped your reward. "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."

       It was Gwilym that lifted my thoughts beyond the narrow limits of this world; it was Gwilym that taught me of how little value is physical beauty compared with the spiritual loveliness of the soul; it was Gwilym who smoothed at last into peace the restless tumult of my mind, and caused flowers to spring where once only weeds had grown; yet it was neither by indignation nor virtuous scorn, but by setting ever before my eyes the path by which the great and noble have ascended to their God. In Petrarch's words, I learnt "that man's applause is but a transient dream," and that the proud, silent submission, the sublime endurance of the Christian is greater, yea, far greater, and more lasting than the fame and riches of this world.

       Again and again I rebelled against the Divine will, and sought to shape my own destiny; blind to the hand that fain would lead me so lovingly, again and again I cried out in my poverty of reason, my wretched vanity, that there was no God, no Heaven, no hell; again and again I defied Providence to do His worst and challenged death to advance; again and again I cried, in my ignorance, that I was free, held in bondage by no creed, trammelled by no ceremonies; again and again I fought the great battle of belief and unbelief, but in all my doubts and fears there was but one that sought to lead me on, who fought valiantly with every obstacle, every shadow that fell between me and that "better part," one whose patience never faltered, whose charity never deserted me, and no matter how often I stumbled or fell was ever nigh to help me rise. It was by the purity of his own actions that he guided me; it was by the grand silence of his example that he delivered me, the wandering sheep, after many years to the Shepherd's tender care.

       It was not only the reality, the truth, the peace of religion that Gwilym taught me, but in each subject that he painted with graphic force, in each picture that he drew, in each incident he related there was always some hidden lesson from which I might learn to escape; and although at first I never arrived at any other conclusion save that the story had interested me, afterwards I discovered that I understood something which I had not before, a something which the future would reveal more plainly.

       Learned as I had hitherto believed myself in the history and language of my own country, Gwilym's knowledge far exceeded my own; nor was it only in the lore of his native land that he was well versed, but the annals of all the great empires, both ancient and modern, were to him thoroughly known.

       A new and unknown world, where philosophy and genius reigned, was gradually thrown open before me; wondering, and like a second Columbus, I knelt humbly down on its threshold and blessed it. The dear old pictures were for a time cast aside as old things are when we have new, and other scenes and other heroes filled my mind; even as I write these words the face of Gwilym rises before me, his features glowing with enthusiasm and inspiration, the gentle, loving smile that had so often cheered me cheering me even now. Once again I listen to the music of the harp on whose strings his fingers would linger so tenderly, awakening its tones in a flood of harmony; but it is memory alone, Gwilym, I see you and hear you — till then — till then —–.

       But in Gwilym, as in the best of mortals, faults were not wanting. In that loving, tender bosom hatred and unforgiveness too often dwelt; but against one race, one people only. I will not defend you, I will only say that though such hatred may lead to bigotry, to harshness, to injustice, it does not to me seem so wrong as if it were directed against an individual who has personally and intentionally injured us; the former may be the offspring of a too intense patriotism, the latter can only arise from a mind bent on revenge.

       For a Saxon Gwilym had no dislike, it was against the Saxon race, and not the individual men of that race, that his prejudices were keen; indeed, I have often heard him enlarge on their many excellent qualities, their valour in war, and it was his constant prayer, his desire, to live long enough to behold the day when the Saxon should stretch out the hand of goodwill and hearty fellowship towards his Celtic brothers; he dreamt of that blessed period, and longed ardently for its advent, when the Welshman could sincerely praise the English, and the English speak well of the Welsh.

       Had Gwilym's hatred been personal, his passion would have disgusted and frightened me; had his been vengeance against a fellow-creature, no longer would he have been a hero in my eyes; had any self-interest centred in his mind, no longer should I have sought relief in his society; had any desire of personal fame actuated him, Gwilym would have become to me one of those would-be patriots whose motto is "Self first, country afterwards." No, it was none of these motives that stirred his breast. He saw or imagined that Wales was surrounded by a sea of isolation, which the indifferent hand of its conqueror never sought to bridge over; he saw it pushed back from prosperity by the chill arm of neglect; saw its traditions despised, its language ridiculed, its national character sullied with accusations the most terrible-those of deceit and untruthfulness; heard its very virtues made to appear vices, its hospitality deemed ostentation, its warmheartedness called fulsomeness, politeness termed treacherousness, and kindness of heart hypocrisy. Wales, I love thee! Do not thy slanderers forget that coldness does not always import truth, that absence of feeling is too frequently called reserve, and that lack of demonstration means too often lack of affection.

       No; Gwilym could not forget the bleeding heroes of his country, could not forgive the arm which had crushed Cambria into dependence, yet had failed to crush the proud independence that her sons so long had fought for. No! in the throbbing hearts of its children Wales was, is, and ever shall be free.

       The ruling power of destiny, the changing hand of fortune, the restless activity of fate bring many a Darius to Alexander's feet, transport many an emperor from the pomp and glory of a throne to the degradation of a prison or the silence and the darkness of the grave. The nation that rules to-day, to-morrow shall obey; yet this lesson, which time is ever teaching, does not lesson the arrogance, the egotism of the conqueror. Oh, ignoble human nature! oh, poor humanity! so easily cast down, so overbearing when lifted aloft!

       It is men's hearts and not dominions which make conquerors of them. Who won the greatest victory, think ye — William I. or St. Paul? Charles Martel or St. Augustine? Porus beheld his kingdom in another's grasp, yet he would not stoop to stay by flattery or entreaty the hand that grasped it. Leonidas saw Xerxes and his countless hosts advancing through the gloom of Thermopylæ, yet he would not fly. Such spirits, unconquered to the last, cannot be conquered — even death fails here.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       As the years went by I became a constant companion, an unwearying playmate of the little girl I had found sobbing on her sister's grave. The budding beauty of childhood was fast deepening into the full loveliness of more mature years, for the beauty which her early days had promised girlhood did not deny her, whilst knowledge had increased her wisdom without lessening her innocence. Dwelling amidst nature's changeless loveliness, tutored in the eternal science of her mighty charms, Nesta's mind had adopted the purity of the snowdrop, the joyousness of the lark, and the rose's bright colouring; to her the world was radiant only because it was unknown; surrounded with the affection of loving hearts how could she know the loneliness of pain, how could she dream that when that pain came the world would pass her by, weeping and alone? Oh, blissful, fleeting visions of youth! Oh, blissful, fleeting visions of a world where sympathy heals another's woe, where love, hope, and charity walk hand in hand, where pity hides the taint of sin, and kindness the badge of poverty. Oh, would that we could always stand outside the gates of reality, dreaming, dreaming, dreaming! What shall I offer you, Wisdom or Total Ignorance? There would be few to choose wisdom were it left to human determination, and those that voluntarily seek the well of wisdom must not be daunted if they add a tear to the noisy confusion of its waters. The world of the young is one not free from vice, but it is a world of large vice, large love, and knows no half measures; it is the world of the villain and the saint. The villain dies on the scaffold or in the prison, the saint passes away on a glorious death-bed; it may be unheeded by mortal care, but illumined by the light of his faith. Thus we ascend the hill, and coming down the other side we wonder at our past thoughts and are silent as to their truth. Would I live my life over again? I scarcely know. All the pain and the gladness have commingled, and I long to press once more the lips I so loved whilst living. Yet when those I loved were with me, was I content? Alas, no! The sun may be surrounded with many clouds, but when it departs we mourn its light.

       Ever and anon, the dear sweet visions of olden times come back to me, but like the mighty shadows conjured up for an Emperor's pastime by Dr. Faustus, they prove but "shadows, not substantial," and so correct, so faithful a delineator is memory that we can count each fold of their garment and trace each line of their face; only a grave divides us, but that grave is eternity. I must not linger, nor dwell so much on the past, for soon, yes, very soon, the world will be past, and then, then I shall have travelled beyond the topmost peak, far, far beyond the sun, moon, and stars, far beyond the shining stars, up into the infinite, the mysterious empyrean; then shall I have trod the space which angels tread, and learnt the mighty secrets which baffle the research of man, and laugh to scorn the puny reasoning of the scientist; then I shall have gazed on the great King's countenance, and seen that mighty host which no man can number.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       One dull and sultry day, just towards the close of warm-breathed July Gwladys, Nesta, the harper, and I trod the dusty road with indolent, lagging steps. We were none of us talkative; on such a day silence is a luxury, and Gwilym and I walked behind the others. The eyes of my companion were constantly fixed, I observed, on his young charge; but with a look of so much sadness, so much melancholy reflection in their depths that I experienced a curious pain gnawing at my heart, nor could I refrain from inquiring of Gwilym the reason of his sadness. "Did I look sad?" he replied, with one of his loving smiles. "Will you blame me if I confess that I generally feel sad whilst beholding one so full of joyousness and freedom from care as yonder child?"

       "You should rather rejoice in this freedom from anxiety, this spell of unalloyed bliss," I answered, a little indignant at what I deemed unnecessary gloominess.

       "My son," cried my hearer, regarding me earnestly, "I should verily rejoice could I but believe such happiness would continue; but, alas! the flower that bends to the sun will bend yet more to the stormy wind, and the plant that culls and courts the sunshine turns shivering away from the wintry blast, dying at the first tempestuous breath; do we not feel the darkness more when we have just left the light outside?"

       "Suppose the darkness never falls?" I asked, "what then?"

       "No darkness!" reiterated the harper. "There can be no day without night."

       "Perhaps it is so," I assented wearily; "for me there seems no day."

       "Hush!" says Gwilym; "sometimes man never knows it has been daylight until it has gone."

       "Gwilym," I cried suddenly, after a long pause; "I will try to see the daylight, however faint it may appear; I will try to think that even a hunchback has his advantages, a hunchback who, accustomed to few pleasures, learns to live without them, familiar with both mental and physical pain learns to sympathise with others, regarded from his childhood with repugnance or pity, has little to dread, excites no envy, therefore no hatred, rarely praised, is yet more rarely censured; whose faults are often excused because of his infirmity, and whose talents shine more conspicuously by reason of his personal defects."

       "It is well to think so," exclaimed the harper, refusing to notice the sardonic smile that flitted across my face; "the ugliest flower often yields the sweetest and strongest perfume, and the greatness of the mind is far superior to personal beauty; the light of inspiration would shine as brightly in the poet's eyes whatever hue or shape they were; the majesty of the philosopher would sit upon his forehead whether his form were straight or crooked-age cannot efface, nor time mark out, such majesty. Socrates was, perhaps, one of the plainest men that ever lived, yet who gave one thought to his ugliness? Aristotle's eyes were so small as to be scarcely noticeable, but genius shone forth from those narrow cells. St. Paul was insignificant and ugly, but who reads aught but dignity in the great divine's face? Who paused to inquire whether Shakespeare had a Grecian nose, or Tasso a small mouth? We have their works, and in those glorious epitaphs-themselves. For you and me they have created a wondrous world, whether ugly or beautiful. Thus we need never be lonely, for we all hold the key that will admit us into the garden of history and literature."

       "That is true, but history and all its lessons affect man little. Oh, do not tell me," I added, hastily, seeing a response in Gwilym's face, "that any influence is so potent to mankind as the influence of its own desires; to gain our ends are we not willing to submit to any temporary inconvenience, and bear without a groan any passing pang?"

       "Our only desires are often centred in others," replied the harper. "A mother will sacrifice anything for the sake of her child, even life itself."

       "Have you studied mankind deeply, Gwilym?" I inquired.

       "Yes," answered the harper, slowly, "but I am not a just judge, for I feel deeply against one race, and that has blinded my eyes a little; yet," he added, "surely man is a curious animal, and the most curious of all God's creatures, combining within himself a touch of the lion, the fox, the ass."

       "A nice combination," I interposed, ironically.

       "Man is but a creature of the hour," continued Gwilym, taking no notice of my remark; "he lives in the future, yet acts for the present, his mind is full of contradictions; in prosperity, proud; in adversity, humble; he seeks death in every woe, yet recalls his desire when the cloud passes and the sky is clear."

       "That is true," I admitted, thoughtfully, but my companion did not reply, his head had fallen a little forward, and his long grey locks caressed his cheek, it was an attitude he often assumed when intent in thought and I never attempted to arouse him, and now I allowed my eyes to wander to those two girlish forms before me, reflecting: Gwladys' slight fragile figure looked almost insignificant besides Nesta's stately form, and my sister's air of repose was made to appear more serene by reason of her companion's archness and gaiety; indeed it might be said that one was a garden's blushing rose, the other a modest snowdrop; they were children, yet fast standing on girlhood's threshold, and it was pleasant to see such youth, beauty, and happiness, pleasant to know that such existed, and as I walked by the harper's side I prayed earnestly that their happiness might continue, that those two might always remain as they were now, innocent and contented; prayed that jealous time might never dim the lustre of those eyes, that the world may never drive away the joy and love that now found so warm a shelter in their young hearts.

       "Gwilym," I asked, a sudden thought striking me, "tell me, for I have often wondered, what you have done with your life!"

       For a few moments there was silence, then the harper raised his head and fixed his eyes gravely and earnestly on my face. "My life," he repeated, a strange thrill of anguish in his tone. "Oh God, that I should answer!"

       "Yes," I said, for he had again paused.

       "Nothing."

       Into his earnest eyes came an expression of something like despair — a pang of pain touched my inmost soul as that one word "nothing" fell on the silent air, for it conveyed to me so much hopelessness, so much anguish and regret.

       "I have done nothing," continued the harper, his penetrating eyes still fastened on my face, "yet I must remember that with me life is not ended."

       "Oh, no, no," I cried, eagerly, as if to convince him of the truth of his assertion. Gwilym, dear Gwilym, it is not near its close."

       "Hush," he said, drawing my hand within his own. "No one, nay, not even the angels know the time of our departure."

       "Do you dread the thought of death? I asked. "Shall you regret leaving the world?"

       "How can I tell, my child?" he replied, letting his eyes follow the ascent of the mountain, climbing into the sky. "In the hour of full life we cannot know the sensation or the feeling we shall experience at that moment when life runs low."

       "I hate life," I muttered, fiercely, "yet I dread death."

       "It is because existence to you is so wearisome that death is so appalling," answered my companion. If you laid aside the all-engrossing sorrows and abstractions of self, and threw your sympathy, your love into the lives of others death would but appear as a master who pays us our wages, and then offers us a security against future toil and care."

       "I daresay," I returned, moodily, "yet have I not something to be discontented about?

       "You have indeed a cross," answered my companion, "but in the hereafter your suffering shall be weighed against your sins."

       "Such a creed gives me strength," I said.

       "We can always have strength if we seek the fountain," the harper earnestly said, while a smile of Heavenly radiance passed over his countenance. Then there was a silence and I saw by Gwilym's expression that his thoughts were pleasant. "You wondered," said the harper at length, "what I had done with my life, and I answered, "Nothing, some day I will tell you all, and you shall be my judge."

       "Not your judge," I interrupted, hurriedly, "only your loving listener."

       Gwilym smiled kindly and taking one of my hands pressed it affectionately. "Yes, be that," he said, "be that also, my child."

       Too tired to go on farther we at length selected a shady corner, the most shady we could find, under a thorn tree that had had its day before summer reigned, like some of us that bloom and fade ere reaching maturity. We made a strange picture, with the sultry heavens overhead and the silent landscape all around; the picture of a dark girl with raven hair, her white arms cast around the waist of a fair golden-haired companion, the picture of a deformed boy laying his weary head on the bosom of an old harper.

       "Sing to us something, dear Gwilym," pleaded Nesta.

       "To sing to-day would be to disturb the sweet stillness of nature," put in my sister, pointing as though for illustration to a brown thrush which perched lazily on the bent twig of an oak.

       "Nothing interrupts nature's serenity or jars on her peace save man's angry voice, or the noisy tumult of his passion," Nesta returned, glancing towards the distant hills.

       The harper said nothing but turned his face towards Gwladys, then looked for his harp, as though he expected to find it lying near him, and then he raised his rich voice and sang —

"O'er noble sea's bosom white, Her golden tresses stray;  Like wandering lightning where they light On ocean's hoary spray, Those glories in her forehead set, In double twine descend, And then around her footsteps met, Like clouds of incense blend."

       The song died away and its faint echo lingered as if to remind us of the cadence; for a while we remained silent, with the deep meditative silence of true appreciation, but it was not very long ere Nesta's gladsome tones broke the spell. "What a lovely description of Gwladys," she cried, "Gwilym, confess that you meant it for her!"

       The harper gave no response, I doubt even if he heard, for his eyes were gazing far beyond the mountains right away into the wondrous region of thought.

       As we wended our way homeward the air was less oppressive, a breeze was quivering through the leaves and a faint cloud was languidly sailing over the leaden surface of the sky; Nesta's merry laugh and voice mingled with the others' quieter voices, it was only I who strolled along silent and abstracted.

       As we turned down the road that led to Bodelwyddan, and from which the castle could be discerned, a tall slight form came running towards us — it was Ivor, released from his task at last and impatient to enjoy his freedom. The sight of this straight limbed fine young fellow made me — oh no, it was not envy — silent, and I walked on in silence, the others chattering merrily.

       The harper, because he loved me most, alone noticed my abstraction, and taking my hand he led me apart from the others, seeing that I was unhappy and longed for quietude.

       At Llanrhaiadr we paused to bid farewell to Gwilym and Nesta, and as I leant over the little gate looking into the garden, now rich in all its summer's wealth of bloom, I thought of an evening years ago where on the spot whereon I now stood a little child had pressed my hand, whispering in childish accents, "I like you, Owain, although you are ugly"; that never-to-be-forgotten evening when for the first time I beheld the weird majestic features and form of the harper; what new influences, new joys, new awakenings that hour had brought in its train! Since that day a new light had been thrown on my life, a light which had shown me the darkness of my soul. Yes! he had nursed all that was beautiful, all that was noble to life within me. Oh, Gwilym! though I was so crooked, so plain, I had the power of loving faithfully and earnestly. Truly has it been said that God makes none of His creatures devoid of passion and affection.

       Near the little porch under the chestnut tree sat a meek-faced woman, but as we wended our way up the pathway, she arose, greeting us with a smile, which Nesta returned by flinging her strong young arms around her. It was not long after that we left them, looking backwards with many a tender glance till the road hid them from sight, and carrying with us the memory of Nesta's damask cheek and flashing eyes, and the echo of her girlish voice. The heat of the day had given place to evening's coolness, soft breezes gently kissed our faces and fanned our brows; under our feet cool shadows crept, whilst all around us lay unobtrusive night which command's even nature's restless children to drink a portion of her sleeping draught.

       Night has her offspring as well as day. "Sun," she cries, "begone. Maiden of the starry sky, arise. Birds fly home; owl, bat, and nightingale come forth! Imperious Phœbus reigns no more. Diana shall rule the heaven's glimmering waste and rock the soul to restful slumber."

       Even during the hours when King Sol reigns supreme, Queen Nox is not idle, but busy catching the shadows and the dark shades, weaving them as she does so into one great curtain which she gradually lets down, obliterating all her rival's bright charms with the relentless gloom of rivalry.

       Scarcely any light shone in the windows when we reached home, nor was any sound to be heard within. It was mournful, for what is more calculated to arouse or revive melancholy sentiments and thoughts than a large country house on a summer's evening when it is dark and silent, yet inhabited?

       On the marble table in the hall three candles stood like patient sentinels; taking one, I went upstairs, far too weary to sit in the lonely drawing-room with Ivor buried deep in his mathematics, and Gwladys plying her needle — the ceaseless click, click, striking on my ear with relentless monotony. No; bed was the only place for one so physically weary, so mentally depressed as myself, and thus, lying down to rest, I fell into a heavy, dreamless slumber.

---

CHAPTER IV.
THE NAMELESS LINK.

Sweet home! my blessed happy home, I would not roam from thee For England's prouder towns and sights And gay delights to see. — PRITCHARD.

HUMAN beings cannot live without love, for it is as essential to their nature as sunshine to the flowers, so that the most lovely soul turns gladly to its light, and in its time gives out the rays it has sucked in. Oh, how I loved and knew the hills in those far-off childish days! How I love them still, standing upon the threshold of the night, waiting, waiting for the dawn! In my sorrow, in my brief hours of joy, in my loneliness and anguish I cried unto them and they seemed to listen, soothing me by their silence, comforting me by their sweet stillness. Every rocky ledge, every stone, every clump of heather, every grass-clad dingle, every rippling streamlet, had a charm for me, whilst every cleft and slope were peopled by the heroes and warriors of the past; the very sheep grew to know my footsteps, and bleated a welcome as I drew nigh, and the old man who dwelt in the little wayside hut always smiled as I passed and once he asked me what I saw "up yonder?" In the early summer morning, when all around was wet with dew, I would wander forth, taking some bread and fruit, and while away the hours on the Beacons' rugged breasts, or dream of the "might have been" amid their shaggy brows.

       Never had I fallen asleep without my eyes first resting on their heights fading away into the mist or darkness, until my sight had died away into the darkness and mist likewise. Never had I risen without watching the grey dawn creep over their summits, or the flush of early morning flood the verdant turf; and now my old friends must be left behind, for I was going away.

       Summer was dying, Autumn was already sprinkling the marish ground with the violet powder of the beautiful heather when I went to pour out this new grief to the mountains, went to pour out my passion and grief to the mountains. I was weary, weary alike in body and spirit, for the sun was hot and my heart was sore, so that after a time I lay down like Jacob with a stone for my pillow, and with vacant gaze, and a mind rendered passive by weakness, stared up into the heavens whose light billowy clouds, in texture like angels' wings, floated over its azure space and sailed in foamy splendour through the chasms and openings of the Beacons. In front of me stretched peaks whose varied hues were only revealed ever and anon by the uplifting clouds; above me crag-crowned crag and grassy steep surmounted grassy steep; here and there sheer precipices encircled wide dells, whilst frowning rocks looked down on lisping rills which wandering at their wanton will over stony knoll and soil found rest at length in woody depth below; narrow paths crossed and re-crossed the mountain side like long dark stripes amongst the verdure, formed by the footsteps of the black and white sheep; down in the ridges the trees were donning their amber robes, and over all the landscape September's hazy fairness was waning into October's browner and duller beauty. Away in the distance, sheltered in its long low valley and shadowed by the eternal hills, the pretty town of Brecon nestled, whilst further beyond the black mountains ran, shielding the placid waters of Llangors.

       Leaving at last my rude couch, I once more began to ascend, soon reaching smoother ground. The pools and bogs which in winter lay everywhere were now almost swallowed up in the tangled wilderness of the golden gorse and purple heather, whilst the bright warm sunbeams had dissolved into quickly dying dew the fallen snowflakes. A narrow ledge sloping one side into a precipice had to be crossed and a steep ascent to be climbed ere I reached Arthur's throne, where I stood for some moments looking on the picture that stretched all around.

       A floating sea of clouds, falling ridge upon ridge, hid the waters of far-off Swansea Bay, but yet across the billowy hills I could faintly trace the larger waters of the Bristol Channel; a world of mountains surrounded me; a world wide and solitary, grand and free; a world with the sun for its monarch, and the moon for its queen; a world where the shadows crept unobserved, and the twilight unseen faded into the night; a world seldom visited, save by the hovering bat, or the hungry hawk; a world of sublime eloquence, of unbounded solitude. "Oh, my friends," I cried, stretching my hands out to them, "I must say good-bye to you, I am going away, not far away, yet I shall not be able to see you though I shall think of you often; my father says I must learn something and whilst I stay near you I do nothing but wander on your heights." On the other side of the mountain a streamlet ran sparkling in the sunshine, through a deep verdant delve, bounded on either side by lofty summits into a horizon of mistier hills; beside this I sat and ate my frugal fare, my apple, in which I had scooped a hole, serving as a glass; the air had made me hungry and the heat of the sun thirsty, and I would not have exchanged the bread for the rarest delicacy, nor the cool clear water which was a pleasanter draught than any costly wine could have been; when my meal was over and the birds had flown away with the scattered crumbs, I crept quite close under the shadow of the peak and fell asleep.

       I thought that it was moonlight, but never before, never after, did I behold such a light: it was a quivering sheet of light, a flood of light, an ocean of gems, a wealth of scattered diamonds, a mesh of frosted moonbeams, from each of whose glittering rays issued a being radiant and glistening, until a wondrous multitude crowned each peak, and lighted up into a luminous glow the silent heavens. Then slowly and softly, with a great hush, the moon herself, borne on the expectant air, wafted downwards, and swinging a diaphanous and passionless body in the dark blue ether over my head, like the petals of an exquisite flower, unfolded, till she resembled a snowy spotless shell; and from this chaste shrine came a virgin, peerless, riding on a fretted cloud woven of myriads of beams, and as I marvelled at her loveliness, she drew nigh and placed one icy hand on mine. "Owain," she said, in clear, unearthly tones, "Owain, you haunt these realms; behold me then, their queen; and you, you," she went on, holding up her shield, which, as she touched, melted into a shower of rays, which bathed me in their shimmering gleams, "shall be my knight."

       Thus speaking, she vanished, and I awoke to find that the lowering clouds had gathered around me, and that heavy rain was falling on my upturned face, yet I felt no fear, for I knew the mountains well; but though I gained the bottom in safety, I had come a long distance out of my way, so that it was dark when at last I beheld the dim lights of Bodelwyddan shining faintly in the gloom.

       At the end of the long dimly-lighted corridor stood my father's study, and knocking timidly at the door, I waited patiently for leave to enter, but none came, and made bold by silence I went in. A great window faced me, — a splendid vestibule for the creeping shadows; the darkening shades filled every corner and cranny and concealed the shabbiness of the ancient furniture whose scantiness made the room seem larger than it was; the wide grate was vacant and gaped at me through the dusk, every trace of sunlight had been swept away, and only patches of grim gloom lay here and there, soon to be swallowed up by the swift on-coming night. On the walls, dusty pictures of austere dames, with neat stiff curls, reposed near fierce-looking mailed knights, seeming as though they longed to fight their battles over again, and languishing cavaliers in plumed hats and scarlet scarves; poor dead grandeur!! memories of bye-gone centuries; pages of past history and sad relics of what had been! How often have I dreamed of faded beauty and departed chivalry! How often have I lain awake endeavouring in childhood's confused fancies to think of what they were doing downstairs; whether they had descended from their gilded frames and were pacing to and fro the long chill room; whether they were leaning out of the dark window, and comparing the moonlight which now shone over the mountains and flooded the park with its silvery beams, with that moonlight which had once fallen on their young faces, guiltless of powder and paint, guiltless of aught save youth's sweet passion; whether they were wondering why it was still the same, and they themselves so altered! Yet surely it was not so bright; had it not shed its best glory on their upturned features, and sent its brightest messengers to kiss their smiling lips? Was it still listening to loving vows, lighting the eyes of lovers as of yore, or had it grown as silent, as listless as themselves? Perhaps they were shaking hands with one another, yet never drawing very near, for a great wall divided them, a wall on which sat Death, grim, relentless, silent and victorious. Then in the bewilderment of childish reveries, I would behold them peeping into father's big brown desk, that was ever kept locked, and therefore doubly valuable in my sight, and deeming that their audacity could penetrate no farther, I fell asleep, to find that I had become a knight, without fear, without reproach, giving my hand to some majestic dame, leading a lovely maiden through the graceful minuet, or leaving a foe stretched on a bloody field. Alas! only too soon came the cruel awakening-morning, the dissolver of all night's airy castles, changed into dull reality the structures which the darkness had so kindly and so quickly reared. Oh, golden dustman, keep your golden powder for the happy and the fair, touch not the lashes fringed with tears, the forehead damp with pain, for to awake and remember, after having slumbered and forgotten, is very bitter!

       In a quaint old chair, covered with faded brocade (on which had sat, a few days before her death, my mother), was seated the figure of a man; his head was thrown slightly back and his two hands clasped the arm of the chair. It was my father, yet I did not attempt to arouse him from the reverie into which he had fallen, but a great and scarcely to be suppressed longing seized me to throw my arms around his neck and weep out my sorrows on his bosom, and only a sense of the coldness with which my love would be met withheld me, only a knowledge of the indifference with which my outburst would be greeted restrained me. The room was very dark, but this did not chill me, though something in the weird hushed picture frightened me. I turned uneasily from side to side, for I dreaded to look very long anywhere; a vague consciousness that the gloom had some ghastly visitant overpowered my brain.

       "Father," I whispered, in a low awed tone, "father." Perhaps he had not heard, for he made no response, no movement, and the blackness seemed deeper and the silence more awful, because I had spoken. "Father!" I cried, once more, and through the obscurity I saw that he stirred uneasily in his chair, and that one hand fell aimlessly to his side. "Owain," he said, slowly, "Owain."

       "Yes, Owain!" I answered, almost defiantly, as the burning tears swam be- fore my gaze; "yes, Owain, your neglected son — her child," I added, shaking with sobs and pointing excitedly to the chair. Then I stopped, dismayed, terrified at my outburst, but my parent gave no reply, and his head sank low on his breast. "Oh, father," I went on passionately, for his silence endued me with fresh courage, "if you have so much pity for yourself, have some for me — for us; surely she would be happier if you had. Father, she is in this room to-night; I feel her presence, though I cannot see her; love may indeed be invisible, but absent it can never be." My listener raised his head, and his lips parted to speak, but they closed again. "Father," I continued, relentlessly, "have you never thought how much I miss her loving care, her tender guidance?" Once more he lifted his eyes to mine, once more his lips moved — still no words.

       "For years," I began again, "night and morn I have wept for her kiss; oh, father, kiss me, kiss me for her now!" In my excitement I had fallen at his feet, and now, with tear-stained cheeks, looked up into his downcast face.

       "Poor child, poor child," he murmured tenderly; "of a dead mother."

       "Oh, not dead," I sobbed; "her spirit is living with us still." And even as my words fell a strange radiance leapt into my father's eyes, and I felt his whole frame quiver.

       "You speak well," he said; then continued, in a low dreamy tone, "it is what they are saying always, and on that condition I feed, I live, Ceridwen."

       "Who says so, father?" I asked, but he did not reply, only from his face fled the hope, leaving it as cold, as impassive as hitherto. "Good-night, good-night," he cried, hurriedly, "good-night."

       Ill with an undefined pain, stung with a sense of my loneliness and a chill despair, I passed out, stealing up the wide staircase to my solitary room, with its faded splendour, and suggestive of a bright and beautiful past.

       Never, never tired of gazing on my beloved beacons; never, never weary of watching the invisible and noiseless lamp-lighter lighting the dark-blue dome above; never, never tired of looking over the neglected garden, and peopling its deserted nooks with the creatures of my fancy; never, never weary of solitude, I would sit for hours by the window thinking of that great wide world beyond the hills, and of all they were doing there in the blindness of the night.

       The future murderer grasping already his phantom victim, the wretched criminal with to-morrow's doom traced on his haggard features, the sufferer writhing on his bed of pain, the pensive poet reading in each star or moonbeam the unwritten words of a poem, the monk's solitary vigil, the babe's smiling slumber — all these pass and repass on the magic-lantern of the brain.

       Such hours I loved; I would speak and receive no answer; I could weep and court no pity; I could murmur and call forth no reproof; I could converse with my companions and dread no listeners, and my companions were ever kind and loving; those who were not bidden never came, and those who obeyed my call never grew wearisome nor stayed too long, never asked questions nor were unpleasantly communicative, nor yet too familiar, but ever brought new thoughts, new interests, new ideas, since my companions lived in me and I in them.

(To be continued.)

Owain Seithenyn.

——◆⟡◆——

BOOK I.

——◆⟡◆——

CHAPTER V.

[NOTE. — This chapter is almost due to my own pen; the original MS. was in this part so faded and torn that it was with great difficulty that I could find any clue to its meaning; therefore for all the mistakes I ask the generous reader to pardon me.]

'Neath the shadows of other hills, Oh let thy height of mercie then Compassionate short-breathed men! Cut me not off for my most foul transgression; I do confesse My foolishness, My God; accept of my confession. — HERBERT.

       I shall never forget the morning when with a heavy heart I bade all the mountains around my dear old home good-bye, taking my seat in the lumbering coach that started from Brecon to London. It was a fine cold October day, and on the grey castle, on the flowing river, on the irregularly built streets, on the slanting roofs the autumn sun came streaming down.

       Mr. Evyans had accompanied me from Bodelwyddan in the chaise, and during all that dreary ride had solemnly impressed on me the necessity of knowledge. "Without learning we are as boats without rudders," he said gravely. "Without wisdom life is a great level waste." At the end of the Walton — a broad street, for the most part of mean and insignificant houses — I took my seat on the outside of the coach and parted with Mr. Evyans. I think I see him now, a look of melancholy on his face, and his bony hand waving me "Good-bye" as the driver cracked his whip and the guard shouted "All right." For the first few miles I scarcely looked either at my companion or at the beautiful landscape through which we were passing, for I was absorbed in meditations on my own grief, the Beacons, and Gwilym.

       It was just before we reached Llanhamlach and its neighbourhood that I awoke to the consciousness that though so lonely yet I was not alone. A stoutish man with merry twinkling eyes and a cheery smile sat on my right, and evidently regarded me with some compassion, for his pleasant countenance wore a kind expression as he turned to me.

       "Have you a long way to go?" he asked.

       "Not very, sir," I replied, raising my head and meeting his grey eyes. "Only to Abergavenny."

       "Indeed; you have friends there, then?"

       I saw that it was no curiosity that prompted these questions, but a generous desire to save me from again falling into a painful reverie, and though not inclined to be communicative I replied readily, "No, sir, I am going to school there." My listener looked grave, and I knew that he was thinking of my affliction and of all the pain it would cause me amongst strangers. "At least," I hastened to explain, "it is not quite school, though I am going there to learn." Perhaps the stranger might have asked my meaning had not his neighbour nudged his arm, and diverted his attention to himself.

       "No," said my new friend, in response to a query which I did not hear, "you will not see Illtyd's Hermitage, it stands about a mile from the high road." The other seemed disappointed, for he glanced at us all in turn gloomily. No more complete contrast could have been found than that between this melancholy individual and my cheerful companion; the former was a small dark man, with plainly marked features, and a grieved, woe-begone appearance, which seemed to challenge anyone to be more entirely wretched than himself. He sat on the edge of his seat, making us all feel that we were taking up a vast amount of room, and looked at us as much as to say, "What a martyr I am!" His clothes evidently aided him in this belief, for they were those of the labouring class, a grey cloth suit coarsely woven, a scarf of unlimited length, and a much worn hat completed his attire; everything that happened he seemed to regard as a personal insult, everything that was said as a personal affront.

       "Have you ever seen the Hermitage?" I inquired, when the small dark man had at last removed his reproachful eyes from my face to fix them on a quiet inoffensive neighbour, who had never spoken once since we left Brecon.

       My friend smiled. "I should like to know what I haven't seen about these parts," he said.

       "That's just it," put in the small dark man, "some folks see everything, while others like myself just see nothing."

       "What sort of place is it?" I again asked.

       "Queer enough," retorted my informer, "too low to stand upright in; the roof, which is formed of a huge stone, is raised but four feet from the ground, and slopes considerably, and on one side rough crosses and quaint figures are carved."

       "It's very curious that men should contrive to make existence more intolerable," remarked the melancholy passenger, "for they do say that a saint, or somebody like it, did once live there."

       "Perhaps it is only a cromlech," interposed our silent neighbour, and thereupon relapsed once more into a silence which he never broke till he parted from us at Scethrog.

       The country through which we were passing was very beautiful, with rolling hills on one side and the green valley of the Usk on the other.

       Through eternal verdure the silver river ran, either falling into foamy cascades or lapping the edge of ferny isles which studded the clear waters; here it shone forth broad and smiling, there it traced its course through narrow dells, thick with overhanging boughs freighted with their burden of rich golden leaves; here it lay under the shadows of purple summits, there it rippled over moss-clad stones, all dripping with the dew, and as I dwelt upon its beauty and listened to its music, I thought of all the scenes it passed, and of the pictures engraved upon its bosom. Such scenes, such pictures as only God has power to paint, and Nature to reveal; lowly homes where the peasant hears in every ripple, every rill the Creator's voice; priories where the watchers waited for the surgings of a better tide; solitude where the student learns a grander science, and thus always beautiful, always varying, the Usk rushes on blindly, madly, passionately, to its home.

       At the opening of the road leading to The Tower, a pretty village with a castle to our left, a stranger hailed the coach, and inquired of the guard if he could go inside, but it was full, so, heaving a sigh, the new comer seated himself on the vacant outside seat.

       Rather pleased than otherwise to have something fresh to distract my attention, for my thoughts kept constantly returning to the one painful theme, I fixed my eyes on the stranger; he was sitting in an upright position, with his hands crossed on his knees; on his fingers were several massive rings, but his clothes were sadly out of keeping with these jewels, for they were shabby and worn in the extreme, yet despite it all, he appeared to be one who had seen far better days. His face was of a type I had never remarked before; it was reckless, defiant, lined, and bold; his brown hair had many a greyish thread, and his thin long lips twitched nervously every now and then. He was very cold, I think, for he shivered once or twice, until my friend begged him to accept the use and warmth of his rug; the stranger thanked him profusely and availed himself of the kind offer, and I fancied that I saw him smile thoughtfully as he stroked the rich fur, and then glanced suspiciously at its owner.

       We were now passing a dark fir-wood tinted with autumnal glory, the trees climbing up the gradual ascent to a great height, like a huge army rushing down upon one another. It was about here that a surprising change came over the weather; the blueness of the sky melted away into a stormy sea of frowning clouds; the hills stood out black and stern, save those over which a heavy mist was stealing; the rain fell in torrents as horses, driver, and passengers ascended the terrific hill of Bwlch, flanked by rocky walls.

       In the curious little village we changed horses, then went on to Crughywel. Here it was so very dark that we could scarcely see each other's faces, and could do nothing but shiver in the intense cold. Having now a real grievance, strange to say, the melancholy passenger was the most contented; perhaps he looked upon it as a punishment for our former content, for he said nothing, but sat silent, chuckling to himself every now and again.

       When we reached Llangrwyne, where the Usk is very grand and wide, the rain had somewhat abated, and one of the inside passengers having got out, the distinguished-looking traveller took his place, and apologised for being selfish, but pleaded as an excuse the delicacy of his chest, and thus, having satisfied his conscience, and stopped our probable remonstrances, the coach rattled onwards, pausing only to change horses once more ere we gained the outskirts of Abergavenny.

       Never shall I cease to remember the sickening sensation with which I approached the quaint old town; — the mists had by this time almost rolled away, and once more the mountains stood out boldly; but sad as I was, I could not be indifferent to the beauty of the picture stretching all around me; dusky hills encircled the little "Skyrrid," on the opposite side of which the long continuous chain of the wild Pontypool hills ended in the grandly swelling Blorenge, where a tract of dense foliage sweeps the base, mingling with the grassy slopes of Llanfoist; to the right the Sugarloaf rises from amid the four tributary eminences of the Pen-y-vale heights, to the east of which the "Skyrrid" rears its double head, forming a magnificent contrast to the undulating region of the neighbouring range; the foot of these endless mountains almost falls into the fair green vale through which the turbulent Usk wends in a crystal stream, issuing from a splendid gateway of wood with all the passion of its own dear clime.

       I shook hands with the sad, small man, who was going on to Hereford, and also with my friend, who seemed genuinely concerned at my forlorn condition. "Time soon passes," he said, cheerfully, grasping my hand kindly in his strong grip.

       "I don't know," I answered, "when we are happy it gallops, when wretched it crawls."

       Mr. Herbert (for such I had learnt was his name) smiled pleasantly. "You will love home all the better for having left it for awhile," he said, as he wrapped me up, for it was still very cold, and the wet drive and icy air had almost benumbed my limbs — but suddenly, with a low cry of pain, he stopped, and looking up I saw that his face was very pale, and that his lips were ashen grey. "It was her last gift," he moaned. "Oh, God."

       Our melancholy neighbour smiled wistfully, as much as to say that although he deplored it, he knew it must come sooner or later.

       It was not long before Mr. Herbert told us the reason of his grief. "I have lost a signet ring," he cried sadly, "given to me by one very precious, who is now passed away. It has never been absent from my finger for years," with a rising sob, "and I would not have lost it for all the world could offer."

       "It's sure to have fallen down between the crevices, or it is in the rugs," remarked the guard, going down on his knees and commencing to search vigorously, but though we looked everywhere, and probed every possible cranny, the ring was nowhere to be seen, and I was forced to leave my friend in great distress.

       The man who had secured the inside seat at Crughywel got out also, and disappeared down a side street, while I stood a desolate little figure, irresolute and melancholy, watching the lumbering coach roll on. Oh! the loneliness, the utter desolation I experienced, as I gazed on the straggling, irregularly built town, lying before me, bathed in the shadows of the hills, with the ragged forehead of "Skyrrid Vawr" rising far upwards into the watery sky.

       The house to which I had been directed stood in a place called Cross-street, and was a quaint dwelling with projecting windows and over-hanging eaves, whose sombre walls were crossed and re-crossed with thick dark lines, and a mantle of ivy covered the narrow portal; inside it seemed even older, with innumerable passages, a broad staircase of carved oak, mouldering ceiling, and heavy doors swinging on rusty hinges. The room into which I had been ushered by a sleepy individual dressed in green was a curious one, dusty volumes filled the shelves, huge yellow maps of all descriptions crowded the grey walls, bits of armoury, pieces of broken monuments, chipped statues ancient helmets, and queer horns surrounded a thin little old man who sat contentedly in their midst. He was indeed a very little old man, dressed in drab, with a skull-cap concealing his hairless head, and a pair of deep-rimmed spectacles shielding his weak blue eyes.

       "You find me among my treasures," he began, leading me to a chair, and indicating with his fingers his precious possessions. "Oh, indeed, it is well to begin to know each other at once — but you have heard that I am an antiquarian?"

       I was sorry, but truth obliged me to confess that of this fact I was unhappily ignorant. I thought that my future master looked ruffled, but with a wave of his hand he quickly passed it off.

       "For some years past I have been engaged upon a geological history of the counties of Monmouth and Brecon, and now it is very nearly completed."

       "I suppose it was very difficult?" I asked, feeling that I was called upon to say something.

       My hearer smiled. "The difficulty was forgotten in the pleasure."

       I felt rebuked, and perhaps my companion saw it, for he hastened to change the subject.

       "Do you take any interest in genealogy, Mr. Owain?"

       "I don't know," was my stammering response, then I blushed furiously, and to hide my confusion hung my head.

       "My family is not a mean one," the little man went on, apparently unconscious of my awkwardness. "Indeed, I may say it is a good one, my ancestor from whom I am directly descended being Sir Miles de Picarde, or Pilchor (some authorities assert) who came over from Normandy with Bernard Newmarch, and fought in the contest of Caerbannau, in which Rhys ap Tewdwr was slain, and Bleddyn fell; my ancestor, Sir Miles, had his bravery and zeal rewarded by the manor of Scethrog, which derives its name from Brochwel Yscythrog, who was one of the grandchildren of Brychan — Scethrog being now inhabited by one of the elder branches of our illustrious family." Almost breathless, and with an expression of infinite pride, the descendant of so noble a house ceased, just as the door was flung open by a youth some years my senior, who boldly entered.

       "Oh! learned ancestor! oh, worthy successor to so proud a name!" he cried, laughingly, "condescend to partake of the simple repast which your humble servants have prepared for you."

       Contrary to my expectations the old man rose, and together we adjourned to a larger and emptier room, where the sleepy individual in green awaited us. This was Mr. Picarde's faithful retainer and friend, Daniel Humphries, a person who passed through life in a state of active slumber, who never failed to answer you with a frightened start, and to whom it was always necessary to speak thrice, firstly, to arouse him; secondly, to inform him of what you had said; thirdly, to impress it on him.

       The days that followed were far from unhappy. Mr. Picarde was a kind, indulgent master, too indulgent perhaps, for we were left pretty much to our own devices, which were not always the most desirable. Besides myself, the antiquarian took care of one other boy only, for his studies occupied a great portion of his time and he was always taking journeys on their account. With him we visited the magnificent structure of Raglan and the ancient Castle of Skinfrith, whilst with Jestyn, my companion, I spent long hours upon the mountains, until I grew almost as familiar with "Deri," the gorse-clad little "Skyrrid," the "Graig," as with the different peaks of the Beacons. Did I say almost? Ah no! to me they were as they have always been, first; and often and often my heart ached, and my soul longed, to behold them once again.

       Jestyn, a bright, comely youth, some years my senior, was a hero in my boyish eyes, and was to me ever kind and considerate. Fate had made him an orphan, but it had endowed him with a guardian who gave him a father's love and some hundred pounds a year. One evening while wandering through the castle meadows Jestyn opened the clasp of a locket he always wore round his neck, and displayed to view the likeness of a man. "This is Mr. Herbert," he remarked, "my best friend, my more than parent." But before he had said the name I had already recognised in the likeness the features of the compassionate stranger who had sought to distract me from my gloomy meditations on the coach.

       "It seems to me," said my companion, thoughtfully, when I had related to him all the incidents of our journey together, "that the better the person, the heavier the cross. For long years my guardian strove and toiled to make a home for the woman he adored, but alas! just as the nest was ready, the bird had flown to another land and my protector was left to enjoy his eminence, his riches alone."

       "She gave him the signet ring, I suppose?" I asked, sadly.

       "Yes, it was her last gift, and with her dying lips she besought him to cherish it for her sake."

       "Did he tell you of its loss?" I cried.

       "No," answered my hearer; "it is seldom that my guardian speaks of his own misfortunes, besides, though he was passing through Abergavenny on his way to Raglan, our home, he could not stop, for he was on urgent business."

       After this Jestyn often spoke of Mr. Herbert, of his noble actions, of his self-denying life, and in return I told him of Gwilym, of whom I was never wearied of speaking and of thinking.

[NOTE. — Here the manuscript becomes so indistinct that I feel it better to omit some part of it.]

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       It is many years now since I first beheld the venerable ruins of Llanthony Abbey, so many years ago that I keep asking myself if it were not a brief dream that had faded, leaving a vivid impression. The reverence with which it inspired me lingers yet, and I can recall each massive fragment, each ancient relic.

       The old monastery stands in the deep gloomy vale of Ewias, closed all round by the rugged peaks of the Black Mountains, on whose topmost summits herds of wild deer live, and through this vale the clear Honddu sweeps.

       The rain drips on the bare grey walls, the boisterous elements moan around its deserted corners, the looming clouds enwrap the landscape in gloom, yet never again shall those once gathered together under its roof meet beneath the shadows of the hills, and in one harmonious strain send up their patient prayers to God's throne.

       How often must the solitary monks have feasted their eyes on the heights which almost touched the Heaven they lived to reach, how often in their lonely cloisters must they have looked towards the distant horizon, wondering when it would be their turn to travel beyond the sun; how often must they have fallen asleep to dream of their youth, when the chill level of their lives was bright and golden with childhood's visions.

       Escaping from my master and Jestyn I roamed about the ruins and gazed upon its heap; not a tendril of ivy, not a leaf clung to the bare thick walls, but a few shrubs and feathery trees edged the high parapet and shaded the rocky foundations.

       Time had tinted with many a hue the ancient stones, and filled the crevices and ledges with struggling weeds, for the abbey had no dome now save the firmament; no choir save the noise of the ceaseless rushing of the tide; no songster save the raven and the buzzard.

       Pointed and circular arches rise here and there dividing grassy aisles, whilst massive pillars and columns uphold a greater portion of the building. Wandering through the small chapel adjoining the south transept, I found myself at length in a low underground corridor with a facing of hewn stone, in whose solitary, "blacke" ruin he sun is never to be seen except between the hours of one and three, and even then only in the clearest seasons. Now it was nigh winter, and it seemed to me that I had awoke after 1,000 years of sleep in a living tomb, and so powerfully did this sensation grow upon me that I hurried out of the passage into the cold atmosphere. Outside in the open light it was very dim also, yet I could at least feel the fresh air of heaven on my upturned face blowing straight from the bleak heights.

       Seated on the mound just under the south wall was the figure of a man intent on studying a roll of paper which was stretched on an upright stone in front of him; something in his attitude, and the way he held his head, struck me as familiar, but it was not before I had approached quite near to him and gazed into his face that I recalled the image of the stranger who had left the coach so silently the same time as myself; he heard my footsteps and raised his eyes to mine, and smiled graciously. "If I am not mistaken," he commenced, "you are the passenger who got down at Abergavenny." I replied that I was.

       "It's one of my peculiarities," the stranger went on, "never to forget a face that I have once looked upon; it's a tiresome remembrance sometimes," he added with a light laugh, "and yet it is also a useful one."

       "I, too, have an excellent memory," I remarked.

       "Indeed!" My hearer's voice was quick and sharp, and I fancied that he eyed me suspiciously.

       "These ruins are sublime in their rocky solitude, their simple grandeur," I observed, after a pause, for I felt uneasily conscious that my companion was reading my inmost soul.

       "Yes," he answered, "they are, but I must not forget to tell you that an old and a young gentleman have been inquiring for you."

       Thanking and wishing the stranger good-bye, I hurried away to find my friends, who were standing near a square tower, whilst Mr. Picarde was administering a learned lecture to his impatient listener. My advent gave him the release he longed for, and, accompanied by the stranger, we soon quitted the abbey for home.

       It was after this day that I perceived a difference in Jestyn; it was not that he was less kind or considerate, no, he was as loving and tender as ever, it was only that his laugh was less frequent, his jest more rare. No longer he came with me for pleasant rambles, no longer we climbed the mountains together, or paced the green banks of the Usk. My evenings were solitary and dreary, for night after night I noticed that Jestyn disappeared, coming in long after the gong had sounded the hour for retiring.

       One night when our studies were over, and Mr. Picarde had bade us amuse ourselves as we pleased, Jestyn, as usual, crept away, and listening and watching eagerly I saw him go upstairs, and after a little while come down. A heavy cloak completely enveloped him, his eyes were bright with excitement, and his comely features were glowing with a strange fire.

       "Daniel," I heard him whisper, as the old man held the door open for him, "I may be late to-night, remember."

       "Eh, master?" was the sleepy servant's response.

       "Fool," impatiently returned the other; "can't you understand your own language? Remember, I may be late."

       Perhaps Daniel might have asked his meaning again but Jestyn gave him no time, but passed swiftly into the darkness. Yet quick as he was, I was ready, and followed his footsteps steadily and quietly down the silent streets; from one into another we passed, the pursued and the pursuer, the watched and the watcher, until at length he paused before a dwelling facing the hills on the Hereford-road, which, dodging skilfully in the shadows, I saw him enter, and the door closed noiselessly upon him. In every window the blinds were drawn and only a faint light fell across the road outside, whose hush was unbroken by any human footstep, or any human voice, and baffled, tired, and perplexed I returned to find the house in total blackness, and old Daniel, propped up by the cushions of his armchair, sitting patiently in the hall.

       In the true sense of the word this personage never slept, for he never fully realised the sensation of being awake.

       "Daniel," I murmured, going up to him and shaking him vigorously by the arm, "you can go to bed, I will wait up for Mr. Jestyn."

       "Eh!" asked my hearer, "what did you say?"

       I repeated my command, but the old retainer made no sign of obeying it.

       "Come, Humphries," I said, cheerfully, "I am sure you are wishing to be in bed."

       "I shanna move," he answered, doggedly, "Mr. Jestyn he did bid me to stay."

       Finding that it was as futile to reason with him as with a stone, I left him, to seek the solitude of my own room, but not to sleep. Ah, no! hour after hour passed, and still I tossed feverish, restless, and anxious on my bed; somehow the dark house on the Hereford-road, and the stranger I had last seen amid the ruins of Llanthony, seemed strangely connected; to my excited mind it was as though I was ever trying to reach that noiseless door, only to have it silently closed in my face; now I heard Jestyn calling on me, imploringly, for aid, then I beheld him rushing towards me, his face pale and despairing, his hands all covered with blood, and when at length I sank into a troubled slumber, it was only to dream that the unknown stranger and Jestyn were struggling madly with each other near the opening of a yawning abyss; nearer and nearer, closer and closer, they drew each other on to its black margin, until, with a piercing shriek, one staggered backwards, whilst the other fell into its ghastly depths, and that one was my friend — Jestyn.

       The cold grey dawn was stealing in through the latticed windows and finding its chill way into all the nooks and crevices when I awoke, and vaguely conscious of some impending evil, I arose, and throwing a wrap hastily around my shoulders crept down the passage to Jestyn's room. On the unoccupied bed, on the figure of a kneeling youth, the pallid light was breaking, and that figure I knew at once to be my friend; no sound escaped from his bloodless lips, but the wild anguish of his eyes, the awful despair of his drawn features, as he turned to me, smote me to the heart.

       "Jestyn," I cried, huskily, sinking on the ground beside him, and seizing one of his numb hands, "trust me, and tell me your trouble."

       "It's little use," he answered, wearily, "no one can help me now."

       "Not even your guardian and best friend, Mr. Herbert."

       At that name his whole frame shook.

       "Owain," he said, starting and pressing one hand to his brow, "he makes it harder. Oh God! how can I make you understand? I have signed his name for several hundreds!"

       "Jestyn."

       "Yes, yes," he went on madly, "reprove me, condemn me as you will, what are reproaches to the anguish of my soul, the remorse of my heart?"

       "But your own fortune?" I asked.

       "Except for a few hundreds I was powerless to touch it, so I forged the name of the dearest friend to me upon this earth, and all for an evening's pastime, a fleeting pleasure; Owain, Owain," he continued, "do not believe the worst of my wretched self; buoyed up by false hopes, I trusted to win back all I had so basely lost."

       "Then," I said, slowly, "you believe that there was foul play."

       He laughed ironically. "Believe!" he said, "I know certainly."

       "And your partner was the stranger of Llanthony?" I said.

       My listener started. "Owain, how do you know?"

       "I do not know," I answered. "I have an idea that it was to him you went night after night, unnoticed and unseen, and that idea has grown into a full belief."

       "At first," Jestyn exclaimed, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and drawing me towards him, "I was always the winner, so that once I pushed back to him some money, begging him to accept it; after that I lost a very little, then again I won, and so on until last night, when, mad with excitement — oh, my God! but, Owain, remember I hoped and felt confident of winning, and at first I did so, for after awhile, in seeming disgust, Trevor flung his cards down, saying that it was useless to go on playing with one possessing my luck, as, before the end, he would be ruined. Oh God! why did I not treat as they merited his treacherous words, and leave him then? But alas! success had made me mad, and, encouraging him loudly, I continued my reckless course, discovering too late that honour, friendship, and respect had been forfeited for ever by me."

       But on these miserable hours why dwell? Before another day had passed Jestyn, urged by me, had sought the refuge and sanctuary of Mr. Herbert's home.

       Not many months later Mr. Picarde called me to him, and told me that being now well stricken in years, and having more work than he could possibly attend to, he had come to the determination to teach no more. But though I was sorry to part with the kind old man, I could not but be pleased to return once more to my beloved Beacons; yet before I bade good-bye to Abergavenny and its castle, I gazed upon the faces of Mr. Herbert and Jestyn again. Sorrow had dulled the brightness of my friend's heart, and tainted the rosy hue of his young life, but there was a new tenderness in his voice, and his features glowed with a strange peace and happiness.

       "Owain," he said, drawing me aside, whilst Mr. Picarde descanted on the illustrious descent of his family, "Owain, no one can ever tell the mercy and the goodness of Mr. Herbert to me. To satisfy my craving to lessen the debt, which I can never hope fully to repay, he has consented to take a certain sum from my income yearly until the money I squandered be restored."

       It is such men as Mr. Herbert who snatch the burning brand from the furnace, and bring the wandering lamb back to its fold, it is such men as he who guide the erring heart, and feed the hungry soul.

       Such men are the true chosen of their God.

(To be continued.)

Owain Seithenyn.

——◆⟡◆——

BOOK I.

——◆⟡◆——

CHAPTER VI.
THE STRICKEN SOUL.

"Is there any man, or anyone to be found faultless  To come to the throne?  Is there anyone in whom there is no guilt?  Yes, the son of our Lady, St. Mary."

       Time flew by, and I increased in age, but not in stature.

       On the threshold of manhood, I stood a man, yet shapeless and afflicted. Do you wonder then, my friend, that often I envied the cattle that slept in the sun, or the birds that swept with light wing the ethereal space? They are hungry and they eat, they are thirsty and they drink, they are weary and they sleep, and no endless strivings, no ambitious hopes, no restless passions mar the peace of their day, or break the repose of their slumbers! To them there is no world but the green meadowland, no voice whispers in their ears that soon a crop of daisies will star the dewy mead, and a sheet of cowslips overspread the emerald lea when the pastures shall no more know them; the sun warms them, but they do not ponder over the Power that bade it shine; the evening's balm refreshes them, but they desire to understand none of Nature's laws, and yet surely man is the happier, man with his lofty aspirations, his heroic longings, his restless ambitions, his inner consciousness of right and wrong. For man has a hereafter! A hereafter where he will, through his sufferings here, be perfected in righteousness and peace!

       Things at Bodelwyddan had altered little since I had left. My father still led a lonely existence. Ivor still spent the greater portion of his time in the desolate castle amongst the hills, for Ivor's mother and father had followed each other to the grave after a short wedded life, leaving one child as the representative of an old race, and heir to one of the loveliest estates in Glamorganshire. Rich, beloved, fair, and tall, fortune had been indeed kind to him, yet in my envious bitterness I forgot that happiness is only comparative, and that because my kinsman had no troubles it was not to be supposed that he would never create them, and that had I suddenly been endowed with one of his blessings I should have become infinitely his superior in joy!

       Of Jestyn, of Mr. Herbert, I heard little, but that little rejoiced my heart, for under his guardian's tender and loving care, Jestyn was sowing the good seed, and proving that the sin of his boyish days was the salvation of his manhood.

       I was sitting by the fire one cold January afternoon alone, when Ivor entered and told me his happy secret, his features quivering with delight, and eyes shining with a strange new fire when he knelt beside me.

       "Owain," he said, softly, "Owain, you must forgive me if I have been more reticent than I should have been, but love is modest, and dreads to break the spell, lest it should be broken for ever."

       He paused a little as though he waited for me to speak, but no sympathy, no responsive chord was awakened in my soul by his words; on the contrary, I only felt a dogged, sullen determination to make him feel for my sad fate in his hour of joy.

       "You surely understand," Ivor went on, a slight blush mantling his cheek, "the secret I would have you know is one most of us have to reveal some time."

       A bitter smile crossed my face, for oh! how cruel sounded those words, yet I could make no answer, but sat looking hopelessly into the coals, whilst only the tick, tick of the clock broke the silence, the clock that would continue ticking through all the weary moments of my life.

       "Gwladys knows," Ivor said at length, "nay, she guessed it long ago."

       "Yes," I murmured, mechanically.

       "I know," proceeded my cousin, a trifle impatiently, "that you live in your books, that the doings of this work-a-day world have little interest for you, but I see," he added, laughing uneasily, "that you are resolved I shall confess."

       "Yes," I said again.

       "Very well, then," he returned, "Father Confessor, her name is Nesta."

       "I am very glad," I murmured, "may you both be happy."

       It was all I could say, all that I could wish them, but Ivor was satisfied; the happiness that is born of love is so complete that it requires little assurance from another, and thus taking my hand in his, and pressing it fervently, Ivor stole away and once more I sat and mused alone.

       It was winter; but I loved the grim, uncompromising season, with its howling winds and angry blasts, for it was one of my favourite pastimes to sit beside the window watching the intense blue of the mountains stand out against the leaden sky and whitened earth.

       It had been one of my firm childish convictions that once upon a time, thousands of years ago, a spirit had wandered from its far-off clime, to look once again upon the home of its childhood.

       "What shall I carry back," it cried, "as a memory of my youth to Paradise, for it is winter, and spring is buried, and summer is dead?"

       Then perplexed and troubled through the lifeless gardens and deserted grounds it wandered, pausing at last to gaze upon one green cleft which the snowflakes had forgotten, and thrusting its trembling fingers through a little grove of leaves, the spirit's longing eyes beheld a cluster of purple violets. "Since these alone are left," it cried, "and because they carry in their perfume the fragrance of my childish joys, death shall never know them, neither shall the sun scorch their blossoms, nor the wind blight their buds," and thus gathering them the spirit travelled Heavenwards, but as it flew over a waste of desolate and level country it let the violets fall, all save one . . . and when next morn the sun awoke, it smiled down on a great purple head which man named "The Beacons."

       But to-day when Ivor left me I cared not to dwell on such fancies, for my heart was sore, and the contrast which his life presented to mine made me wretched and discontented; so in a restless, disconsolate spirit I arose and walked out; the snow was falling fast but its drops scarcely cooled my hot cheek, the cold wind blew sharply on my uncovered head and shoulders, yet I hardly felt its icy breath, a white heaven stretched over my head, a white ground lay under my feet; careless as to where I strayed some mysterious influence seemed to guide me to the churchyard where slumbered the unconscious dead in restful calm. The heavy gates were opened, apparently I was not the first to enter that region of sleep.

       Alie's little mound was wrapt in a white mantle of snow — snow as pure as her own guileless soul which had taken flight in its infancy to Heaven, that paradise of eternal youth!

       It seemed to me, as I gazed upon the grave, that soon the gloom would reveal to me a sobbing child, an old woman and a little misshapen youth standing somewhere near. Ah! was it imagination that showed me at length almost hidden in the dusky light the outline of a woman's form? Could it be Nesta? Had she on this day of all others come to pour out her happiness, as she had her sorrow, to her silent little sister? No passionate words of love or grief broke the hush.

       But surely, no! that thin fragile figure was not that of robust Nesta, that drooping head, those thinly clad shoulders did not belong to my childhood's playmate.

       If suffering guarded that lonely grave it was suffering of an intense kind; and fearing to intrude on such anguish I crept as noiselessly as I had approached away.

       The pain that cries out courts sympathy and after a time cures itself, but not so the pain that is mute and proudly, patiently, hopelessly stands aloof, condemned by its very heroism to solitude and isolation! Careless of the snow-laden atmosphere, and chilly ground I flung myself on the white carpet and threw my arms round the marble of my mother's tomb; a craving for tenderness, for love, filled my heart. Oh! how I longed for some sweet ups to kiss my tears away, for some womanly compassion to soothe my pain, and she who could and would have done it all so naturally, so gently was dead!

       I must have lain thus some time, until my mind had grown as passive and numbed as my limbs, when I was recalled to consciousness and reality by a human voice, "And you have sorrow too?"

       The tone in which these few sad words were spoken was so unearthly in its ring that my eyes were bent upon the grave as though they had proceeded from within.

       In all my visits, lately, to this hallowed spot, I had rarely seen or spoken to any one save the sexton, for the district was a very lonely one and the churchyard so old that the mourners had long since found the mourned beyond the shining river.

       The blinding snow, the clouded air, hid from me the speaker's face, but I could faintly trace the outline of her form, which was the same I had beheld kneeling by Alie's grave.

       "Yes," I answered, after a great pause, "I have a great sorrow."

       My listener sighed. "It is the same tale I hear everywhere I roam," she said, in the same dreary tone, "and yet we live!"

       "Sorrow seldom kills," I cried, "it murders the heart but not the body."

       "That is the worst," she exclaimed, passionately; "death is the barrier, we cannot, dare not, pass until he bids us come!"

       I made no reply, it was truth.

       "If you weep for the dead," my strange companion continued, drawing closer, and placing one hand on my arm, "think what it is to weep for the living, for the living whom you love, and who may not love you, for the living whom you may gaze on, yet never speak to, for the living in whose sorrows, in whose joys, we have no claim, no right, to share."

       "Surely you were mourning for the departed at Alie's grave," I murmured, feeling it was best to check her sad and bitter outbreak, but even as my words fell I regretted them, for a sudden shudder convulsed her frame, and covering her face in her hands, a startled cry escaped her lips.

       "You know her, then?" she cried, hoarsely. "Oh, tell me, did she ever speak of — Oh, what am I saying?" she broke off wildly, "be kind, have mercy, heed me not."

       "But surely it is not right that you should be out on such a night as this!" I replied.

       Her laugh was not pleasant to hear, as she drew her hands from her face, and looked up into mine through the mist and gloom.

       Taking off my coat I flung it hastily around her, and drew her under the church porch; a stone seat ran all round it, and on this hard bench we sat down for some moments. I wanted words wherewith to soothe the pain I knew my companion was enduring, but it is surprising at what a loss for words we are when we need them most. "Oh! if I could but comfort you," I cried, "if I could but lighten your suffering!"

       "Nobody can help me," she answered, "and you would not understand if you knew the weight of my grief!"

       No one understands — no one understands — is ever the burden of our lamentation; oh, sorrow-stricken, heavy laden soul, think! think! Is there not one heart ever ready to bleed for our pangs? Is there not an eye ever ready to weep for our tears? Is there not an arm ever strong to ease the burden of our cross? Yes and one ear is ever ready to hearken to our despairing cry of "help, help!"

       "Do not think," I pleaded, "that a wish to probe the cause of your distress prompts my questions; but have you no friends who can help you?"

       "Friends?" my listener echoed, scornfully.

       "Yes," I repeated, boldly, "someone who loves you, or whom you love."

       "Oh, do not say that word," she exclaimed, passionately, "it is old, and yet so new; out of my life it has passed, nor dare I hope for its return."

       "Can love ever pass away?" I queried, wonderingly.

       "Alas, alas it can, it can! Tell me, does the rose blush when summer has flown, does the day smile when night has dawned, is the sky radiant when the sun is hidden? Can man then live without faith, without love?"

       "Adversity, Gwilym says," I replied, quoting the harper as unconsciously as Nesta had done to me so many years ago, "only makes true love more perfect, more complete, and adds a brighter lustre to its glow!"

       With a faint cry my listener rose, and leaned against the stone wall looking steadily at me through the gloom.

       "Gwilym," she said, as though dazed, "Gwilym, Gwilym!"

       Yes, Gwilym," I repeated, "my best friend, my faithful guide —" But before the end of the sentence my listener had sunk by my side, weeping passionately.

       "Oh, forgive me, forgive me," she sobbed, "sorrow has made me weak and foolish, and that name recalled one who was ever kind to me!"

       "Perhaps it is the same," I answered, hopelessly. "And if it is, he will help you again, come, come with me and I will help you to find him now."

       She shrank back from me and once more covered her face with her hands.

       The knowledge that it was growing late urged upon me the necessity of entreating her to allow me to take her to some shelter where she could procure a night's lodging and change her wet garments, for she had, in answer to my query, told me that she was a stranger in this part of the world.

       The snow had not yet ceased to fall, and its pallor but made the darkness of the night more conspicuous. She heard me with the stony indifference that often marks mental suffering, and then begged me to leave her in the sanctuary she had sought.

       "You will tell me at least," I pleaded, "what I may think of you."

       "As the most wretched outcast in the wide world!" she replied.

       "Oh, do not say that!" I cried, not knowing precisely what to say. "Some day you may be happy again!"

       "Never, never," was the hopeless answer. "In the gloom of sin who can behold the light? The misery," she went on, recklessly, "which God sends, He teaches us to bear, but the grief attendant upon our own sins pursues us even here!" She pointed as she spoke beyond the porch to the graves.

       "If you lean on Him, He will help you to bear every woe," I said.

       For the second time in my life I was the consoler, but this time my sympathy was neither repulsed nor disregarded.

       Forced at length to leave her, I told her never in the future to deem herself friendless or uncared for, but to remember Owain Seithenyn when she needed help; and the poor soul, stricken in mind and weak in body, fell upon my bosom, and bursting into a storm of tears, bade God bless me — and thus I left her alone with the dead.

       All was quiet when I reached home, but my father still sat alone in his solitary chamber. The long windows were but faintly lighted, and the snow, having ceased to fall, whitened no longer the narrow-latticed panes; darkness grim and silent, ruled heaven and earth. As I entered the shadowy room the snow flakes still clung to my damp garments, and were the only gleams of light in the dreary night. It was very cold outside, but I felt the chilliness far more within. To-night, as I gazed upon his stern, grave visage, a new and strange sensation crept over me, and a longing to hear his voice, and thus break the profound silence, seized me. "Father," I cried, "oh, speak to me," but no answer came, only the patient meaningless stare of deep abstraction, and over-powered by a sudden terror, for I was excited and nervous, I moved to go away, but as I did so, my father arose, and stood a tall dark figure against the windows.

       "Owain," he asked, "why do you disturb me?"

       "Father!"

       "Yes, why do you?" he repeated, slowly, "I want to be alone!"

       "Dear father, you are always alone!"

       For a few moments he made no response, then he said, "Owain, come here."

       I drew nigh, but not without a spasm of fear, for his mien, the tone of his voice, thrilled and frightened me.

       "Child," he gasped, clutching my arm almost fiercely, "light my lamp and bring it hither."

       Trembling, and in silence, I obeyed, and the gleam of the lamp fell here and there in the study, making the prevailing gloom more hideous.

       I remember well how its faint light glanced on the rich tresses of a beautiful woman, whose picture hung far apart from the rest in a little corner of its own. I remember well how her tragic eyes glanced at me through the dusk, and how well the splendid folds of the amber bodice fitted the lines of her supple form. She was an ancestress of our house, and her name was Gwladys, the Lady Tudor. Often and often I had heard her fate, but to-night the history of her crime, her wrongs pressed on me like a nightmare, and haunted me. She had never been a good woman, but it was a long list of cruelties, of infidelities, that had urged her to poison the man that the law obliged her to own as husband.

       Tradition asserts that she watched his agonies and death throes with cruel smiles and taunts, and just as he breathed his last, plunged a dagger into her own bosom, and covered with blood, flung herself beside his dying couch, crying, "Come, we will travel to perdition together. Come, we will travel to perdition together, come, come, come."

       "Owain," said my father at last, taking the lamp from my shaking hand, and holding it so that the glare fell full upon his pallid features, "look at my face, and tell me what you read there."

       Almost mechanically I gazed into that serious countenance, and was speechless.

       "It is the seal of death," he exclaimed, "but you fear to tell me so."

       I had no power to answer, fear bound me down like a massive chain, and closed my lips irrevocably.

       From my father's face I turned, but only to meet the tragic eyes of Gwladys, the Lady Tudor, and from his voice I turned but to listen to those reckless words, sounding ever so far away, "Come, we will travel to perdition together, come, come, come."

       "Owain," continued my parent, "are you afraid of its power?"

       I knew well to what he alluded, and gazed out through the great window to the white landscape beyond.

       "Death," I cried at length, urged by a sudden impulse, "is like a river, we long to plunge into its waters to be refreshed, yet we dread its coldness."

       "Yet he who is dreaded by all, fears none," replied my listener. "Owain, I am going soon to take the plunge in yonder river, its coldness may indeed make me shudder, yet its waters will not fail to refresh me!"

       "Father!" I remonstrated.

       "Hush, hush!" he said, hurriedly, as though he feared my emotion, "hush child, there is nothing to frighten you."

       I remained silent.

       "No, nothing," he reiterated, "nothing; if I do not fear, why should you?"

       "Father!" I exclaimed, clinging passionately to his arm, "oh, father, when death comes he will not depart alone." Over my hearer's face came a look of bewilderment as he drew his arm away, and raised his hand to his brow. "Father," I continued, earnestly, "for our, your children's sakes, if not for your own, come into the light of our love, live more amongst us, and such fancies as these will vanish."

       "Fancies, Owain!" He swept my insignificant form with an expression of indignant contempt, but I felt neither mortified nor wounded, for I had spoken in all truth and sincerity; perhaps he understood this, for presently he pressed one of my hands tenderly, saying, "It is too late for that now, too late, too late."

       "No, no, not too late," I pleaded eagerly and hurriedly.

       "Owain," he went on, taking no notice of my words, "the world has deemed me cold, my children have unconsciously confirmed that belief, yet there lived one who knew my glance to be warm, who never doubted the fervour of my soul; love such as mine is too deep to be probed, its sincerity is its accuser, its intensity its weakest testimony; when the ocean is calm, we judge it passionless, it is only when the wind asserts its sway that we learn its passion. Owain, such love I bore, I bear yet for your mother!"

       "Father," I pleaded, "we would love you, if you would but permit us."

       But I do not think that he heard, for his eyes were bent on a never-to-be-reached distance, and he murmured softly to himself, "Ceridwen, in yonder mansions we shall soon be re-united. The long slumber of your lonely rest is now nigh broken." His features were illuminated by the light of happiness. "For years," he proceeded, "the memory of your golden hair has been my only sunbeam, the low ripple of your laughter my only music, the echo of your voice my sweetest melody!"

       My father ceased, his voice died away, but his look, his tone, even after this lapse of long years are with me still, and I can recall every glance of his eye, every thrill of his voice.

       Without bidding him "good-night," for it was idle to seek to arouse him from the reverie into which he had fallen, I crept upstairs, glancing backwards as I went at the fateful visage of Gwladys, the Lady Tudor. "Come, we will travel to perdition together, come, come, come." It seemed to me as if those words would never cease buzzing in my ears, it seemed as though her invisible and spectral hands were outstretched to me, that her clammy clutch was already at my throat, and her cruel lips were smiling at me through the mists of death.

       To cool my burning forehead, I opened the window and leant out, breathing the night air. There, grand, calm and beautiful stood the Beacons, and the sight of their strength, their silence, soothed and quieted my agitated mind and overwrought nerves. "Dear beloved friends," I cried, as the breeze played with my hair, "I am very weary and frightened, comfort me as you know how to do." And thus with my head resting against the frame, my eyes fixed on the snowy peaks, and the "come, come, come," sounding in my ears, I fell asleep to dream that the mountain were coming towards me through the darkness, until they came so close that I struggled wildly for air, and as I struggled the face of my father, as I had last seen it, gazed into mine, but scarcely had I realised this when his grave, stern features changed into those of the harper. "Gwilym Gwilym," I gasped, "the mountains are enclosing me, and I trusted them, save me, save me, save me."

       I awoke to find that the darkness that comes before the dawn had stolen around, and the coldness had so benumbed my limbs that I could scarcely move from the posture in which I was. Was it indeed a dream, or had my friends really drawn nigh to me, and sought to bear me away with them? I had distrusted them, I had cried to be released from their bondage. Thrusting one hand forward, I felt for the Beacon's rocky walls, but in vain.

(To be continued.)

Owain Seithenyn.

—:o:—

BOOK I.

—:o:—

CHAPTER VII.
LOVE'S RESTLESS FEVER.

       I am wounded, and the great love I bear thee will not suffer me to sleep unless thou givest me a kind answer.

I recite without either flattery or guile, thy praise, And thou that shinest like the meridian sun with thy stately steps, Heaven has decreed that I should suffer tormenting pain; and wisdom and reason were given in vain to guard against love, I know that this pain will avail me nothing towards my love. O thou whose countenance is as bright as the flowers! — Ode to Myfanwy. HYWEL AB EINION.

       Surrounded by a sea of leaves and bushes I sat, gazing upon the wild white flood of the Rhydgoch Waterfalls as they rushed in their ceaseless fury, roaring, clamouring, clattering over rocky heights and moss-clothed ledges, between green banks crowded with trees whose branches dipped into the bubbling tide, and whispered to each other across the current above the bright spring sunshine which scarcely penetrated the beautiful fretwork roof of foliage, whilst over Nature's ever-varying carpet crept the blue blossoms of the wild veronica, in vivid contrast to the fragile wind-flower, and mingling its frail loveliness with the yellow loose-strife, the trailing vinca, and the tender tendrils of the wandering vetch.

       Along the narrow declivitous pathway there came, sauntering aimlessly along, a man and a girl. There was something in the former's mien and gait that struck me as familiar-and the stranger who had hailed the coach at the Tower, and whom I had last beheld in Ewias' gloomy vale I now met once again by the hurrying waters.

       "May I recall myself to your mind?" and almost before I had realised, or grasped the situation, I felt my hands clasped warmly and myself addressed by Jestyn's tempter; it was a perilous moment, and even then I might have turned and fled, had it not been for the stranger's companion. Apart from us both she stood, a figure hardly above medium height, yet giving me the impression that she was tall, robed in a loose dark cloak, which could not entirely hide the slim, graceful outlines of her girlish form. Her face would have been matchless had it not been for the scornful azure eyes, and grave haughty lips; it was such a proud contemptuous face, seemingly devoid of all tenderness, of all love, with its firm, straight lines and resolute curves; yet its pride, its coldness fascinated even though it repelled the gazer.

       "There is little need to recall it," I said at length coldly; "as I told you before I seldom forget any countenance I have once seen." My hearer bowed. "Yes," he replied in the same friendly strain, "I remember." Then he sat down beside me and from one topic passed on to another, until I recollected no longer Jestyn, Mr. Herbert, or that wretched night at Abergavenny, but only that some one was talking to me as no one had ever talked before, making me forget my affliction, my sorrows, and my discontent; and thus it was that soon after I found myself walking leisurely by the stranger's side along the Ffrwdgrech Road. "Are you staying in Brecon?" I asked as we paused at length on a bridge under whose arch ran a streamlet, and from which led three crossroads.

       All this time neither by word or look had the girl once signified that she was conscious of my presence, but had followed us silently at a little distance. At my question my hearer hesitated, then glancing, almost timidly at his other companion, answered, "Yes, we are with a Mr. John in the 'Struet.' Perhaps when you are in the town you will come and see us; my name is Trevor."

       At the mention of that name I started, and Jestyn's anguish and passion flashed across my brain, and indignant refusal rose to my lips; before I had framed it my eyes had fallen on the woman's face, and I had said "Yes." "It's quite a charity to come and see us," Mr. Trevor continued. "We are strangers here."

       Was it my fancy, or did his companion smile?

       "We are great travellers, are we not, Helen?" he said, turning to speak to her; but if she heard she gave no sign, no movement that she had done so, but walked on. Trevor shook my hand, and in a few moments more, seated on the bridge, I was watching them gradually fade away in the distance.

       Then, serious and thoughtful, I commenced my way home. With steady persistence, the face and form of Helen haunted me through all the coming weeks, until one day, incapable of any longer battling with my passionate desire to behold her, I rode on my shaggy mountain pony up the town to the "Struet," a long level street, leading out of the High Street. The house in which they were staying was a very old one facing the Priory and the noisy Honddu, and having underneath it a queer old picture-shop, kept by one James John a dark thin man whom the neighbours persisted in calling "the Hawk."

       "How do you do, Mr. John?" I asked, leaning over the counter and shaking his hand; "I have not seen you for a long while, but I hope time has used you well."

       "It ain't for me to complain," replied my humble friend, "it ain't right for us to grumble, Mr. Owain."

       "No," I answered; "it isn't right, but we cannot always keep to the right."

       "Trade is certainly not what I could wish," Mr. John continued, rubbing his fingers over a gold frame, "but as I said, and will always say, man is made to mourn, and 'tis waste of time and energy to complain."

       The picture-dealer's resignation was truly sublime, and had it only been sincere, would have been perfect.

       "You will be a rich man some day, Mr. John," I said, looking over the dingy shops, crowded with dusty pictures of dancing Bacchantes crowned with vine leaves, of rock-bound Andromedas, of flower-clad Proserpinas, and laughing Hebes.

       "A rich man," reiterated my hearer, assuming a grieved and reproachful look — "Mr. Owain, you don't know the fickleness and variableness of fortune; why, the weather, the weather," added Mr. John, with a burst of natural eloquence, "ain't in it."

       I smiled, which was perhaps not suited to the gravity of the occasion, and which certainly was not suited to the temperament of my companion, for with an offended air of mingled dignity and pride he took down from an upper shelf a moderate sized picture enclosed in carved wood, representing Llewellyn with his army, advancing to the rescue of the besieged in Dynevor Castle.

       "Well, Mr. John?" I said, interrogatively.

       "Well, Mr. Owain," he reiterated almost indignantly, but had no time to further express his spleen at my somewhat abrupt question, for at this juncture the inner door was slowly opened, and Mr. Trevor himself looked in. "Mr. John," he commenced, but stopped suddenly as his eyes fell upon me. "Oh, Mr. Owain, this is kind; come up, come upstairs."

       Leaving the dealer with his treasure in his hands, I climbed the creaky steps, and in another moment stood within a small square room.

       On the deep window-seat a huge calceolaria was blooming, alone relieving the dinginess that prevailed. Did I say alone? Ah, no! for what place could be destitute of beauty, of fairness, when Helen Trevor was there?

       To-day the sombre cloak no longer hid the supple form clad in its loose robe, or the quaint bonnet concealed the silken auburn hair which, leaving her low white brow, was coiled in a great knot just above her swan-like neck.

       "Helen," cried Mr. Trevor, "Mr. Owain has fulfilled his promise, and come to see us; draw near the fire," he added, turning to me, "for it is cold, though fine, and warm yourself."

       At the first part of his speech the girl had advanced, and stood, holding her hand out to me. "It is always cold in this part of the world," she said, carelessly drawing around her slight shoulders a thick shawl.

       "But you are such a cold person, Helen," the man said lightly. "You see," he continued, turning to me, as if apologising, "my daughter suffers from a constant cough."

       "You should be careful," I remarked, moving nearer to the cheerful blaze, for the ride had made me chilly. "Brecon, so Mr. John tells me, is severe in winter and spring, and I am always urging Helen to be more cautious about her health," returned Mr. Trevor.

       Though I had addressed myself solely to the girl, she had kept her profile resolutely turned from me, but at her father's last words she turned and faced us. "Cease, I pray," her scornful lips said, "to make me the subject of your conversation, and speak more profitably."

       I felt rebuffed, and Mr. Trevor looked uncomfortable, and excusing himself, soon after quitted the room, saying he would shortly return. Alone with my companion, I in vain strove to overcome my timidity, but all my small efforts at conversation were met with an icy "yes" or "no." "I knew a Squire Trevor many years ago," I said at length, for the silence was becoming oppressive; "may I ask whether he was any relative of yours?"

       "I believe there was an Edward Trevor, a distant relative or connection of ours, who lived somewhere in or near Brecon," answered my listener frigidly.

       I feared, from the tones in which she spoke, that she deemed I had been presumptive, and I therefore hastened to explain. "You are mistaken," she replied, "there is no need to explain."

       The words were scornful, the voice was even more so, and they wounded me far more than I cared to express, even to myself, and soon after Mr. Trevor's return, stung with pain, I hastened to take leave; yet cold, contemptuous, scornful as she had been, I could not dismiss her from my thoughts. I thought of her throughout the long spring hours, and, when the day shook its pinions and fled, I thought of her so much the more. Waking and dreaming, active or inactive, my mind dwelt on her beauty, whilst my soul cried out against the iciness of hers. It was Helen's face that looked forth from the flowers, it was Helen's form that flitted by in the shadows, it was Helen's voice that spoke to me in the moaning of the wind, or sang to me in the rushing of the river. Always, always Helen, Helen, and no one, nothing else.

       One night I beheld her coming towards me clothed in white, with her fair hair falling all around her, and her proud eyes all soft with mercy and tenderness.

       "Owain," she whispered, oh! so gently, "Owain, I would have saved you if I could, but you would not have it so."

       Somehow, I was ever wandering into Brecon now, or haunting its outskirts, a patient, lonely little figure, waiting, hoping, longing, only for a glimpse of the woman I was learning to love, and she — she would pass me by, sometimes with a grave bow, sometimes with an imperious nod of the head, and sometimes, very seldom, she would take my hand and ask me how I was. Once, as I was passing under the shadow of the "crwcws" on the Dinas Road, I saw her coming towards me with a tall, lithe form beside her, which I knew, even as I banished the idea, to be that of my cousin Ivor. "Owain," he called out gaily, but my quick eyes detected that his gayness was a little forced, and that his eyes shrank abashed from my earnest and penetrating gaze, "what solitary rambles you take; you know Miss Trevor."

       "Yes," I answered, slowly, "I know Miss Trevor;" then, hastily murmuring an excuse, I left them with a pain gnawing my heart, and with all the sunshine fled from the heavens and the fragrance departed from the flowers. Never before had I fully realised the intensity, the force of my love for Helen — never before had I fully realised its dreary, endless hopelessness.

       Hope, the first-born, and loveliest child of love, would never hover over my restless, passion-stricken soul. No; such men as I may indeed love, but cannot even expect it in return; yet love to my passionate Celtic nature was an essential, a necessity.

       Living amongst the heroes of the past, dwelling in the regions of poetry and romance, my heart, yea, my very soul, lay captive at the feet of one proud girl — an easy, though a restless captive, a submissive prisoner. Oh, how often in one brief day I would seat myself on some rocky ledge, and pour out my desolation and sorrows to the beacons, whilst the passing breezes would bear away my sighs on their unseen wings and carry them I know not whither, and the stray sunbeams would come and kiss my tears away, whispering their messages of brightness! "Oh, why is life so hard," was my constant cry, "and Heaven so cruel? What woman could ever love me? What tender hand could take mine in the union of sympathy and bliss? What manly voice could hail me as 'comrade,' or childish lips breathe out the sacred name of 'father?'"

       Others' homes may be cheerful and contented, mine must ever remain lonely. Others' hearths may glow with affection and happiness, mine must for ever be desolate. Others' souls may be linked together in the grand chain of fraternity, mine must stand apart.

       I could not go forth, like other men, into the wide arena, and win some of the plaudits that shake the world, or some of the laurels that bind the hero's brow; and yet even I, lonely, deformed, as I was, might have been a hero — yea, one greater than mighty C&aellig;sar or proud Alexander — as great as he whose quivering form the hungry lions tore, or the martyr whose dying lips breathed a prayer for his murderers. Friend! thou canst be one too, if thou wilt, although thou mayst never travel beyond thy village home, or hear the hurrying passing crowd whisper thy humble name down to future generations; for what is a fiercer flame than daily, nay, hourly affliction? What is a greater scourge than cruel taunts, a sadder experience than honesty unrewarded, or merit unrecognised, a harder lesson than poverty? In those sad and early days of my love I remember having no consolation save in devoting long hours to writing odes on Helen's beauty, or drawing her in the guise of nearly every character I knew. Now, it was Ellen Gethin, "the terrible," with the fatal bow and arrow, or gentle Branwen; then it was beautiful Flur, or queenly Boadicea.

       One day I drew myself as the youth who implored his love thus in his dreams, "Is there no hope for him who loves thus?" And Helen's form in the distance, saying, "Youth, hear my words, which are not false; there never was a hope, there is none, and none will ever be." At this picture I would sit and gaze, repeating the cruel words over and over again, until they hung like a great weight round my neck, drawing me into deeper gloom and despondency.

       And thus, spiritless and sick at heart, I roamed through the deserted gardens and silent corridors, nursing, with every step I took, my pain with the sullenness of despair. Nothing is so quick to confess itself as idleness, and Gwilym, loving me best, was the first to observe my abstraction of mind and my sorrowful mien, and at his gentle admonitions and earnest remonstrances I would endeavour to arouse myself from the lethargy into which I was gradually sinking, but alas! in vain — the heart is sole arbiter of the mind, sole mistress of the soul.

       It was when bent on one of my solitary rambles that I met Gwilym; my greeting was sullen, for I wished to be alone, but the harper only rebuked me with a wistful smile. 'Are you going farther?" he inquired, gently, stooping as he spoke to pick up his ferns.

       "I am going home," I answered, with the brevity of irritability.

       The harper raised his head, and giving me a swift glance, motioned me towards him. "I have some rare specimens here," he remarked, cheerfully, "they well repay the trouble they have cost."

       "Nothing repays toil," I interposed, gloomily.

       "Say rather, my son," retorted the harper, "that nothing is worth obtaining that does not demand toil."

       "Perhaps so," I assented, indifferently.

       "If we sleep all day we cannot enjoy the repose of night," he cried, then selecting one leaf he held it up for inspection. "This is the Polypody, or Polypodium vulgare," Gwilym commenced, holding forth a fern equal almost in breadth to his fingers, and patched all over with the sickly brown, yet gracefully pointed scales; "this," he went on, patiently, apparently oblivious of my morose silence and sullen expression, which betrayed not the slightest interest or desire for further information, "is the Scolopendrium vulgare, commonly known as the hart's tongue, you observe how vivid and brilliant is its verdure; this," tenderly regarding the leaf he pointed out to me, "is the Pteris or bracken, the most beautiful, the most familiar of all, and ——"

       "Oh, yes," I said, adopting my instructor's earnest tones, "I know all you are going to say. Pteris is the Greek for 'fern,' coming from another word which means a 'feather,' so named from its elegance and similarity to a feather — there!" I finished, defiantly "though I have ceased to take any interest in nature, I am not entirely ignorant of the flowers and plants I have grown up amongst."

       "No, my son," replied Gwilym, his serenity in no way disturbed by my ill-humour, and smiling as he spoke one of his weird smiles; "often when the mind is ill at ease all the world, Nature especially, appears destitute of interest or charm, and we mortals are too prone to estimate everything by our own feelings at the moment when we judge them, believing them to be impartial!"

       "You have a reason for all things," I responded ironically, by no means soothed by the harper's argumentative talk.

       "Say, rather, there is a reason for everything," was the rejoinder; "but it is easy to find a reason for another's action, and difficult to assign any for our own," concluded Gwilym, anxious not to feed my irritability; then stretching out his hand he took mine, and bending over me, said tenderly, "what ails thee, my son, that of late you have changed so to me?"

       "I have been studying much," I stammered confusedly, whilst my heart condemned me for its ingratitude to the harper.

       "We rarely change our habits without a change in ourselves," mused the harper thoughtfully.

       "Oh, Gwilym, I am not happy," I burst forth impetuously, a strong impulse prompting me; "Gwilym, Gwilym, teach me to be contented!"

       "Not happy! Alas! my child, how few of us are! how seldom are our shoulders bent under joy's pressure! Our visages are more marred by care, and our brows more lined by pain than lightened by peace and happiness, yet we are too prone to search for the thorns rather than for the flowers, too ready to fall under the weight of our cross," my listener answered, as he laid a cool hand upon my heated forehead,

       "Some people," I cried, a sudden thought striking me, "are better, nobler, and happier in their old age than in their youth."

       "You are right," responded the harper; "might we not liken such to the sweet Nyctantus, which, after sunset, scatters and sheds its perfume on the evening air?"

       "Gwilym, Gwilym," I sobbed passionately, flinging myself into his protecting arms, "you will not understand my grief, but will despise my weakness."

       "You are mistaken. I understand and sympathise with all sorrows, all weaknesses, for I have so many myself."

       "Hear me then," I cried, excitedly, as I tossed my hair from off my brow; "do not speak till I have left naught untold. Know, then, that I, poor, deformed as I am, have dared to love; oh, my friend, do not blame me, it is a self-invited guest; it gives neither direction, guidance nor caution, and like the imprisoned bird, I seek liberty in vain."

       "You say you love," said the harper; "but love is a wide term that may mean much, yet into how many different sections may it not be divided?"

       Gwilym spoke truly; the world of love is a world without limits; it is a land where the sunshine too often scorches, where the shadows too often fall, and where the eventide too often banishes the day; it is a country of sighs and smiles, of laughter and tears; its history has always been the same, and will be the same till the end, when all earthly love shall be swallowed up in the measureless infinitude of Christ's mercy. But if you would follow me into this wondrous kingdom and gaze upon those who dwell therein — a woman with a baby clasped close to her maternal breast; a man with his eyes eagerly bent over some mystic lore; a hero with his brow crowned with the wreath of renown; a virgin with her lips vowing troth to heaven. Look on them all, all so different, and yet all hastening to the same inevitable end, the one great silent conclusion.

       "I love," I said at length, "if not in the nobler, grander sense, and she whom I love is Helen Trevor," and in the confusion of shame I bent low my head, and let the tell-tale blush surge over neck and face. Then with the strength of passion, I raised my head and fixed my eyes on the harper. Agitated as I was, he seemed even more so, for his countenance was very pale, and every feature expressed latent fire and emotion. "Oh Gwilym," I cried, forgetting my shame in his distress, "have I indeed grieved you thus?"

       For a moment the harper made no attempt to speak, and when he did, I saw that it was by a violent effort. "My son, oh, my son," he said, resting one long thin hand on my shoulder, "do not attribute my emotion to such a cause; no, something — something — that is of the past, spoke and touched me." Once more his head fell on his breast and his grey hair swept his bowed neck and cheek. "I feel for you," he continued after a moment's pause, "oh, so deeply," so earnestly that words would but belie its sincerity; nothing can touch us so much as striking the chord of which the music is silent.

       Never before had I seen the harper so greatly moved. "Gwilym, dear Gwilym," I sobbed, "teach me to be even as you."

       "Hush, hush," he responded, "I will strive to teach you to be like unto a far greater; but the master can only instruct the scholar that is diligent. Yet remember that nobility is a badge that the humblest can wear; that virtue is a form that despises no partnership; and that honour is a bank that has never, that never can break."

       "Yes," I cried; "Gwilym, go on."

       The harper obeyed. "Truth," he went on, "defies the world. Unsmiling, yet never gloomy, she walks the wide earth protected by faith. She has no vulnerable point like the heel of Achilles, so that the fiercest sophistry has not force sufficient to pierce her invisible armour, and those who come to wound her only fall and die themselves."

       "Gwilym," I asked, wonderingly, "were you ever young?"

       His weird smile flitted from feature to feature, endowing each as it lingered with its sweet radiance. "Youth," he replied, "is an indefinite period. There are many who grow old ere they are young, and many that are still young even though they be old."

       "If youth means freedom from pain and care, I have never known youth," I said.

       "Owain," said the harper, "believe me this grief is but transitory."

       "No, no," I interrupted indignantly; "Gwilym, it will never pass."

       My listener sighed deeply, and, more to himself than to me, murmured: "Such is life — a spell of ignorance, a fleeting dream of romance, a long span of reality;" and, even as he spoke, the wind bore to us the sunny ripples of girlish laughter, followed by two panting youthful forms who came rushing towards us.

       Nesta's saucy face was beaming with happiness, and Ivor's was scarcely less radiant, whilst her breath came fast and quick, and under her simple gown her bosom rose and fell. From this bright picture I turned away with sickly envy and fierce pangs, and left them standing together, that noble trio of honoured age and innocent youth — life's most perfect picture — left them standing there, and went on my solitary way; but even as I trace these lines, I see once again grey hair fading into raven tresses, raven tresses melting into golden locks, and young eyes looking lovingly into old, see them once again with the purple Beacons closing all around, and the sweet spring sunshine lying everywhere.

       In my old nursery, wherein I had so often played and listened to Ursula's endless stories and legends, I found my old nurse; alas! all her power to amuse me had vanished, and no longer could she dispel my tears with some quaint ballad, or lighten my pain with the history of some fierce hero or malignant hobgoblin, but the memory of those days was with me still, and the very sight of her kind, cheery face comforted me, and softened my most bitter thoughts.

       With Ursula Time was standing still; he had hurried her through many a year; now he was content to let her pause for a while ere hurrying her swiftly to the grave, where he would bid her for ever "Farewell," hastening back to the world to frown on and hurry some other mortal.

       To-day Ursula was not an enlivening companion, for she was very sleepy, and said "yes" when she should have said "no," and "no" when she ought to have said "yes;" and I left her soon, having only increased her sleepiness by her brave efforts to keep awake on my account, and went and sat the long drawing-room that looked out on the neglected park, "Oh, why can't I die?" I moaned; "why can't I die?"

       Vain, vain question addressed to silence, and only answered by a silence deeper and more mysterious. And now, in the calm eventide of life when death stands so near, I cannot bid him welcome; and yet no desire, no longing to live longer, prompts my heart or wrestles with my soul, for I love to sit and dream of the day when all anguish, all tears, all doubts for me shall be over, and when those I loved on earth shall be for ever united to me in heaven.

       I am like one who, though wishing to be free from a great pain, yet dreads the operation that will deliver him. And thus I stand alone on the deserted stage waiting for the music to play the last strain, and the curtain to fall never to rise again.

(To be continued.)

Owain Seithenyn.

—:0:—

BOOK I.

—:0:—

CHAPTER VIII.
THE BETTER DAWN.

"Nightless day, incessant day, no clouds, No darkness, no disease." SION CENT.

       A constant witness of Ivor and Nesta's happy love, I grudged them its brightness, and envied them their happiness. But should I have grudged them their little day of bliss, their short holiday snatched from the turmoil of life, their quickly-fading roses plucked from a hedge of thorns? Surely, ah, surely not! We all have such hours, such moments, and let us steal from them all the sunbeams we can catch, all the blossoms we can grasp, and all the perfume our hearts can hold, for though our memories may linger we may not feel such joy again!

       It was only Gwilym who soothed and comforted me; hour after hour I would sit beside him listening to heroic deeds and noble actions until my own insignificance, and the narrow groove into which grief had driven me would disappear, and I would remember my own sorrow only to condemn and despise myself; and then my gentle monitor would draw a better and happier life for his erring pupil — a life so full of mighty effort, so crowded with splendid acts, a life so worthy that all the present gloom and bitter tears should become but the dim outline of a grand future, a future all the purer, all the brighter, for its contrast to the past. Yet, alas! as the kindly rain feeds the panting earth for a time, and for a time only, so did the harper's earnest eloquence touch my soul. Some natures are submissive and patient under affliction, others callous and indifferent, sullen and restless; thus I thrust from my heart the knowledge that our sorrows rightly borne purify and elevate us, and forgot that when wrongly treated, they grow a thousand times stronger and more terrible.

       It was a late morning when Ivor left for his own home. In another year he would come of age, and be his own master, and in the meantime he wished to grow familiar with and understand some of the duties and responsibilities which he was so soon to undertake. I remember how we all stood at the hall door in the sweet early morning with the leaves swaying to and fro, and the dewdrops glistening on the flowers and on the grass which shot up everywhere, and watched the young heir depart.

       Nesta was unusually silent and sad — I had never seen her so silent or sad before; but little did she think as she gazed upon him that it would be long, oh! so long, ere she and Ivor looked into each other's eyes again. How little do we know of the chain that the future is weaving for us! And would it be well for man to foresee, to watch the weaving of that chain?

       I left them still bidding one another "Farewell" on the weather-stained steps, thinking sadly that we cannot afford to lose one day with those we love, for life is so short, so short. Dear the golden weeks which followed that sweet spring morn, for when in Nesta's companionship I almost forgot my hopeless love, and felt that existence, despite all its pains and griefs, was still dear; dear those happy May-days when we chased the butterfly from petal to petal and roamed together in the calm eventide over the dewy meadows; yet even then there were moments when I feared that my burning secret would be revealed in my oft-suppressed sighs, in my passionate eyes, and half-broken utterances; but who is so blind to another's love as one who has just learnt its lesson? "Owain," my old playmate said once, gaily, "had I been ignorant of your mental wanderings I should ask you the name of your lady-love." These words were in jest, and no shadow of the truth crossed the speaker's mind, yet I was conscious of a vague disquiet as I met her saucy glance; but I joined loudly in her laughter, and for the rest of our ramble was extravagantly gay. For who is so eager, so loud to assert his own innocence as he who feels it not? My deformity was the cloak which hid my inmost feelings, my deepest thought, for I was a hunchback, and because I was incapable of inspiring love, was therefore supposed never to feel it. Oh, what an error this is! Certain or probable success is a blind rather than a stimulant to love, and what we are likely to possess we value least. The beggar deems that those who have sufficient to wear and sufficient to eat have attained the acme of human happiness; the famous long for repose, and the unknown struggle for renown — thus each sighs for what he knows not, thus each despises what he has.

       Can the wondrous providence and mercy of the Almighty battle against such feelings, which, though so unworthy of our diviner instincts, are yet a part of our humanity?

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       Among the quiet lanes in the June eventide strolled my old nurse and I; above us the dark blue sky, glistening with its myriads of stars, crossed here and there by light billowy clouds whose delicate edge the moon gently kissed with a lingering caress; in the distance rose the purple crags of the Beacons, from whose peaks the moonbeams glided earthwards, till they lay a misty diaphanous veil in the valley below. Surely, I mused as I went along, on such a night the Council of the Supreme Deity is well attended, and the chariots of the gods are very splendid as they roll through the air to answer the imperious command. Heroes, I felt sure in my vivid imagination, floated in that serene vault, bathed in the glory of the eternal planets-heroes who had willingly exchanged the tumult of the world for the peace and repose of heaven. Astronomy was not to me a veiled science, for Gwilym had opened its wondrous kingdom, so that I could without hesitation point out "Sobieski's Shield," "Orion," "the Southern Triangle," "the Little Bear," and many other constellations. I knew, likewise, the distance of the "Centaur," "Polaris," and "Capella" from the earth, and how far Jupiter was from Saturn, and Juno from Mars, and understood the planetary system generally. This knowledge afforded me many hours of delight and interest when the lamps had been put out or reading had become wearisome. Thus the wise and gracious Creator has so ordered that we may be always instructed if we will, since the night will teach as much as the day, and the moon's silver radiance as much as the gilded course of the sun. On the distant summits my gaze lingered lovingly. How ardently I wished that my feet would travel as fast as my eyes, and place me on those uneven steps, in close proximity to the starry heights!

       Poor old Ursula dragged herself along laboriously at my side; walking to her was now an arduous duty — her eyesight was failing fast, and her thoughts, like her legs, refused to bear her onwards. The shade of evening was closing around her, yet she scarcely recognised its gloom. She only felt less able to bear life's burdens, less fitted to cope with its difficulties; the second childhood had begun, but, oh! what a different childhood to the first: a childhood marred with wrinkles, stained with many a tear; a childhood with no present, and without a future; a childhood over which age had bent its brow severe, and passion had left its trace; a childhood crossed with many a cruel word, wounded with many a scar, daunted with many a failure; a childhood which was ever wandering back to the home through whose gates it had passed, and finding it empty and deserted! Vain second childhood: without hope, without energy, without brightness; old, yet young — old with the weight of years, young in weakness. Old, yet too weary to use the wisdom experience has given, old in a world that has become new! Who can look upon you and not be touched by the influence and power of time?

       "Dearie," quoth Ursula, as we paced along the moonlit way, "we must not be late. Missus and master will have gone to rest."

       Unconsciously she spoke, but too true; my mother had indeed gone to rest, and I did not arouse her memory only to let it slumber again, but quietly acquiesced.

       How is it that some of our ideas are effaced by time whilst others remain fixed and rooted in our minds for ever?

       We had passed into a little grove which led to some meadows where we had, when children, tumbled and tossed the new-mown hay, or plucked the sweet-scented clover; here it was almost dark, for the trees were set closely together, their huge gnarled roots intermingling with many a blackberry bush or wild briar, casting long, dark shadows athwart the uncut grass. The gate that led into the fields stood open and a woman leant with her elbows on its topmost ledge. Although the recess was gloomy and the light faint, my first glance told me that I had seen that form before; and leaving Ursula seated on a mossy bank, I moved towards the silent figure, which turned as I drew near, so that the sad, pale face looked at me through the gloom; sorrow's indelible trace stamped each feature, and eyes of the faintest blue looked forth from under the lined, narrow brow shadowed with brown locks. Puzzled how to address her, I recalled, with a smile in the midst of my bewilderment, that scene in the Odyssey when Ulysses gives his name as "Nobody" to the cruel Cyclops; but I was saved from further embarrassment by the woman holding out her hand in pleased recognition, and drawing me through the gate into the meadow, where the moon poured down her splendour on us both.

       Some mysterious influence drew me towards the unhappy stranger, and some invisible link bound me to her. Perhaps this sympathy was due to the fact that we were neither happy, or perhaps it was that this woman was the first to look upon me as a fellow-mortal whose pity and whose regard were not contemptible, and instead of letting me read her commiseration for my affliction in every word or look, had rather courted mine.

       Though I was no physiognomist, yet I could discern no nobility, no character, no force in her weak, melancholy visage, nor was there anything interesting in her entire mien save the inexpressible misery stamped on each feature and traced in every movement. Once she must have been pretty, with that particular beauty woman's admirers term innocent, and her detractors inane. Looking at her intently in the moonlight I felt sure that she was one who had made little or no effort to battle with the tide of misfortune, but had drifted helplessly, hopelessly along, weeping as she went; more than this I had a vague belief that she had not always been unhappy, for those nursed and fed on misery grow in time resigned, reckless, or indifferent, but rare indeed is the heart that rises superior to its own grief, rare indeed is the mind that discards the body, and dwells apart in the purity of the soul.

       "I hope," I commenced, timidly, for grief is a difficult and delicate subject to touch, "that your sorrow is —–" but I never finished my sentence, for, with an impatient wave of the hand, she stopped me.

       "Some crosses," she cried, "grow heavier as the years roll on; mine do."

       Even in our own misery we seldom mete out to ourselves the pity we do for another. Our very self-respect and pride forbid it. And, at that moment, standing side by side with my sorrowful companion, my own wretchedness seemed as nothing compared to hers, and I thought, wistfully, of what little use it is to grieve so sorely when life so soon passes away, and yet, with man's consistency, I clung to my own cross, hugging it more tightly. Why do we not live to die, and die gladly to live indeed?

       "Remember," I said, at length, arousing myself from a reverie into which I had fallen, "that whenever you need help you will come to me — Owain, Owain Seithenyn."

       "Yes," she answered, "Owain, I will remember." Then, dropping my hand, which she had unconsciously grasped, she passed so quickly away that even had I wished to detain her I was powerless to do so.

       "Come, let us go home," I cried, huskily, as I reached Ursula.

       In days gone bye she would have detected the quivering of my lips, the tremor in my voice; but old age is self-engrossing, and the spectacles out of which it peers are not far-seeing, so she only rose obediently and let me lead her onward, guiding her faltering steps as she had once guided mine.

       "Nursie," I cried, addressing her in the sweet bygone childish phraseology — "Nursie, suppose God offered you your life again, would you say Yes?"

       For a few moments she made no response, but clasping her withered hands together looked into my face with a touching pathos.

       "Dearie," she muttered, "it is a question few can answer; once I thought I should never care to be old, yet now it seems so natural, and looking back on the past I sometimes ask myself how at times I could have grumbled sorely, or others rejoiced greatly, and somehow I feel very weary after coming so long a way."

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       Blushing in its hopes, smiling in its youth, happy in its beautiful advent, slowly and gradually like the opening of a pale yet flushed rose the dawn of the sweet June morning started from out the shadows, the grimness of the night. I had slept but little, for a vague unrest had haunted me in the darkness, and scorned the thought of slumber, as the memory of my father as he had looked on that evening when he spoke of approaching death, and asked me if I dreaded its power, was with me vividly, and I could recall the effect of the lantern falling on his pale features and casting its weak glamour over the tragic face of Gwladys, the Lady Tudor — nay, I could hear in the distance her fateful, wicked, dying words.

       Ever since then I had felt drawn towards him, although his manner had in nowise changed, but was as cold, as constrained as before; but the barrier that he had raised between us existed no longer; sympathy unexpressed, yet felt, linked us together with its invisible chain, founding the true union of our souls.

       "Father," I cried, suddenly and passionately, "how I would have loved you had you only let me." "Father!" I screamed, for there, gazing at me silently and tenderly, just at the foot of the bed he stood. There was nothing strange in his attire or his appearance, though his face was pale and his eyes had a wistful look in them, and my whole heart went out to him as he stood thus in the dawning day; but though I essayed to stretch out my arms, they did not stir; though my lips tried to call his name, no sound came; though I longed to ask him what he did there, the power to do so was not mine. Outside, the birds were carolling their early lay; outside, the sweet-breathed morn was calling to the sleepy sun to arise and gild with its amber rays the tinted landscape: outside, the melodious voices of the day were putting to shame and fight the weird and fancied murmurs of the night; and inside I lay, blind to all beauty, deaf to all sounds, insensible to all emotions, gazing dumbly, silently, stonily, upon one, who, meeting my gaze with a cold sadness, waved his hand once, slowly, as if bidding me "Good-bye," and faded away into nothingness.

       With feelings almost benumbed and stupefied, and scarcely conscious of what I did, I arose, and groped my way rather than walked to the study. The door stood wide open, but inside, in the old brocaded chair, sat my father; his head was bent forward on his breast, his arms hung helplessly and aimlessly at his side, whilst his eyes were bent on the floor, with an intensity that seemed as though it would never be satisfied. I peered down into his face; its pallor for a moment startled me out of the heavy stupor that held me like a vice, the pale features looked ghastly in their awful repose, and struck a chill horror to my heart. A cock was crowing loudly outside. I remember stooping with a mechanical gesture to pick up a leaf that had fallen from a book, and laying it as mechanically on an old carved chest; I remember watching a fly crawl over the picture of Gwladys, the Lady Tudor, and then turning and chafing my father's hand; I remember wondering how his voice would sound if he spoke, and whether he would be surprised to see me there. I remember how a burst of sunlight came streaming through the window and fell upon my father, and then I knew that for him the dawn had come indeed.

---

CHAPTER IX.
THE PATRIOT'S JOY.

"Proud is man amidst the fulness of feasting, And inspiring is the song.  But consider, thou multitude, the end To the dense earth will man go." JOHN KENTCHURCH.

       "Dust to dust, ashes to ashes," those were the solemn words I listened to without a tear, as I stood over my father's grave; those were the words that rang in my ears as I went back to the desolate house. The stern master of Bodelwyddan was no more, and yet we, his children, missed him as those that live must ever miss those who have died. In the days when he had sat lonely and abstracted in his solitary chamber, his absence had been scarce remarked, but now the empty chair, the silent voice, the vacant room spoke too vividly, too impressively, of his departure. When death peers in all faults are forgiven — nay, forgotten, and only the loving actions and the smiles are remembered, however few they might have been.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       I had wandered, as was my wont when the days grew warm and bright, out into the leafy lanes, taking as a companion Plutarch's "Life of Pelopidas." It was a warm August afternoon, and the buzz of the bees and the whirl of the summer flies made the atmosphere drowsy. Seated under the cool whispering shade of the bronze boughs of the copper beech, my eyes rested ever and anon regretfully on the pages of my book, then they would return wearily to the cloudy whirlpool of insects wheeling round and round, round and round, until to my indistinct and blurred sight it seemed as though they had swallowed up heaven and earth in their dark cloud.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       NOTE. — I think there are several lines missing here, at least I judge so from the page, but the MS. about this part is altogether exceptionally difficult to decipher.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       When I awoke it was to gaze into another's eyes, and to behold a form bending over mine. It was Helen, with her plain gown trailed in the dust, and her simple bonnet falling from off her brow, revealing her wealth of auburn hair, and though the old scornful expression was on her features, I noticed with alarm that the outline of her face was too sharply defined, and that a hectic flush mantled in her delicate cheek. Often had I dreamed, often had I imagined what our next meeting would be like, but never in my happiest anticipation had it assumed such an aspect as this — never had Helen stood so near, never had her voice been so sweet, so kind, as, holding one hand out, she murmured, "Mr. Owain;" but even as I grasped those outstretched fingers I started backwards with a low cry of pain, for, gleaming on the white flesh, I saw the lost signet ring. My companion started also, but there was no guilt, no fear in the look with which she glanced into my white, troubled countenance. "I am not very well," I stammered; "the heat."

       "The heat must indeed be intense to cause such a cry," Helen answered in her calm tones.

       "If you will have the truth," came, wrung from lips, "your signet ring recalls an incident very vividly to my mind that happened some years ago."

       "My father gave it me," the girl, said "some years ago likewise."

       My heart beat quickly, and I feared every moment that Helen would hear the throbbing of my pulse.

       "Is Mr. Trevor well?" I gasped at last.

       "Yes," replied his daughter, with a certain significance in her voice, "I believe that my father is well," then, inclining her proud head just a little, she turned as though to go, but my whole soul rose in revolt against parting with her thus.

       "Shall I not see you again?" I cried; "may I not sometimes see you — soon?"

       Her beautiful eyes met mine kindly. "Come whenever you like," was her answer.

       "And you will not call me Mr. Owain?" I pleaded.

       "No, well good-bye, Owain."

       She was gone, and I stood alone again.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       May — majestic child of heaven — had passed and her days long and clear, bright-eyed rosy June had smiled, and soft July faded into mellow August since Ivor had gone away, and Summer, perfect Summer, with her ardent strength and laughing eyes was standing on the threshold of autumn, and for me the verdant meadowland, the rich blossoms, the ripe fruit, the carolling birds had never brought such joy, such happiness, for was not Helen nigh, did I not breathe the same air, smell the same sweet fragrance as she.

       Nesta had lost some of her old wilfulness and light-heartedness, for wilfulness is the playmate of joyous content, the saucy offspring of unalloyed happiness: and when was love unalloyed? It is a compound of pleasure and pain, a mixture of bitterness and sweetness, although it may give much to our lives hitherto lacking, yet it takes much away; fretful cravings, anxious moments, hours of suspense, nights of restlessness, days of doubt, and pain are Cupid's wages.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       One sunny afternoon Nesta and I roamed together, companions as of yore, whilst she spoke of happiness and Ivor, to her things inseparable, and I thought sadly as I gazed on the bright sunshine and watched the sunbeams threading their merry way everywhere, endowing each blossom, each leaf, as they passed with a perfect beauty, of the little influence, the power the purest sunshine has over the heart, for the same effulgence bathes the prison and the palace, and the same amber kiss caresses our features, whether lined with anguish or crowned with bliss.

       "Love will not last for ever," I cried, tortured by her happiness into dissent. "Surely it is not as eternal as pain!"

       As my words fell, a shadow crossed my listener's face; then, with a profound gesture, she flung back her head defiantly.

       "It can, it can; love is stronger than death!" Nesta cried passionately.

       "Is it?" I said, with all the calmness we can command when successful in arousing our hearer, for I thought of my hopeless love, and it awakened my own bitterness and envy by lessening another's content.

       "You speak thus, because to you it is a stranger!" the girl commenced again, flushing angrily.

       I smiled, yet my smile was not a pleasant one, and I saw that my companion shrank from encountering it.

       "Love seems to me," I continued, with cruel deliberation, "like unto the sea, ever fickle, ever changeful, while affection appears like the calm river winding its course through valley, ravine, or level waste, always murmuring, always the same;" — but my companion had left my side, and was walking down a side alley alone.

       I sighed, and wandered troubled and sore at heart, for I had wounded my old playmate and gained no relief myself; unconsciously my feet had strayed into a little brooklet fringed with the feathery meadow-sweet, and with stately yellow flag-flowers which whispered to one another in the gentle breeze. It seemed to me as I stood near the running water that the acme of my misfortune had been reached, and, sitting down on its bank, I gave myself up to bitter reflection and tears.

       Oh, Gwilym, Gwilym, could you have seen me then, how valueless all your teaching, how useless your example would have appeared to you, and for all in this world I can never repay thee; in the next, it is my earnest hope that for all thy patience and thy labour I shall be ever at thy side. It was Gutto's prayer to rest eternally with his brother bard.

       "Adda bias," it is my prayer, Gwilym, that in those sublime regions we shall never be apart.

       At length I rose and moved slowly onwards, pausing near two cottages which stood on a green bank sloping down to a tiny rivulet. The one nearest me belonged to old Tom Mathias, the boastful hero of my childish days, who was nigh a hundred now.

       "It's pretty like the rest of us, Master Owain," he said, the last time I went to see him; "it canna abide to be beat."

       "But you can't complain, Tom," I said, as if it were ever consolation to tell a man that he has nothing to complain of.

       "Complain, lawk-a-mercy, Master Owain, who goes for to complain; but the longest life don't seem long eno' when we come for to die."

       The other humble dwelling was occupied by Tom's daughter, Betty Llwyd, who was the only relative he had living — his wife having died many, many years ago when Tom was old, so old that he had even then outlived the sentiment of love, and all he was heard to say on the day of her death was, "Well, well, if Mary did want for a character to set out on her journey, and did go to wish a passport through the gates, I would have given her a good one indeed."

       Betty was at the door as I neared it, busily knitting and humming an old Welsh air to herself at the same time; she made a picturesque study, I thought, standing thus in the waning sunshine with her scarlet petticoats scarcely corresponding to the rough home-spun cloth that made her bodice, whilst a large handkerchief with a narrow yellow border crossed the bosom, fastened by a long pin; her well-shaped feet were cased in wooden clogs which did not conceal coarse woollen stockings, and the grey-tinted hair was half-covered with a coloured scarf tied negligently under the chin; her face was one on which toil was written, yet on its rugged outlines peace rested; the brown large hands plied industriously at her sock, nor did she pause a second to let her eyes roam to the fair scene spread around.

       "Good day, Betty," I exclaimed; "you are very busy at your stockings." Glancing up, she looked consent, but did not cease her labour. "It must be very monotonous," I resumed, "knitting so steadily. Do not your fingers ache?"

       "My fingers ache?" she repeated; "aye, but I do have no time to think of them."

       Oh, how those few words reproved and touched me, for I thought of my own idle life as compared with that of this honest peasant, and of all the sorrows and pains, imaginary or otherwise, which I was for ever brooding over.

       "Have you any water?" I asked, for the dust and heat of the road had made me very thirsty.

       Laying down her stockings on a little wooden bench beside the door, and betraying no sign of impatience at being thus interrupted, Betty led me into a small room with a series of curious Biblical pictures lining the walls, and a huge chest crowned with old jugs and saucers standing in the left-hand corner, while she brought me a tankard full of frothy milk.

       Her unconstrained simplicity of manner, her quiet ease, and unconscious dignity filled me with no surprise or wonder, for I had spent my whole life amid Cambria's best and dearest sons and daughters, her proudest boast, and sweetest pride!

       In putting my empty tankard back on the square table, I thrust from its place a rough unfinished sketch of a young man enclosed in a dark frame, and then sought to hide it from Betty's sight, for it was her son, her only son, who had met his death in a violent manner many years ago; but my movement was not quick enough to escape Betty's eyes, and I trembled for the anguish I had so unconsciously and innocently recalled, but my companion's words assured me that her nature was one that, suffering once, suffers for ever. "Do not fear," she said quietly, "that you have brought John back to my mind, I do have no need for pictures to recall it, for the casket where his pictur' does dwell is my heart." She spoke with a touching pathos, an assertion of eternal love that touched me deeply.

       "It do make eight years," she continued, "since they did bring him home into this very cottage, dead;" and Betty, as she spoke, drew one brown hand across her eyes, as if to shut out that never-to-be-forgotten moment.

       "The old man and me do never be the same agin," Betty went on, as though it gave her relief to talk about that day; "but we canna look forward for our lives to be all smooth, and the stones must be trodden down afore the road do be firm and easy."

       "Yes," I cried, "although they be sometimes sharp, the path must be kept in good repair."

       "I did find a little coat of his t'other morn hidden away in yonder chest, and somehow it did seem as I held it up so that the light shone through it that Johnnie had never died but wass still a little child."

       I did not speak although she paused, and then, perhaps encouraged by my silence, continued, "If you do care to hear I will tell you as how 'tis my belief that when I do die I shall see Johnnie again just as he used to be when he did wear that coat."

       "Yes," I said, "I should like to hear."

       Drawing her seat nearer me, and shading her brow with one hand, my companion began: "One night, not so long ago, I did sit waiting and watching for my good man, for it wass past his hour for coming, and wass nigh nightfall, when I must have grown drowsy, for a mist like came across my eyes, and the room and the chest and the picture all went away, and I did stand in the beautifullest garden, with flowers the most elegant and waters the most clear as ever you did see, and birds did sing, and sunbeams did dance everywhere, and by and by I did come to a pretty brook, which twinkled in the sunshine, and sat down beside it on a plank covered with moss and primroses, and all of a sudden it did come to me that someone spoke, and I listened, and a voice said, 'Beauty be of no avail here, seek farther,' and looking all around I saw a tall white lily standing at a gate, which was buried almost in cowslips, and such as we call butter-and-eggs, and the lily did bend its head to an angel with great flapping wings. 'Oh! what shall I do,' the flower cried, to prove my sincerity? Am I not pure?'

       "'Become like unto a little child, for of such is the kingdom of heaven,' came the answer.

       "'Then I did watch each petal unfold, and each leaf become as white as snow.'

       "'Will this do?' it whispered. But the spirit did shake its head. Then the lily turned aside, and when it again drew nigh the angel it was sparkling with dew like a diamond. 'Jewels have no place inside these portals, and beauty without holiness is vain,' and again it moved aside, and a white rose kissed its robes as it passed, and I saw soon a great change come over it, for its petals did droop and its leaves lost their green, and its great white heart faded, whilst the spirit cried, 'Thus all things must decay ere they can become purified.' And every moment the lily faded more and more, until from out of it stepped a little child all clothed in spotless white robes, and in that little form, those dear features, I saw again my Johnnie, and my whole soul was trembling and quivering with joy, as I heard his sweet lips cry, 'Let me in, let me in!' and the barrier did open wide, and the angel said, 'It is well, welcome!' and then I saw a mighty host coming forward and bearing my child away, and all the mother rose in me as I saw him go. 'Johnnie, Johnnie, Johnnie!' I screamed, but as I did say it the last time I awoke."

       Over her face a sublime look of resignation and content came, and fearing to dispel her thoughts I arose silently, and passed out of the cottage into the deepening twilight.

       Betty's dream was still filling my mind when I came upon the harper walking towards me with his deep earnest eyes full of a new fire, and his whole face alight with animation and passion. Giving me his hand, he spoke no word of greeting.

       "Gwilym," I cried, "are you agitated, have any —–"

       No, no!" he returned, hastily. "Only to-night the past has returned; its memory," he added, striking his breast, "is here."

       "Tell me about the past," I pleaded earnestly, for I saw that to speak on any other subject would be futile, and I wished besides to be drawn from my own thoughts.

       "What I commenced in that lonely past," the harper began, scarcely listening to my desire, "I still go on with, and when my work is complete my soul shall know rest; yes, rest," he reiterated, fixing his eyes on the heavens. "Yet should I fail to accomplish that for which I have toiled night and day, shall I murmur? God grant not! His decree must be my law, His word my will."

       "Oh, Gwilym!" I cried, "how strong is your faith!"

       But the harper, heedless of my words, went on —

       "Solitude is the nurse of slumbering genius, and great thinkers, like the violets, flourish best in the shade, away from the haunts of man. The world must necessarily dwarf our noblest aspirations, and cramp our finest energies. It was apart from the turmoil of the universe that such men as Phocion and Epaminondas built the structure of their fame among the pine trees at Ravenna. I crept like Solon, sought the solace of nature, and wept over my country. Oh, my son, let us mourn together over the humble efforts of my brain, and weep Patriotism's pure tears!"

       "Patriots get neither recompense nor gratitude," I murmured, impatiently, whilst across my listener's face passed a look of pained surprise mingled with disdain.

       "Recompense, gratitude!" he cried. "My son, does the love of one's country mean only self-interest. Does patience look for reward or honour? Was not Miltiades cast into captivity and doomed to die by the same voices that hailed him as Marathon's hero? Were not just Aristides and wise Scipio banished from the land they had served so well. Did not Socrates drain without a groan the fatal draught? Owain, a patriot has no wrongs against the clime that gave him birth. Cimon forgot all injuries when animating the Greeks to victory. Themistocles remembered only his love when he tasted that beverage whose taste meant eternity. With memories like these, with examples so inspiring, so grand, shall I dread the cruel blast of calumny, or shrink from ingratitude's icy grasp? Shall I forget if my country forgets that she is mother, that I am her son?"

       Never shall I forget Gwilym's countenance as he ceased; in his deep eyes had gathered the bright tears of enthusiasm, and all his features quivered with intense emotion and passion. One cannot be either very intense or earnest without imparting some of the intensity and earnestness to our hearers, and the harper had imparted much to me. Nor could Demosthenes of old have incited the Athenian rabble more against Philip than did Gwilym incite me against the enemies of Wales — although who they were I could not quite understand — and when my reason had time to cool I asked my companion, calmly, why he hated the "Sassenach."

       The harper turned his pale face to mine "Why," he cried, vehemently, "why? Are they not the desolators of our land, the spoilers of our soil, the scorners of our language, the murderers of our princes, the silencers of our bards, the destroyers of our peace, the persecutors of our heroes? And when we whom they hunted fled to our foster-parents, the hills, and they sheltered us; under their shadow, their loving shelter, our enemies abandoned us to die at least in peace."

       "Yet we can scarcely blame them," I interposed. "What nation does not hunger to enlarge its dominions, what people do not cry out for a greater power, a wider territory, and in such instances is it not the weaker and smaller country that falls?"

       "Long before the Saxons trod our shores," proceeded Gwilym, taking no notice of my interruption, "our forefathers dwelt therein, and from its age, our language, our traditions merit respect at least. More than this, all that is poetical or imaginative in their literature is born of Celtic origin. Our harps, it is true, hang silent. Yet even in their silence they speak to the hearts of the Cymri. The bard will not be silent, from out of the dead sad past his voice can still be heard. O Cambria, Cambria, my mistress, my mother, my youth has passed away in serving thee, my old age shall still do thy bidding."

       "I love my country likewise," I cried, "but, Gwilym, not like this, not like this." ^*

* These are not the identical words used by Owain. I have supplied many.

       "No," he said, almost sadly, "there are few who love like this.

Yet weep not, fair Cambria, though shorn of thy glory, Thy star shall yet rise in ascendancy again. Song and science are treasuring the leaves of thy story; Not a page shall appeal to our bosoms in vain."

       "Gwilym," I added, "take hope from those lines;" but though his face grew radiant, no words passed between us till we reached the gates of Bodelwyddan, where the harper bade me "Good-bye." His serenity was now as perfect as ever, the storm had passed, and once again the tree stood erect. "Gwilym," I said, pleadingly, as he grasped my hands, "am I indeed your friend?"

       "My friend," he repeated, looking astonished; "yes, indeed. Are we not brothers in race and sympathy?"

       "Not a friend like that," I burst forth, petulantly; "I do not care for a universal love."

       "Is mine universal?" inquired my listener.

       "I want you to love me as I do you," I continued, passionately. "When I read of Damon and Pythias and Pylades and Orestes, I longed to have some one to be all in all to me, and then I would weep, rebuking myself thus, 'Owain, who could love thee?'"

       "The affliction of the body," answered Gwilym, "makes no difference to those whose love is worth possessing, for the body is but the nest wherein the soul lodges."

       "There are few who look at it in that light."

       "I do not agree with you," responded the harper; "the good and the noble are ever just. Would they condemn a man for the weight of his cross?"

       "But there are not many good or noble, I sullenly observed.

       "Again I differ from you, and you must remember the field is wide, and the long grass often hides the purest blossoms. My son," he added, "you are not content."

       "You have said so often," I cried querulously.

       "True, but then you were discontented with things in general, now you are discontented with yourself."

       "It's all the same," was my impatient answer.

       "Tell me, then, your sorrow," went on the harper; "confide in me as you did once before."

       "My grief has not changed," I confessed, a burning flush mantling my cheek, and for a few moments Gwilym made no reply, but gazed half reproachfully, half pityingly into my eyes.

       "It has not changed, you say," he said in a tone full of tender pained reproval, "surely then, it must be your own fault."

       "I daresay," I admitted. "Philosophy proves it to be so, but we can all be philosophers till sorrow and anguish fall to our share."

       I do not think the harper heeded my intended reproach, for the tenderness on his face only deepened, and, stung by his love and compassion, I rushed away from him, my own unworthiness maddening me.

       It was ever thus with Gwilym. His slightest word, his gentlest look would arouse my slumbering conscience, and awake in my breast a strong desire to be better.

       There were times like the present, when his presence tortured me into action, and when I felt that I must be away even from the gaze of my best and kindest friend. Thus the virtuous have their reward in this world as well as in the world to come, for by the simple force and strength of their nobility they exercise an influence over their erring brethren, their teaching being enforced by the unsullied practice of their lives.

(To be continued.)

Owain Seithenyn.

—:0:—

BOOK II.

—:0:—

CHAPTER X.
THE DAWNING OF THE SHADOW.

       Alone together. Behind us the hazy Welsh hills over whose heights was creeping gradually the blinding white mist, around us the darkening country, and the centre of the picture, Nesta and I.

       We were silent, for my companion was unusually depressed, and it made me sad to see her so. Affection is estimated rather by sorrow than by joy, and we mourn with those we love far more than we rejoice when occasion arises.

       It was late even for us, though it seemed much later than it was by reason of the gloom, but neither Nesta nor myself felt any fear, because the stars had lost their way, and the long dark shadows had fallen everywhere, and little did the girl think as I paced along so quietly at her side that I loved more recklessly and passionately than herself.

       "That's a beautiful idea of Islwyn," I cried at length, "about the soul."

       "Yes?" was her response.

       "In the quiet hours of night," he writes, "the soul feels as if a crowd of angels were feeding on its thoughts."

       "We do not all have angels feeding on our thoughts," Nesta cried regretfully. "Owain" — she broke off suddenly and excitedly, as she grasped my arm tightly — "Owain, I have seen a spirit."

       I gazed startled and speechless into her face, then I answered scornfully: "Spirits; do you speak of the dead, or of those that dwell in our minds alone; these haunt us indeed, repeating in voiceless whispers all the misdeeds we have done, recalling all the memories we wish buried, bringing back lost faces, old scenes, past joys?"

       "Owain," continued my companion, never relaxing her grasp, "from out the mist and dimness rose such a pale, such a sorrow-stricken face, whose eyes pierced my inmost soul. Oh, Owain, Owain, shall I ever forget their wistful, melancholy look?"

       Pressing tenderly the hand that clutched mine, I in vain attempted to calm her agitation and fears.

       "Somehow," Nesta went on, "a vague terrible foreboding that I shall not see Ivor for a long long time presses on my soul to-night."

       "You are foolish; nay, wrong," was my grave answer, "to encourage such superstitions and nameless fancies; life assuredly has griefs enough without inventing more."

       "I know it, but Owain, alas! we are but mortals, and such fears, such presentiments will haunt us all at times."

       Urging her forward, consoling and soothing her to the best of my powers, it was to my utmost relief that we reached the sequestered lane leading to Llanrhayadr; the mist had now lifted, and over our heads one or two pale stars shone forth like crystals, in a dark sea of ether; on either side high hedges, luxuriant in their wealth of moss and emerald bloom enclosed us, whilst in the near distance the faint red glow of a lantern fell athwart the narrow limits of the pathway.

       Nesta grasped my arm yet more tightly, and her pale face grew paler as we approached two shadowy forms standing on a mound formed of the fallen foundations of a portion of the hedge; — one was that of a tall, bent man, in whose hands the lantern swayed to and fro, throwing its flickering gleam on the deep black ditch that ran by his side, the other belonged to a woman, with a heavy shawl thrown about her; and as I, still drawing my companion on, passed, the fitful light of the lantern fell full upon her face. Uttering a low cry of pain and fear, Nesta must have fallen had I not, with the strength lent by desperation, cast my arms around her drooping figure, and supported her. In vain her livid lips essayed to speak, in vain she struggled feebly to free herself from my detaining hold.

       "Dear Nesta," I pleaded, "you are overwrought; do try to be calm, and rest assured there is nothing to dread."

       For answer she pointed back to those two solitary figures, ever growing more and more indistinct.

       "Yes, yes," I said; "but surely there is nothing to disquiet you in Gwilym choosing so late an hour for his walk."

       Though my tones were jestful, I felt in reality little mirth, a presentiment had come to me, as well as to my companion, a vague troubled presentiment that over her young and hitherto bright life a shadow was coming, coming slowly, yet surely.

       It is easy to laugh at another's fears, but we meet our own with a seriousness which disarms us. Only once did Nesta speak ere we reached home, for I had urged her to come to Bodelwyddan, and rest until the harper came.

       "Owain," she murmured, in a low awed voice, "Owain, for me sorrow is dawning, or has already dawned."

       We ate our frugal fare in silence, though Nesta scarcely touched a morsel; but she drank a great deal of clear, cool spring water.

       Gwilym coming in broke the dreary silence, Gwilym, as serene and tender as was ever his wont; once or twice I saw his gaze wander to his young mistress' face with a loving, pitying look; once or twice I saw his firm hand tremble, and his resolute lips quiver; perhaps her pallid features, contrasting so strangely with her raven tresses, her troubled mien and distracted air moved and distressed him — for the harper's nature was stirred to deeper depths of love by misery than by happiness. Once when I spoke of this to him he answered thus: "the happy have all the world, the wretched have so small a portion of it."

       The harper rising presently, Nesta rose likewise, though when she stood up, she seemed as if she had forgotten her reason for so doing.

       "Good night," said Gwilym, laying one hand upon my shoulders; "my son, why so sad?"

       "When I am gloomy you deem me sad," I cried, "though perhaps they mean the same thing."

       "No," he answered, "they stand far apart; gloom is the outcome of a mind that is not healthy, sadness is the badge of grief."

       Then I was left alone to sit still long after midnight in the silent room, seeing ever passing before me out of the darkness the hopeless face of the woman whom I had met in the churchyard, and whom I had last seen talking to Gwilym, with the flickering gleams of the lantern lighting up her haggard features.

       Poor old Ursula had grown so feeble that she seldom quitted her room, but on very fine days she would crawl about the grounds assisted by my arm. I never neglected nor forgot her; in my childhood hers had been the only heart to weep for my affliction, hers had been the only hand that smoothed my path, hers the only bosom that had grown old loving me still. The friends that gather around us when joy is ours are but a portion of that joy, but those that cling to us in our anguish and pain stand forth a beautiful and comforting thing apart.

       Kind, faithful Ursula, to you the lights on yonder shore shone brightly through the gloom; to you that friendly port was daily nearer.

       In the gloaming of the September day my aged nurse and I were pacing slowly in the park when we met Helen coming towards us, her arms full of wild flowers. I had never seen her so merry, so gay, though I knew afterwards the merriment was but forced, and even then it struck me as strange, for love can hear the faintest sigh, love can read the restless eye, love can behold the solitary tear, and understand the unspoken thought, love is content to bear the heavy cross, and wear, without flinching, the iron crown; it is the pool where all tears may fall, the harbour where all sorrow-freighted souls may shelter, brighter than the morning sun is its sweet glow, purer than the purest moonlight is its radiance, firmer than the firmest foundation is its basis, lovelier than the loveliest flower is its fragrance, and more eternal than the stars is its duration; far off in a distant clime its spring arises, far off in a land unseen by man its source is born, far off in a country where man's foot has never trod it begins its hallowed way.

       Oh, that golden hour I spent with Helen alone, for the night was gently falling, and Ursula had left us. Looking back on it now, it seems more golden than it did even then — for it is the future and not the present which fully determines the joy or sorrow gone before.

       "Helen," I cried presently, "tell me is this mirth forced?" For her merriment almost frightened whilst it surprised me.

       "Most chivalrous and gallant knight-errant," she answered, dropping a mock curtesy, and letting the flowers fall in a heap on the damp earth, "wherein have I offended your gravity, which beseems you well, although I love it not?"

       "Helen," I cried again, "remember this, I would die to serve you."

       She laughed lightly, although her eyes grew tender as I spoke.

       "When I call upon you I do not fear that your sword will not leap from its scabbard to defend me."

       My cheeks flushed and my eyes gleamed; "deformed, despised, contemptible as I may be, Helen Trevor shall not call in vain."

       For answer my listener buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. "Helen, my own beloved Helen," I cried passionately; "Oh, do not rend and torture my heart thus; speak, speak, and tell me what causes this distress?"

       Then she lifted her beautiful tear-stained eyes to me, and her proud lips parted in a smile. "Forgive me, I am very foolish; this tiresome cough wears me, denying me even the repose I need so much."

       "Oh, Helen," I pleaded earnestly, "surely you do not take sufficient care. Why, to-night," I added, touching her slight gown, "it is cold, and you have not even a shawl!"

       "Owain," she replied, "I may be careless, but it is because I do not think. Not because I despise life. No, I want to live. I want to be rich and admired. I want the world to worship my beauty and grow envious of my success."

       "Why talk of death?" was my impatient rejoinder.

       "You hear my cough, Owain. My mother died of consumption."

       "Helen!"

       "Why do you say Helen! in such a tone," she answered, angrily. "If the germs of that fatal disease do indeed lie here," touching her breast as she spoke, "they may be latent for many a year; but a truce to death, I look forward to days of wealth, of ease, of love."

       Never had I seen her features glow with such hope, such joy; never had her violet eyes seemed so full of happiness, or her lips smiled with such perfect radiance. "I see myself now," she went on, "the centre of beauty, of wit, Owain, hark!"

       I listened, and heard in the distance the tramp, tramp, tramp of a horse's hoofs.

       "It is some rider," I cried, "beyond the gates, who will scarcely interrupt our solitude."

       "Who at least has spoilt my picture," she laughed; "what was I saying? — Oh, I remember; and I, the centre of Owain," she broke off again, "you were wrong, the gates are opening."

       Following the direction of her eyes, I turned and saw the gates flung backwards, and a man on a spirited steed gallop quickly to where we stood.

       "Jestyn!"

       Yes, it was my old schoolfellow, my old hero and comrade, with a bright, eager look on his comely young face.

       "Jestyn," I repeated, joyfully, stepping right up to him, and catching his disengaged hand with a warm, affectionate grasp, whilst Helen stood in the shade, "this is indeed a pleasure."

       "Yes," he agreed heartily; "my guardian being obliged to come to Brecon, I determined to accompany him, and give you a surprise."

       "And a pleasant one," I said. "How is Mr. Herbert?"

       "Good God!"

       The exclamation came from Jestyn's lips, and I saw that his face had become very pale; then I looked uneasily around, and noticed that Helen had come forward and was gazing at us both.

       "I am sorry to have startled you so greatly," she began, in her low even tones; but with an impatient movement the other stopped her:

       "You!" he exclaimed; "you!"

       "Yes, I," she answered, haughtily, "I, Helen Trevor."

       "I hoped never to see your face again," Jestyn cried, passionately; "I prayed that fate would at least spare me this."

       He had swung himself to the earth now, in heedless contempt of where his horse strayed; but I caught the bridle and held it fast, while that night at Mr. Picarde's rushed back to my mind, and I recalled Jestyn's despair, and his words, "Tortured by the galling indifference of a beautiful girl."

       "At least believe me innocent of plotting to ruin you," Helen pleaded.

       "I believe you innocent of nothing," came the cruel response.

       "Jestyn," I interposed, warmly and indignantly.

       "No," he answered, vehemently, "let her hear what honest men deem her — a willing, nay, a glad, abettor of a villain — a cheat."

       The girl's proud face grew deathly pale, and her whole frame trembled.

       "Helen," I said, "dear Helen, to me you are the purest and noblest woman in the world;" but she pushed me from her, and drew nearer to her accuser.

       "You, you," she gasped, "you believe me this?"

       But Jestyn, doffing his hat mockingly, sprang on his horse and quickly galloped away, whilst Helen fell to the ground in a swoon.

---

CHAPTER XI.
"DESERTED."

       When next I saw Helen she was walking in the Priory groves along the winding walk that rises on the banks of the noisy Honddu, though the golden brown trees almost hid the silver streak of its waters from sight. "I love the river, Owain," she cried, as she greeted me: "it is like my own heart, never, never at rest."

       She was very pale, but I could not wonder at this, for it was only a few days since her meeting with Jestyn, and that, I knew, had both pained and tried her sorely.

       "Owain," she cried, as we paused to look at a tiny waterfall that tumbled down a rocky bed of moss-grown stones to the river below, ever answering to its louder voice, whilst a natural mound jutted out on one side, forming a tiny hollow through which the white stream glided, and upon whose murmuring bosom autumnal leaves shed from the boughs above floated in a mellow light — "Owain, I have not thanked you for your generous defence of me."

       "Helen," I urged, do not let us speak of it, but bury it for ever."

       "No, Owain," she answered, proudly. "I cannot until I have told you all. Let us sit down under these trees in the little park;" she moved forward as she spoke, and I, obediently following, sat down beside her on the ground.

       "I need no confirmation of my opinion of your goodness," I persisted; "but if you will, and it eases your mind, go on."

       "The first place that I recollect," commenced Helen, "is a busy town and a big house; the first face that I remember is that of a pale-faced woman whom I called 'Mother,' and whom I chiefly recall by the fact that she wept very often. I recollect, likewise, a man who was seldom with us, but who kissed me sometimes, and gave me countless pennies and fair-haired dolls. This man the pale-faced woman taught me to call 'Father.'

       "One night, while I was saying my evening prayers, begging God to keep mother always, he came suddenly into the room, and whispered that God would keep her always now, for she was dead. Then falls a blank, and the next thing that I remember is a beautiful place somewhere in France. Here I saw grandly dressed women and men who sat up till dawn playing cards and dancing. Amongst the women I can remember only one distinctly, and she was very kind to me; but the men called her sad, and the women stupid. Once I remember she caught me in her arms, and held me tightly to her breast.

       "'Why do you press me so?' I asked; 'it hurts me.'

       "'Because,' she answered, 'I knew a child as beautiful as you.' Then she burst into tears, and prayed wildly to God, to anyone, to kill her. After that she disappeared; and when I asked my father where the nice lady had gone, he told me sharply never to speak of her again.

       "Thus, travelling from place to place, from city to city, from country to country, my wandering solitary childhood passed away; and then I awoke to the fact that I was beautiful and clever but my beauty was made a net wherein to entrap men's souls, my wit was the will-o'-the-wisp with which to lure them on. "Great God! who can doubt my anguish when I learnt from Jestyn's lips the fiend the world believes me to be, when I learnt that night after night men had come to gamble and pay their court to me.

       "Merciful heavens! who can doubt my torture when I learnt a year ago that my father was dishonourable, that he enticed his victims with fair, kind words, and then ruined them soul and body! And they — they believed me to be his abettor, and not the most wretched of his victims."

       "And Jestyn," I said, as Helen paused, breathless and excited.

       "Jestyn Herbert," she commenced again, after a short silence, "fell madly and wildly in love with me as only young men can love; encouraged by my father, he would not see I had no affection to give him in return; evening after evening he came to gamble, now winning, now losing a little, for my father unhappily knows his art too well, and, painful as it was, I entreated him not to be led on — nay, I almost warned him of my parent's dishonesty, but in vain — I doubt if he even listened, and now — now," she added with a dry sob, "he believes it was all a base plot to which I was a willing accessory."

       I could make no answer; to attempt to soothe her was vain.

       "Owain, last night my father called me to him, and told me that he must fly; that it were dangerous to stay another hour in this country, and that I must choose between going with him or wedding your cousin Ivor."

       "Ivor," I stammered, "Ivor."

       "Yes, Ivor," she repeated, "I told my father that both were impossible unless he promised to abandon his wicked life, but at this he smiled; 'that is now useless; it is too late.'"

       "Too late, too late," I reiterated mechanically.

       "Then," continued the girl, "he went on to consider all the advantages I should have as Ivor's wife. He has remarked your beauty," my father added, "and desired, when he saw you, to have an introduction, the rest I will leave to your own wit and powers."

       "But, Nesta," I urged, "what of her?"

       "I told my father," Helen went on, "that the man he desired as my husband was already the plighted lover of Nesta Conwy."

       "And he?" I began anxiously.

       "Laughed, and told me of a secret, which, alas! is but another proof of his villainy."

       "A secret," I gasped."

       "Yes, a secret which will surely part them, for Nesta Conwy, I have heard, is proud, and would wed no man with a stain upon her name."

       "A stain!"

       "Yes, a spot which heaven itself cannot wash out, for she is as pure, as innocent as the angels are."

       "And you," I could not help crying; "is there no blot, no stain, upon your name?"

       "I am not good," the girl cried, starting up and flushing as she spoke. "I hate the thought of drudgery, of slavery; I will not earn the bread I eat."

       "Oh! Helen," I said, sadly, "is there no drudgery, no servitude in marrying one only for the sake of his wealth?"

       "It is not for wealth only," she answered, plucking leaf after leaf from a hanging bough, and casting them into the stream. "Think of my loveliness my health, of my dishonour. Ivor alone believes me worthy of a good man's love."

       "Oh! Helen, Helen," I burst forth, "how my heart bleeds for you. Is there no way but this?"

       "I see none," she responded in a firm voice.

       "And suppose Nesta, in spite of all, clings to the man she loves so well, what then?"

       "Impossible," the other replied impatiently.

       "Go, Owain, leave me now; it is best for us both that I should be alone."

       And I, with my heart bleeding, and my senses benumbed with sorrow, went.

       I suppose all that Helen had told me must have so effectually deadened and stunned my mind that I was powerless to feel any more until I had left Brecon behind and gained the open country, where the fresh air and keen wind blowing straight from the Beacons revived and strengthened me a little; but, alas! with renewed strength came renewed thought, so that I could recount again and again all the harrowing details, adding to them tenfold as I paced along. It was whilst pondering so intently that I fell over a heap of stones, wounding my knee so severely that for a time physical suffering put mental torture to flight. Stumbling on with great difficulty and much exertion I came at last to a small dreary common, to the back of which rose a high green, hill, on which were nibbling sheep, and at whose foot stood a mean hut with an opening that served as an entrance, a window, and a chimney. "Jacob," I called loudly, peering into the poor interior; "Jacob, where are you?" But in response I only heard a man's voice in the distance singing a ditty. A straw bed rested in one corner, a rude bench and a board cut square were the only furniture visible, since the bare walls had no other pictures than the struggling sunshine or moonlight fighting its way through the curious casement.

       Sitting down gladly on the rude couch, I awaited patiently its master's return. Nor had I long to wait, for in a few instants a shepherd, with an honest though heavy face, and kind, though dull brown eyes, entered.

       'I have hurt my leg, Jacob," I said, greeting him, "perhaps you could help me to bind it up."

       "Ay, to be sure," he answered willingly; "hast got a rag, Mr. Owain."

       I gave him my handkerchief, which he dipped into water, and bandaged my wounded knee with the gentleness and tenderness of a woman. Then, when this was done, he made me lie down upon his bed, and seated himself beside me.

       "Was that your flock on the mountain, Jacob?" I asked, for I knew the affection he bore for it.

       "Ay, sure," he said, whilst his features brightened into actual beauty. "I love my little family, you see," he added, half apologetically; "I have no kith or kin, sir."

       "Yes," I said, interrogatively.

       "You wass never a believing of their intelligence," he went on willingly, "nor the love they do bear for one another. Why, when first I did take 'em from the lowlands the old sheep drove their young wans to the lower parts of the hills, as if to shield them from the cold blasts, for it wass winter then. Afore the snowstorms they be wonderful 'cute in fleeing away from ditches and all places where the drifts do mostly fall. Indeed, sometimes they do leave the hills, and do wander down into the vales."

       "I never deemed them half so wise," I put in.

       "There was wan lot that did come from Glamorganshire," the shepherd continued; "but, bless you, they wass na stay. Often, unbeknown to 'em, have I watched 'em a smellin' the air as if they wass a snuffin' their native element, or else a standin' on the topmost point a snuffin' the gale, a turnin' up their noses. And wan night, sir, they rushed off and never rested until they had reached their old home."

       "One can scarcely credit it," I murmured.

       They be particular constant to wan piece of ground," said Jacob, as though he were never wearied of dwelling on this one theme. "T'other day, Sam Davies, he brought a flock, and put 'em to graze wi' mine, but I hit on the old plan to hinder 'em."

       "What was that?" I inquired, seeing that the narrator expected me to ask, ere he continued.

       "At dusk I rattled some stones, and threw up my hat and clods."

       "And did that frighten them, or rather did it not frighten your flock as well?"

       The shepherd smiled indulgently. "The old settlers, sir, not they, you see the new-comers wass na attached to that spot, so they did leave, and the old settlers wass masters of the soil."

       "Jacob, I said, I am feeling very drowsy, do not talk to me any more, for the pain has made me quite faint."

       "Very well, Mr. Owain," he answered; "then, perhaps, if you wass not a mindin' to be left alone I wass wantin' to see Sam Davies himself."

       Glad to gain quiet I sank back on the straw languidly and looked at the shadows stealing over the blank walls: what a humble home it was, and yet a home after all — a palace, verily, to him that lodged in it; that straw couch was easy and pleasant for Jacob's tired limbs and honest head to rest upon, that square-cut board raised from the ground by means of a large stone was a smooth table on which to eat his frugal fare, that rude bench was restful to the weary labourer; he was content with that which Nature and God had provided, he asked, nay, he desired nothing more; a mind at peace, a soul in repose, was Jacob's, and a heart grateful for the sun and green hills, and lovingly attached to his little family, beat within his simple kindly breast.

       Just over his bed, untouched as yet by the creeping shade, my eyes fell on a small piece of parchment over which was traced in a straggling, uneven and jagged hand, "Duw a digon" (God and enough). That was the motto of the shepherd's life, that was the creed to which his fervent faith clung, and the stronghold to which he looked. "Duw a digon" I repeated dreamily; "Owain, let those words for the future cover your days." Almost before I ceased speaking the sound of a voice not unfamiliar to my ears, reached me where I lay. It was a woman's voice uplifted in stormy and passionate anger.

       "You would have me believe you once again! Why? To be once more deceived. Would you have me a greater sinner, a greater outcast, than I am?"

       "Be satisfied; have you not had your revenge — have you not deserted and now betrayed me?"

       Rising quickly, I moved to the door of the hut and gazed upon two figures that marred the picturesque solitude of the scene. One was Mr. Trevor, Helen's father, the other was the unhappy stranger who haunted the lonely neighbourhood; formerly I had always seen her despairing and tearful; now, her poor thin face and drawn features were full of unholy vengeance and hatred; one arm was uplifted as though to strike to the earth her calmer and less bitter companion.

       "Deserted!"

       Never, never, never until my dying day shall I cease to hear that one word, that short sentence; never, never, never this side of the grave shall I cease to hear that woman's voice as she spoke; it thrills, it moves, me even now.

       "Come, come, Anne, be reasonable," the man exclaimed, for I saw that her tones as she reiterated this word had made him tremble and turn pale "Surely," he went on, concluding that her silence was favourable to himself 66 you do not wish to ruin me, if only for old times. See, I do not forget you, but have stored up a little pile of gold." So saying, he tossed her a bag, which she, taking, threw to the ground in an access of passion.

       At this juncture it occurred to me that I had done wrong to listen, so, shutting the door gently, I went, reluctantly it must be confessed, back to the end of the hut, where, sitting down upon the rough bench, I tried in vain to close my eyes and ears. For a time, indeed, I could hear only muttered exclamations and sentences; then she whom I had heard called "Anne" had evidently proved obdurate to all persuasion and smooth phrases, far louder, angrier, than before her burning fierce words fell upon the silent peaceful eventide.

       "Yes, turn your face away; it is well," she cried, bitterly. "Man does not love to look upon the wreck it was once his pride to own; but if you turn your face away from the sight of one so despised, so forsaken as myself, you shall listen to my voice. Edward Trevor, from city to city, from town to town, from village to village, from hamlet to hamlet have I wandered to look upon my children, and then curse you."

       The man laughed ironically. "As you please," he cried lightly; "a curse more or less will not hurt your humble servant."

       "I do curse you," the other continued, as though she heeded him not. "May your life be as blighted as mine; may you taste shame, starvation, contempt, as I have done; may you reach old age unhonoured and unloved; may men remember only to curse you, and forget only to turn aside from one so vile; may you long for death as your sole release, and yet dread it as your blackest foe; may the features of those you have wronged surround your restless bed; may you close your eyes but to see them plainer, and open them to see them closer; may you be a more lonely, a more wretched outcast than I am!"

       "By heavens," he answered, "I have had enough of your tragedy! Get out of my way!"

       Before he had commenced to speak, I had gained the window, and stood gazing once more out on those two figures standing out darkly and distinctly; but though he spoke threateningly, and drew near her quickly, I saw that she neither flinched nor moved, and he, perhaps awed by her courage, or deeming it unwise to further provoke one so incensed, wheeled round and, making a low bow, left her, the incarnation of anguish and despair.

       How long she stood there, how long I watched her, I never knew; but when Jacob returned at length it was dark, and the glory of the heavens had faded into the gloom of night.

       "I be main late, Mr. Owain," the shepherd began; "but some of Sam Davies's sheep wass gone astray, and I wass in pursuit of 'em, thought they won't hardly come home afore day."

       But I scarcely heard Jacob's apologies, and when at last I quitted his humble roof I looked anxiously all round for the woman, but she had gone!

---

CHAPTER XII.
THE SHADOW FALLS.

       It was the Sabbath, along the autumnal lanes where the late leaves lay a-dying the simple peasants wended their way to the grey old chapel facing the hills. To the heirs of the soil, to these sons and daughters of toil, Sunday was indeed a hallowed day, a day of sweet, unbroken rest, whose memory helped to forgetfulness the laborious week.

       The chapel itself had no pretensions to beauty or art, the pews were high and dark, with seats facing each other, the walls were unadorned save with the straggling ivy which crept in through the crevices and crannies, the windows were high and narrow, overlooking the distant beacons, here and there hung a tablet or a marble slab perpetuating the name of some departed village hero or sage whose fame had never travelled beyond the boundary of the hills. My seat was just under the shadow of the pulpit, which was so low that the minister was hardly above the heads of the congregation, near a window on whose panes fell the last gleams of the setting sun, or the first rays of the uprising moon.

       Ephraim Perry, the minister, was the same as he who had warned us against the indulgence of self in those now far off days at Bodelwyddan, and had spent his guileless, pure life amongst his people, guiding and teaching them, who, for his love and charity, loved him well.

       He was not a clever man by any means, and his sermons had the effect of making his hearers drowsy rather than reflective, and invariably selecting his text from the most difficult passages, he as invariably left it to speak for itself alone, and wandered off to a subject quite foreign to the opening words, his hearers listening throughout with a mild wonder, or sleepy indifference; yet, notwithstanding, to those who came to be taught there was always some- thing to be learnt, for the preacher's earnestness and depth of feeling shone forth in his honest face and made good all imperfections.

       On that autumn afternoon I sat with Gwladys in the old pew enclosed by the creaking door, sick at heart and depressed with the hopeless depression of weakness — for all the unhappy excitement of the last few weeks had told upon my never robust strength; but the gentle pressure of my sister's hand, stealing into mine, awoke something like comfort within my troubled soul.

       The text that he chose to-day was from Job xxiii. 6, "Will He plead against me with His great power? No, but He would put strength into me."

       "Oh! mighty consolation, that all can take that will!"

       It was over at last, the parting hymn, the parting prayer, yet one by one, or in groups of twos and threes the country folk lingered to clasp hands, or say something in response to their minister's kindly wishes and queries; but I sat on with dull apathy watching the lights burn dimly in the gloom, and now and then glancing at a bowed and shabbily-clothed woman kneeling not far from me. There was that in her prostrate attitude and fervent devotion that betokened intense sorrow and abject misery, and when the last worshipper had gone she still remained praying silently and earnestly; so earnestly, that she did not hear or see Ephraim who, gently touching her shoulder, looked down upon her with compassion and interest.

       "You are in sorrow," he said, tenderly, and I thought with what dignity he spoke, and how noble he looked — so different from the man who but ten minutes ago had grown warm and contradictory over his own arguments. It is not mere eloquence that can touch our hearts and enchain our souls. No, it is something greater; something born of man's spiritual insight, and wafted to him from the throne of God.

       "Are you in sorrow?" he repeated, and the woman, looking up, burst into a storm of tears; but Ephraim, raising her gently, muttered something to her, and led her out into the falling night. Not wishing either to know that I had been a witness of this scene I sat on, little thinking that never again was I to gaze on the woman's face, that never more would she need comfort from me and now, she needs it from no one, for Christ has washed her tears away, and with His smile has made her smile.

       I was not left long in solitude, for presently there came down the aisle a tall and stately form, who flung herself beside me, unconscious of my presence. How well I knew those raven tresses, those downcast eyes, that bent head, and how beautiful she looked as she knelt thus, with the shadows playing all around, and the dim light falling on her hair and drooping neck. It was Nesta; but what had brought my old playmate here, at such an hour, and alone? Gazing on her with an intent and fixed watchfulness, I saw her at length lift her eyes, and let them wander over the little chapel.

       "Nesta," I whispered, "what has brought you here?"

       But without answering she pointed towards the door, and I, rising, followed her silently until we stood face to face in the stealing darkness; at our side ran a purling brook, divided from the spot whereon we stood by a wooden plank, beyond which lay a stretch of meadow land, where the low of the cattle sounded like a hymn.

       "Owain," my companion began, "I came here to ask God's blessing, and to see you."

       "Yes," I said.

       "Do you remember," she went on in the same calm voice, "that nigh when I spoke of my strange presentiment? Owain, that foreboding has come true."

       "Yes?" I repeated again.

       "I have come to say good-bye."

       "Owain," Nesta continued, "for the happy golden days when we played together I shall be ever grateful. Let them be to you as they will ever be to me, a sweet and fragrant memory. Let them shed a bright and blessed influence on both our lives, we never dimming their purity by future sin."

       She paused, as though waiting for me to speak, but I only stood and looked dumbly at her.

       "Owain," she went on bravely, handing me as she spoke a packet, "when you see Ivor give him this."

       I took it in silence.

       "Think of me," Nesta continued, her firm tone trembling a little, "as of one who has tried to answer duty's call; and when you think pray that I may be resolute in doing my duty."

       "Nesta, Nesta," I cried, "I do not understand. Oh! tell me that I am dreaming."

       She shook her head, and smiled sadly. "Owain, how wilful I used to be, how persistently I put aside the thought that sooner or later trial must come; how passionately I clung to the belief that with mature age religion would dawn; and it is now, now for the first time, that I feel I have indeed an immortal soul, one for which I must strive and watch so that some day it may gain that freedom, that peace it now struggles to attain." A look of such sublimity, of such spiritual joy, passed over her face, that I turned away touched and frightened.

       Was this the same girl who had run races down the craggy mountain side, who had chased gaudy butterflies, who had shivered at the name of death, and laughed in careless scorn at gravity or reflection? Yes; it was indeed the same girl, but hitherto the soul had slumbered, waiting patiently for its awakening.

       "Owain," once more Nesta's voice broke the silence, "Owain, say 'God bless you, my old playmate.'"

       But I stood as one turned to stone, with an invisible hand around my throat, and one lighter and closer pressing my heart; the grey chapel, the graves that sloped towards the distant hills, the meadows beyond, were all vanishing out of my blurred sight, and only Nesta stood forth distinct and clear, stretching out her strong young arms towards me — yet the nearer they came the farther I seemed to be slipping away from their grasp; whilst above, the sky appeared to touch my head, and under my feet the ground kept gradually falling, cutting the earth in a fathomless abyss into which I was slipping, slipping, slipping, so slowly, so helplessly, so dumbly.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

(To be continued.)

Owain Seithenyn.

—:0:—

BOOK II.

—:0:—

CHAPTER XIII.
UNTIL THE SPRING.

       It was long ere I fully realised that Nesta had gone, gone out of my life, gone away beyond the mountains, gone, I knew not whither.

       There were days when my soul craved to see my old playmate once again, days when it wrestled with a passionate desire to wander forth into the heedless, busy world, never resting till I found her and brought her home; but there were calmer moments when I turned with a sickening loathing from this idea, moments when I thought of myself, a lonely, neglected creature, standing desolate and solitary in that great mass of humanity, in that hurrying, bustling, jostling throng; being borne silently, helplessly along, by that relentless multitude.

       At such moments I would bless God for having let me live, since childhood, under the shade of the eternal hills, away and far apart from that mighty human stream, away amongst the buttercups and daisies, and patient tenants of the fields; to these the hand that fondles them, be it rough or smooth, is always kind, the form that tends them always beautiful, the voice that calls them ever sweet; to these the wrinkled face, the bowed head, the trembling limbs, the dim eye, make no difference; for these misery and disease have no terror.

       One morning, when I had, as was often my wont, spent some hours with my old nurse, I was met in the long corridors by an individual clad in green, whose face and gait struck me as oddly familiar, but even as I stood gazing irresolutely upon him, suddenly the old house in Cross-street, and Mr. Picarde's deaf retainer flashed across my mind.

       "Daniel," I cried, "Daniel, how came you here?"

       "Eh?"

       "How came you here?" I repeated, "and what do you want with me?"

       True to his character, he said "Eh?" the third time, then muttered slowly:

       "I was come to look for ye, Mr. Herbert."

       "Mr. Herbert," I reiterated, staring into the old man's countenance in great surprise. "Mr. Herbert; well, what do you know about him?"

       My hearer smiled obstinately, and, turning on his heel, motioned me to follow him, which I did until we reached the door of the drawing-room. There seated beside my sister in animated conversation, sat Mr. Herbert, looking almost the same as when I first saw him a passenger on the London coach.

       "You see," said my old friend, when he had grasped my hand warmly, and anxiously scrutinised my face, "how fond we are of preparing for you surprises; but I flatter myself I have yet another for you."

       "Indeed," I answered, smiling, "I only hope it is as pleasant as the first."

       "Mr. Herbert has come to take us both back with him," cried Gwladys, "Oh, Owain, let us go."

       "Of course you will come," put in Mr. Herbert himself, "have not I come with that object?"

       Go away, go away where I could not see Helen's face, could not hear Helen's voice, could not feed daily on the hope of seeing her; impossible! impossible!

       "Oh, do not deem me ungrateful, or insensible of your kindness, I pleaded, but I cannot, indeed I cannot go." And thus it came about that Gwladys went away with Mr. Herbert without me to his home at Raglan, where a widowed sister and his young charge, Jestyn, lived — went away accompanied by Daniel Humphries, who, on his late master's death, had been taken and provided for by the kind, generous hand of Mr. Herbert.

       "Oh, my darling," I thought, when next I gazed upon Helen's beloved features, "nothing, nothing in the wide world would tempt me to leave you — nothing shall ever separate me from you, save death, if I can help it."

       "Owain," cried Helen, "why do you look so stern, do you not know that Nesta Conwy has fled?"

       "Yes," I replied, "I saw her last when she charged me to give Ivor a packet."

       My listener grew pale. "That packet, Owain, you must never give."

       "Never give," I repeated, mechanically.

       "Do you not see," she continued, passionately, "that it is better for both to forget, that it is better for me."

       "I promised to give it," I reiterated.

       An angry flush overspread her face, an angry light leapt into her eyes.

       "Fool that I was," she exclaimed, vehemently, "to believe that even you love me! Coward! you distrust me. You fear that blame will fall upon you. Owain, go, go!"

       "Oh, Helen, dear Helen, listen, listen," I pleaded.

       "Why don't you go?" she asked, fiercely; "I despise your wretched love that trembles to stain your soul, even a little, for one whom you profess so to love."

       "Dearest Helen," I urged, as her cough smote my ears, "how can breaking my word benefit you?"

       "How?" she laughed, bitterly, "how? Because as long as Ivor knows that Nesta Conwy loves him and is still faithful to his memory, he will never love another."

       "But she never doubted me," I murmured, more to myself than to my listener, "I cannot, oh, I cannot do as you wish."

       "You will not?"

       "Helen," I cried, frightened at her deliberate manner of speaking, "why doom Ivor to weeks of misery, when I feel sure that inside that packet is a letter explaining all?"

       "You are right," she cried, "there must be a letter — a letter that, though setting all doubts at rest, will not lead them one moment, one instant nearer one another, for Nesta has chosen a life from which she cannot be freed until another's death."

       She paused and looked at me; then went on:

       "But since you would clear her from doubt which cannot harm her, at the expense of my happiness, Owain, farewell!"

       Helen had gone, gone perhaps for ever. Oh, God had the sin she asked of me been a thousand times greater still I should have committed it.

       All that miserable long night, whilst my good and bad angels hovered over me, I, in vain, struggled to do right. "Sin can never do good to anyone, however light it be," whispered the spirit of truth; "nor can it touch real love, for those we love we would keep more spotless than ourselves." But we are but creatures of the present, and I thought only of Helen's pain, of the angry face that she turned to me, of her last sad word. Yes, I was conquered, and the tempter smiled upon me with the smile with which we are apt to regard those who take our advice because it is the easiest and most agreeable.

       Wearied out at length, I sank into a heavy sleep, awaking with one dread thought — the thought that Helen was slipping, slipping away from me for ever into the past; the thought that never again should I look upon her or hear her voice.

       It was a dark night, no moon outshone the hidden stars, no planets rivalled Diana's marble cheeks; drowsy black slumber closed the lids of the flowers, and rested like a heavy curtain over the Beacon's topmost crags.

       Conscious of nothing save that Helen was going perchance far away, I jumped out of bed and stole to where the packet lay. Had I been conscious of my dishonour, even then I might have paused, for when we are fully sensible of our sins, the dawn of repentance is breaking, although we know it not.

       Lighting a candle, I held the packet quite close to its faint glow, then glanced all around the shadowy room, which seemed full of some mysterious and invisible presence, and out through the window where the black, heavy air created a silence terrible in its gloom and stillness; and now my trembling, though never faltering, fingers undid the string and let fall a sheet of paper written on in a firm girlish hand, and a faded sprig of heather whose dying bloom had stained the sheet stooping to pick it up, I pressed its withered loveliness to my lips, whilst the old childish days came back with a rush — the days when, with Nesta, I had roamed from peak to peak, and played at being a hero on the hills.

       "For the happy golden days when we played together, I shall ever be grateful; let them be to you Nesta, as they will ever be to me, a sweet and fragrant memory; let them shed a bright and blessed influence on both our lives, never dimming their purity by future sin." It seemed to me that I could hear them quite distinctly, so distinctly that I flung the flower from me passionately out into the night — not a breath kissed my cheek, not a whisper reached my ear, not a murmur broke the silence.

       Would it ever be day again, would the sun ever shine, or would the whole world be swallowed up in an eternity of this black silence?

       I went and knelt down by the candle, holding up the writing, over which the greedy flame was casting a brown tint, but in so doing a book fell from the table to the ground, and I paused — my heart beating wildly: then I held up once more the paper to the light, getting every instant more scorched, more indistinct by its sickly gleam until all was charred save one small atom which I thrust with a sudden fierceness right into the candle. Then it was all done and I crept back to bed, but not to sleep in whatever direction I looked someone, I felt sure, stood on the other, that mysterious dumb someone whose very breathing mingled with my own. I feared to close my eyes lest they should open to give my now vague terror a hideous reality; my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, my teeth were pressed tightly together, the very beating of my pulse was like the murmuring of a thousand voices.

       With a horrible certainty of coming loneliness I watched the candle burn lower and lower in the socket, watched it longingly, beseechingly, until at last it sputtered and with one spark died.

       Oh! how slowly the moments passed, how long the hours were in going by, and how long I lay there, scarcely daring to move, repeating over and over Helen's scornful words.

       Bit by bit, the morning patched itself together till it banished all the gloom and wove itself into light. How I blessed its advent; it is only those who have spent the silent dark hours of the night in either physical or mental pain that know how to appreciate and greet the first glimmerings of the day.

       Cowardly sin, dastardly crime, like the world, it backs us up till we have wasted our last farthing's worth of honour, then when we are bankrupt it turns aside and leaves us to face the worst.

       Rising gladly, and scarce breaking my fast, I was soon on my way to Brecon astride my little Welsh pony, Iris. Summer, that "gemm'd monarch and painter of unrivalled skill" had indeed gone, with its "rapturous light," and winter was sailing in on autumn's golden wave.

       Mr. John, early as it was, I found amid his dusty picture-frames, looking as gloomily resigned as ever.

       "Is Mr. Trevor here?" I asked, abruptly, plunging into my subject at once.

       "Mr. Trevor, Mr. Owain; he went awhile ago."

       "I mean Miss Trevor," I contradicted myself, reddening. "Mr. John, do not tell me she has gone too."

       The picture-dealer looked surprised at my eager tones.

       "Miss Trevor," he said, "is still here."

       Go," I exclaimed, quickly, "go at once and tell her that I, Owain, wish to see her."

       He went, returning almost at once and motioning me to follow. I did so with my heart beating wildly. Near the few scant coals that made the fire Helen was kneeling, holding her white hands to the faint blaze, whilst a bright flush burnt on either cheek, and her fair thick hair fell all around her shoulders.

       "Helen," I said, when the door had closed upon Mr. John's form; "Helen, I have done what you wished."

       She did not give me one word of thanks, she did not even speak, but turned her loving pleased face to mine, and took my hand.

       "My darling," I cried, "does this poor act make you so happy?"

       Her head drooped, the heavy lids closed over the smiling eyes, the white fingers interlaced themselves nervously together.

       "Owain," she whispered, so low that I could hardly hear, "Owain, I am alone, alone in the world, and if I fail to win Ivor's love, I must be alone for evermore."

       "Your father."

       "My father," she reiterated, lifting her bowed head with her old pride and passion; "it is true I love homage, wealth, and power, but I have not fallen so low as to accept it on the terms he offers."

       Looking lovingly and anxiously into her beautiful face, I noticed with despair how thin and sharp her features were, and, as if to give force to my pain, a violent fit of coughing seized her.

       "Helen," I exclaimed, "you are ill."

       She laughed, carelessly.

       "Ill," she repeated; "no, but it is so cold;" she shivered as she spoke, and drew nearer the fire.

       "Helen," I began, but with a smile she made me stop.

       "How many times in the day do you say, 'Helen?' Why, Owain, I don't believe you say anything else when you are with me."

       I laughed, and she joining in, we both laughed heartily.

       "Why won't you always laugh," she cried, reproachfully, when at length we ceased; "what is the use of sighing and weeping always?"

       "It is certainly wiser and better to be cheerful," I agreed; "but such natures as mine seldom are."

       "Nonsense. I don't believe that; our natures are as we make them."

       I shook my head.

       "There are some people, people like you, for instance," went on my companion, pausing to look across at me, "whose pleasure lies in being melancholy; gloom is as essential to their happiness as night is to the order of the universe."

       "Perhaps," I assented; "but Helen, seriously," as once more a tiresome fit of coughing seized her, "you say you wish to live."

       "To live," she interrupted me, "of course I want to live. Owain, I will, I will live; do you think I am fit to die? I who love the good things of this earth so well; I who hate toil and poverty so."

       "That has nothing to do with it?" I returned sadly. "God forbid that you should."

       "Don't say it. I know well what you are going to say," cried the girl, turning her frightened face to mine. "Why do you come to grieve me so? See, it is you who make me cough; I very seldom cough when I am alone."

       I leant silent and sick at heart against the chimney-piece, and looked down on my companion, racked by her cruel enemy.

       "It was only yesterday Mr. John said to me that he noticed I was getting more colour," Helen began again, when she had recovered from the exhaustion of the cough, "and that my eyes had a brighter look than they used to have."

       "Of course," I put in, "you will be strong in time — stronger, no doubt, when the spring comes."

       "Yes, that's it, Owain," she assented eagerly. "I must wait till the spring. comes, everyone has colds now."

       "Winter is trying, certainly," I admitted.

       "But I shall be very careful until the spring. I don't mean those horrid early months, but the beautiful sunny ones treading on the threshold of summer."

       "Helen, my beloved, is it not always thus with us all; do we not cling to that one frail creed, in our anguish, our wretchedness, our loneliness, every day of our lives? Wait a little longer-wait a little longer until the spring."

---

CHAPTER XIV.

       It was evening, and Ivor had come to look once more upon the face of his love, whom he had left so unwillingly many months ago.

       "Owain," he cried, stretching out his hands eagerly, "is Nesta well, is she here, will she be very much surprised to see me?"

       "We — that is, I — did not expect you quite so soon," was my stammering response.

       "Yes, it is sudden," he said quickly; "but I could not stay away from her any longer. Owain, what a probation it has been."

       "Has it?" I said, gloomily.

       "Has it?" he echoed, almost scornfully. "You do not know what love means!"

       Always the same, always the same excuse, the same words for my seeming indifference. Ah, would they never understand!

       "Tell me she happy," he went on coming nearer to me, and looking with anxious eyes into mine; "Owain, why are you so silent, for Heaven's sake speak! speak!"

       He had seized my arm now, roughly, and was waiting with impatience my answer.

       "She is not dead," I faltered; "but," the wild gleam that came into his eyes, the pallor that overspread his features frightened me.

       "Go on," he cried hoarsely, as his whole frame trembled; "go on, unless you wish to make me mad!"

       "You frighten me," I said, shrinking from his grasp; "be calm, and I will tell you."

       He laughed wildly.

       "Calm," he repeated; "am I not calm?"

       "Nesta is no longer at Llanrhayadr," I murmured, in a voice so low as hardly to be distinct; but low as it was, my listener heard.

       "Why don't you continue?" Ivor cried; and awed by his manner I again obeyed.

       "Nesta has gone; where I know not, and even Gwilym cannot tell you."

       "Gone, gone away," he moaned, as though he were dazed; "gone, gone away, leaving no token, no message for me."

       "Ivor," I said, stabbed to the heart by his pain; "I saw Nesta last, do not doubt her; she has gone to fulfil her duty."

       A ray of light broke over his despairing face at my words.

       "You saw her last," he exclaimed; "Owain, tell me all — all she said, how she looked."

       Too late I saw the error into which my remorse had led me, and I longed, oh! how I longed, to tell him the truth; but even as I hesitated, Helen's pale features came before me, and her scornful words rang in my ears.

       "Ivor," I replied, not daring to look at him; "she said nothing save that she was going away, and that she had come to say 'Good-bye.'"

       For a moment there was silence, silence the more awful because it was so strange; silence during which I never lifted my eyes from the ground, but let them rest there with a dull, steady gaze.

       "Owain." It was Ivor who broke the silence, and I, glancing upwards, saw that he had risen, and was standing with a resolute expression in his eyes. "Owain, never, never think that I for one moment doubted her love, her goodness, for I know my darling too well to believe that she left me, save for what she judged the best; and to think," he went on, with a passionate gesture of anguish, "that once, though only for a brief time, another woman's face, another woman's voice, attracted me. Owain," my cousin added brokenly, "oh! say, you do not think she ever questioned my love?"

       "No," I answered, firmly, "Ivor, she never questioned your love."

       "Thank God! For surely, Owain, you would know, you whom she trusted; you, her old playmate and friend."

       I hung my head in silence, and, with the bard, I might have said truly: "There was the hearing of swords edge to edge, there was the feeling of a wound in every limb."

       "From this day forth I will never rest," Ivor continued; "never look upon Bôdelwyddan or the hills again, until I look upon all with Nesta, until I have wrung the mystery from her lips; and with my life only shall my quest end."

       Ivor had gone; but long after he left me I sat in the dusky, quiet room, knowing that Helen and my dishonour had been in vain, in vain. Surely, oh! surely, even now it was not too late. I would seek Ivor and reveal all, and rushing wildly out into the hall my voice went ringing through the galleries overhead, whose echo alone responded to my despairing cry of "Ivor, come back, come back."

       But the days rolled into weeks, and weeks into months before I looked on Ivor's face again.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       I love all the seasons, and all the year, saving that one dreary interval that comes between dying winter and dawning spring, but in Nature, as in everything, all indefinite periods are unpleasant. Take, for instance, those days when we are neither child nor man, when we are too old to take delight in childish joys, too young to accept manhood's charms, when we look back with veiled regret and forward with openly expressed hopes, and when the follies of youth are not absent, nor the wisdom of maturity present.

       I was filled with such thoughts as I walked along in the wintry morning, the swish, swish of the river sounding in my ears, and the wanton wind playing amongst the gaunt leafless boughs.

       Helen's loneliness, Helen's ill health, Helen's poverty, haunted me every step I took; ah! how vain, how senseless, how dreary now seemed all her once bright dreams, her once proud ambition. How vain, how senseless seemed now our sin which had indeed followed us with so noiseless, though so sure a tread.

       "Sin can never do good to anyone, however light it is, nor can it touch real love, for those we love we would keep more spotless than ourself." That was what God's angel whispered to me that night, that was what he whispered to me ever.

       Mr. John had grown weary and impatient of his lodger, impatient of her white drawn face, weary of her ceaseless prayer, "Wait a little longer, and I will pay you all I owe." Helen never knew, will never know, how all my scanty coins went to satisfy the just demands of the picture-dealer. "It's not that I am a hard man, Mr. Owain," he would plead, eagerly clutching the gold, "but, 'live and let live,' that's my creed."

       Passing by Llanrhayadr, I paused to lean upon the gate and look on the dead flowers and desolate earth, whilst a calm summer's evening floated back on memory's swift wings — an evening long ago, when I had first gazed upon the harper's features, first heard the harper's voice. Was I? Surely I was never unhappy then, when no sin pressed like a heavy weight upon my soul! When the knowledge of another's friendlessness and sickness did not almost drive me mad with anguish. Thus we wonder at past griefs, and smile at past tears when a great sorrow pierces our heart and tortures our mind. Had it grown too dark, had it grown too late for me to wander back again and lift the latch (so rusty, so hard to move from constant disuse) of the one and only gate?

       Few, yea, very few, are those who can uproot the weeds and plant the flowers instead. Few, yea, very few, are those who can travel o'er the toilsome road, and through the mist and darkness find the shining path once more.

       "Owain," it was Gwilym's voice that spoke, Gwilym's tender eyes that gazed into mine.

       "Gwilym, my friend," I cried, stretching out my arms towards him, "my guardian and my guide, save me, save me, save me!"

       The harper gently drew me to him. "My child," he said, as though he would lead my thoughts away from my despairing self, "my work is nearly ended, my task is nearly done." A look of perfect content, of rapturous light dawned on his weird countenance, and I, raising my head, gazed on him in silent wonder. There he stood in the grey chill morning, old in years, yet young in hope, lined and bent with years of toil, yet confident of a coming rest. What could match the grave tenderness of those firm lips, the grandeur of that broad brow, the fire and earnestness of those eyes, the serenity of those features? Gwilym, Gwilym, rest has come to you now, eternal and well-earned repose.

       "Owain," said the harper presently, "what will you have me save you from?"

       I was calmer now, though my brow still burned and my form still trembled. "From myself," I answered;"teach me, teach me how to live aright; teach me not to act upon the impulse of the moment, the passion of the hour."

       Taking me gently by the hand, the harper led me into a little shed, covered all over in summer with the light yellow blossom of the canariensis, and the trumpet-like flowers of the white convolvulus, but now bare and brown with rough trodden-down grass for its carpet, and the silver river for its boundary, which tumbled, swollen and turbulent, over the rocky depths. Seating himself on the rude bench that ran around, a roomy terrace for the crawling slugs and snails, Gwilym encircled me with his loving arm.

       "Owain," he said, "listen, for I am going to tell you about a youth whose name was Gwalchmai, and who lived thousands of years ago in the splendid court of a warlike British king, whose favour he had gained by his great personal beauty and courtly demeanour, and whom the monarch's youngest and fairest child, Ceindrych, loved passing well, and, seeing this, the king smiled and cried: 'Since it pleaseth me not to make war against the mighty God Gwalchmai may claim his mistress.' And the young noble, hearing these words, rejoiced greatly, and, bending low his knee, swore to defend and obey his royal master till death. No thought of grief, no thought of death vexed his gay spirit, nor was there any foot in all the kingdom as light as Gwalchmai's, nor any voice as loud in mirth, nor laugh as long in festival.

       "Now, there lived, not far from the merry brave court, in a vast dark wood, the hermit Cadermid, who had spent his whole life in the solitude of nature and prayer; no man had ever heard his voice, no man had ever seen him smile or weep, yet fame whispered there was no ill he could not cure, no sorrow he could not heal, no mystery that he could not unravel; but although many wished to consult him, no one had sufficient valour to seek him, for the wood was dreary and gloomy, and the way thereto beset with much peril.

       "Now it came to pass that the king fell grievously sick, so sick that none dared hope for his recovery, though all prayed and offered sacrifices to heaven every day; alone, weeping bitterly in his chamber, knelt Gwalchmai, refusing to be comforted, when a knock sounded at his door-a knock that struck thrice at the portal ere the noble answered 'Enter;' and one entered such as had never crossed his threshold before, a damsel, meanly clad, of great modesty and beauty; thus beholding her he forgot her intrusion, and only remembered her rare loveliness, so prayed that she might be seated, but she would not.

       "'Thy master lieth a dying,' she said, and the music of her voice was like the rippling of summer streams, 'and all earthly good availeth naught. If thou then wouldst save him, go seek the hermit Cadermid, and say that I, Gobaith (Hope), hath sent thee.'

       "She vanished, and again was he alone, yet he wept no more, but though he had fought on many a field, and drawn his sword against many a foe, his heart waxed faint at the thought of the gloomy wood and unseen hermit. Then he mused on the monarch, near whose couch the veiled form of Death stood, and reproach smote his bosom, and love gave him the strength he lacked. . . . When all the palace lay wrapt in the cloak of night, Gwalchmai arose and wandered forth, taking no staff save hope, no armour save faith; yet as he paused on the margin of the wood, whose trees knit the shadows into an eternal canopy, his soul trembled with fear but only for an instant, for in the next he had plunged into its thick darkness, and never rested again until he came to where the hermit dwelt.

       "'Cadermid,' he cried, 'come forth. Gobaith hath sent me here;' and even as he lifted his eyes, lo! the hermit stood before him.

       "'What is thy prayer? Speak!'

       "'I would,' faltered the courtier, 'that thou shouldst save my master, the king, who in yonder city lieth faint unto death.'

       "'Who is the king, thy master?' questioned the holy man, and with much contempt and displeasure the noble answered? 'Is it indeed possible that, though the palace lieth not many furlongs from here, thou hast not heard his name, nor his valorous deeds, nor the princes he has conquered, the lands his sword has taken, the warfares his prowess has won! Art thou in truth ignorant of his strength, his graciousness, his rule tempered with kindness and mercy, of the great men that crowd his court, of the bards that sing his glory, of the minstrels that chant his praise?' And Gwalchmai smiled at the hermit's ignorance, and at the falseness of his reputed wisdom.

       "'This is strange,' quoth Cadermid, 'for I know of but one King.'

       "'And who may he be?' asked the noble wrathfully, for he deemed that the whole earth knew of his master and sovereign.

       "'He dwells,' spoke the hermit, 'in a country called "Gwynfa" (Paradise), or "Lleyn" (the Land of Light). Now no rain falls in this fair clime, for living waters irrigate the smiling pastures; nor doth the wind moan, nor the storm destroy, nor do the flowers fade nor the ocean toss, neither are the sun and moon needed, and passion, sickness or darkness is not known there.'

       "'Tell me more about this wonderful country,' cried Gwalchmai, 'that is fairer than any I ween.'"

       "'It hath no graves,' went on the hermit, 'for there death hath lost its sting; it knoweth no partings, for it is the union of blest souls; it needeth no physicians, for those who enter through its gates are healed.'

       "'The king, my master, shall go thither, for his pains are great,' said the courtier, hope filling his young heart.

       "'He can go, indeed,' replied Cadermid, 'but he may not come back.'

       "Thus sorely troubled and perplexed, Gwalchmai asked: 'Are there no chariots — no horses there?'

       "'No one desires them, for those who travel thence have no wish to return.'

       "'It is indeed a place passing beautiful,' cried the noble.

       "'Thou hast said truly,' replied Cadermid.

       "'But about the King,' exclaimed Gwalchmai, impatiently.

       "'He receiveth all who come,' continued the good man, 'be he of whatsoever nationality. The poor are invited as well as the rich, the old as well as the young, the sick as well as the strong; to all alike He bids welcome, whilst He wipes every tear away, cleanses every stain, allays every fear.'

       "'Can I go to Him? Oh, tell me the road.'

       "'You may indeed, but first you must serve in His army.'

       "'The noble laughed long and scornfully.

       "'By St. David, that is easy! I have humbled many a proud name, conquered many a veteran,' he boasted.

       "'Yes.'

       "'You spoke of an army; who serves in His army?'

       "'All who list,' said Cadermid, quietly.

       "'All save the halt, maimed, deaf, and blind?' smiled Gwalchmai.

       "'You are mistaken, those who are thus afflicted are welcomed more lovingly, if possible.'

       "'How so?' demanded the courtier. 'Surely the blind cannot see their danger, and the halt and maimed cannot pursue the enemy, nor can the deaf hear his advent.'

       "'There is but one foe that dare attack my Master's army, and the strongest sight cannot see him, the lithest limbs cannot follow, nor the greatest vigilance elude him; all listen in vain for his voice.'

       "'He is verily a terrible foe,' mused the noble, sore amazed; 'with what weapons may man attack him, with what art may man subdue him?'

       "'Only by asking the great King.'

       "'How can I ask Him? Where can I find Him?' cried Gwalchmai. "Oh, that I could but look upon His face!'

       "'Alas!' cried the hermit, even though you stood in His blessed presence, yet the light of His face would be hid from thee.'

       "Then the noble wept with disappointment and grief, and Cadermid gazed upon him silently, whilst his tender heart bled for his distress.

       "'So be it,' he murmured, and waved his hand once, twice, thrice, over the courtier's head, and immediately over him crept a great numbness, until the vast wood and the hermit's pale shadowy form died away, and his eyes beheld only a wide flowery plain stretching unto golden gates, through whose portals wandered, as though it had lost its way the sweetest melody, and beyond whose shining gold ran many a flowing river, with margins white with glistening bands, and pearly pavements lined with amber harps, and rippling fountains pure as crystal; and as Gwalchmai marvelled at such, beauty, whilst his whole soul burnt with a new strange longing, he heard a voice sweeter far than the music, crying:

       "'Behold, here am I whom thou seekest,' and the noble knew the great King spoke, and that he was outside the beautiful country Cadermid had told him of, so that a sudden trembling overcame him, and he fell at the King's feet, uttering not one word. 'Arise and look upon my face;' yet when Gwalchmai raised his head, he could see nothing of the countenance he longed to behold, and turning aside, he bowed himself to the earth, weeping. 'Weep not,' whispered the King, 'a mist now shrouds my face from thee, but if thou wilt, that mist shall fade away.'

       "'Oh, if it would!'

       "'Be my servant, enter my army, conquer the enemy, because thou hast been idle thine eyes are sightless; soon, if thou art brave, thy sight shall be restored.'

       "Then once more a drowsiness and numbness overcame the courtier, so that he recked not where he was till the hermit stood again before him.

       "'Thy prayer has been granted,' he cried; 'return to court, the king, thy lord liveth.'

       "Now when Gwalchmai drew nigh unto the city, a joyful multitude met him, rending the air with their joyful voices; but the noble passed by them silently, so that all wondered at his silence, even Ceindrych. No longer did he love the festival, no longer did his feet tread to the sound of the lute and cymbal, no more did he sing in the gay choruses, for ever and anon the golden gates of the 'land of light' stretched before his eyes, ever and anon he heard the words of the great King, 'A mist now shrouds my face, but if though wilt, that mist shall fade away.'

       "At last Gwalchmai sought his royal master, and bade him to listen to what he should speak, and the monarch commanded him to speak on; then the young noble thanked him for all his gracious favour and love, and for all that love had bestowed, but added that he wished to enter the service of a greater King on whose countenance he longed to look. His listener chided him angrily for his faithlessness.

       "'Will thy new master love thee as I have done, will he tend thee as I have tended thee, will he mourn for thy griefs as I have mourned, and rejoice in thy joys as I have rejoiced; will he give unto thee his fairest child, and count nought too rare for thy possession.'

       "Then Gwalchmai spoke of the hermit, of the wondrous kingdom, of the golden gates, of the glittering streets, of the shining host, and lastly, of his burning wish to reach that amber strand, so that the monarch longed likewise to see the country where neither famine nor sickness came, and the King who had but one foe; but when the courtier told him that before he travelled hence, he must serve in the great King's army, he waxed wrath, or a mighty army was ever at his command, and he knew not the way to serve. Then Gwalchmai tore himself away, saying that he must set out on his journey.

       "Now it chanced that in the garden, amid the roses, Ceindrych saw him pass, and called out to him to stay; but stopping his ears he ran on, never pausing until the palace and the city lay far behind — a misty outline against the evening sky — and then, then only did he weep, for he thought of his kind master, his beautiful love, and all the happy hours he had spent within yonder walls; and as his tears fell the damsel called Gobaith stood suddenly before him.

       "'The road,' she said, 'is sharper, more toilsome than thou wouldst believe; yet fear not, I will be thy guide; and that thou may'st not, in the dark, fall into deep ravines, nor miss thy footing over treacherous precipices, nor yet stumble over the rocks, nor cut thy foot against the stones, take my lamp, which has a radiance brighter than the sun, purer than the moon; trim thou it, night and morn, and it will ne'er grow dim, then thou shalt not tremble when around thee the cold wind blows, or the gloomy shades gather, nor yet when the enemy draweth near.'

       "And even as Gwalchmai desired to thank her for her gracious gift, she vanished; and, looking at the lamp, he beheld, traced in letters, these words: 'Cymerwch fy iau arnoch' ('Take my yoke upon you,') but nevertheless his heart was troubled, for the path was steep, and at first the light burnt very faint; yet, the farther he travelled, the brighter shone its glow. Sometimes he rested, sometimes he slept; often he met the great King's servants, and the great King's messengers, all, all journeying on. Now drawn up in martial array to meet the foe, now lying faint and bleeding by the wayside; whilst ever and anon he fell bruised and sore, the gleam of his lantern flickering in the gloom. No longer was his step buoyant, no longer were his tresses golden, or his forehead smooth; but old, bent, and weary, he toiled along, so changed that even had Ceindrych met him she would have passed him by.

       "'Perchance,' he murmured to himself, 'the great King hath forgotten, and will fail to recognise me.'

       "One night, too tired to go further, he sat himself down to rest, and lo! the radiance of his lamp was so luminous that it dimmed his sight, and confused his mind, and in the midst of its glory stood forth Gobaith.

       "'Rest, weary soul,' she said, 'rest in peace, thy journey has for ever ended,' and, closing his eyes, Gwalchmai opened them outside the shining barriers, and heard the great King's voice crying, 'Behold me,' and Gwalchmai looking, saw and lived."

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       The harper ceased, and a silence fell upon us; during the narrative I had listened intently, my heart aching as I thought how dim my lamp must be, how faint was the hope that I should behold the great King's countenance.

       "Gwilym, Gwilym," I cried, "I know and understand all now. Oh, God, had I but known and understood before."

---

CHAPTER XV.
PHANTOM FORMS.

       One afternoon, just at the close of a brief spring day, poor old Ursula left us to set out on her journey to rejoin her mistress and master, with whom in memory and affection she had never ceased to live.

       The end was as unexpected as it was peaceful. As was my wont, I had come up to sit with her, and talk over old times beside the glowing embers.

       I think I see her now, with her cheerful, wrinkled face, and her grey hair enclosed so neatly by the quaint white cap, with her rough hands lying idly on her lap, with her fond, faithful eyes looking always towards me.

       "Dearie," she said, as I rested my head on her knee, "sing to me one of the songs we used to sing together in those bygone hours."

       "Hush!" I answered, hiding my face in her gown. "Ursula, I am going to sing the bard's last song."

"I have seen the days of youth depart!  The shaft of sorrow stings my heart;  Old age alone, and cares remain,  Heaven support me through my pain.  Generous manhood now is o'er,  The day was bright, it shines no more;  Confused ideas rack my head.  The noble love of fame is fled.  Lost is the harmonious voice which long  Cheer'd the sad heart and prais'd the song."

       I ceased, for my old nurse seemed not to hear, but with an intent gaze was looking steadfastly at the door "Master Owain," she gasped, "how dark it grows; how deep the shadows are."

       I arose and drew back the curtains, letting in the dying day which fell with so weird a light on her lined features, and on the far-away expression in her dazed wandering, eyes. "Deformed, poor child. See, he smiles, and missus, she smiles too." Those were her last words, as death led her back for one short moment to the silent past.

       Wafted over the great river, without one sigh, without one fear, borne away from the lifeless clay to the Throne of God.

       And thus we all go floating ever upwards, leaving the world behind so gradually that we scarcely understand that we are bidding it good-bye, until we get blinded by the near approach of the sun and fall asleep.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       Restless, morbid, disgusted, I roamed through the solitary house, starting at the sound of the owl hooting in the ivy, or the corncrake piping in the marshes.

       It seemed to me, as I wandered up and down the silent rooms, that invisible hands were chaining me by unseen links to the ground; it seemed to me that every corner, every cranny, hid some ghastly spirit, who waited but to drag me down to fathomless and gloomy depths.

       And when I tried to recall the past, to recall the harper's words, the harper's teaching, my mind was like a piece of blotting-paper, on which everything grew into a confused blot!

       Absorbed in such fancies as these, I sat; a month after Ursula's death. I was in one of the chambers enclosed by the ivied terrace that led into the park, whilst the wind moaned, oh! how it moaned, like the wailing of some one in despair, whilst the thick dew glistened on the frail tendrils of the ivy, and lay like a faint mist on the window-pane; one by one the phantom forms came stealing past me noiselessly, and ceaselessly; one by one they pointed towards me and vanished into gloom; one by one they glided by with slow, silent tread, and footsteps which made no sound on the stony ground outside.

       Great heavens! One had passed now, and stood looking at me with wild eyes, and pale distorted features, and outstretched arms that sought to guide me to them.

       "Helen!"

       Yes, it was my beloved herself, and no spectral phantom, standing on the threshold of the half-opened casement, with the heavy dew falling on her fair tresses, and on the simple clinging gown that clothed her fragile form, Helen pale as death, and as strangely still.

       "Look well upon me," she cried, stepping right into the room, and speaking in low calm tones, "for soon the wide ocean shall divide us."

       "Helen!" I exclaimed, starting to my feet, and taking the passive hand within my own, "oh, what is this that has fallen upon you?"

       "I shall never be rich, great, nor loved now," she went on, never heeding me, and as though she were repeating some lesson which she had learnt by heart: "but I have been wrong, too; I did wrong to make you break your trust, which has brought me no good."

       "Oh, my darling," I cried, passionately, "do not let your soul be tortured by this one sin."

       "At last," continued the girl in the same hopeless strain, "justice has claimed my father, who, not content with hiding his treachery under the cloak of a pleasant vice, has become a common thief, and now awaits his trial in a prison; soon all his past wicked life will be revealed to the world, and men will blame me for what they deem my share in his crimes."

       "Merciful God," I moaned, "shield and spare her from this."

       "Bad, faithless as he has been," recommenced my companion, "at such an hour, at such a time as this I will not forsake him."

       "Owain," Helen cried, awakened at last from her stony composure, "you, and you alone, will believe me guiltless!"

       "Beloved," I said, kneeling at her feet, and covering her damp, cold hands with my burning tears, "stay, stay here; here beneath the shadows of the kindly hills; here within these grey old walls."

       "Oh! how can I go forth into yonder heartless world; how can I bear to meet nothing but relentless looks and stern eyes, to hear nothing but cruel words, and bitter taunts? Can no one help, can no one save me?"

       In her agony, she had clenched her colourless lips so fiercely together that the warm red blood came oozing out from between them.

       "Helen, I will save and help you; become my sister."

       She shook her head despairingly, then burst into a passion of tearless sobs.

       "Dishonoured, disgraced, unloved, unregretted, why do I live? Live!" she added, lifting her face to me; "stay, let me think."

       My heart gave a mighty bound, my whole frame trembled.

       "Owain!"

       It was my darling's voice, no longer despairing, but thrilling with a glad triumphant ring.

       "Owain, once we spoke of death together, do you remember, and you seemed to warn me of it, but I said 'wait until the spring,' and the spring has come, and —–"

       "Hush!" I exclaimed, hastily, "do not breathe his name, Helen; it is not, is not true."

       "Yesterday good old Dr. Hughes told me that life for me was waning to its close, kindly soul; he thought I should be sorry!"

       "Sorry, sorry!" I wailed, as I kissed the folds of her dress, the wavy gold of her loose flowing hair, "my love, my only love, tell me that other lips than yours spoke thus."

       "What!" Helen cried, tearing herself away from my detaining grasp, "you weep, you moan, you who swore you loved me, you would have me live, live long, hopeless, dreary years, pitied, reproached, condemned, and then forgotten. Oh God! I who am so proud, so proud!"

       She stopped to brush a mist of angry, indignant tears away passionately.

       "Listen, if death were not already claiming me, think you not that I should claim death? Yes, though my own hand loosed the galling chain."

       She raised her arm as she spoke.

       "Die here, at least," I pleaded; "here surrounded by love and peace."

       For one moment I saw that she wavered, hesitated; but for an instant only.

       "Do you deem me, then, a coward. If I scorned to share his gains, I will not scorn to share his downfall."

       The old light was in her eyes; but something grander, nobler, mightier than pride was written in that pale face, and traced on her features.

       "And after?"

       "After," repeated Helen; "there will be no 'after' for me but eternity."

       I wonder now at the calmness with which I stood and gazed at her, knowing that never more should I see the Helen whom I knew and loved, knowing that never again should I listen to the music of her voice, or feel the gentle grasp of her hand. It is God's infinite compassion that veils from us in such moments the depths of our own heart.

       "Owain, kiss me."

       Lip met lip, and cheek met cheek, soul went out to soul, spirit joined spirit, in a fervent though passionless kiss, whose purity the very angels might have envied.

       Then the darkness fell indeed, for I was alone!

(To be continued.)

Owain Seitbenyn.

—:0:—

BOOK II.

—:0:—

CHAPTER XVI.

       In the early sunlight I lingered among the dead, bidding them "good-bye." How often on this self-same sacred spot had I bade Ursula dry her tears, and now no one would ever rebuke them from flowing again, for she wept no more! I thought of my father, too, not of my mother; there was nothing strange in her lying there, to me, for she had always been an angel — but of him, wondering whether he smiled at last in the light of her dear presence; wondering whether the gloom of all those dreary years had been forgotten in that rapturous reunion.

       Recalling that bleak, grey morning, after so many, many days, I know that grief had for the time driven me mad — not wildly distraught, but with a dull madness that called for no help, that gave rise to no alarm. I remember looking back upon the castle with no regret, but rather with a shrinking terror, as its gloomy, silent, and haunted rooms came before my eyes. I remember trying to arouse myself from the apathy into which I had fallen by saying, "Helen is gone — gone — gone for ever — hear, and understand, she is gone, not for days, not for weeks, not for years, but for ever — yes, for ever! for ever! for ever!"

       I remember quitting the graves and setting out on my journey — a journey to which I knew no end — no destination. I remember seeing Betty Lloyd, standing at her cottage door, and stopping to speak to her in the same mechanical way as I passed along.

       "I be main weary," she returned, in answer to my greeting; "you see, it do all show."

       Yes, Betty was right; it all shows after a time — all the good and bad deeds we have done, all the pain and anguish we have borne.

       I remember that it was mid-day when I sat down on a rude heap of stones and ate my bread, I remember how a man of middle age lay stretched under the hedge opposite me, a man clad in dirty rags, and having no covering on his dusty blood-stained feet; then, when I had rested and eaten, I arose and began again my hopeless, reckless pilgrimage.

       "Young master!" It was the beggar who had called, and stood facing me as I turned. Oh, that face! Shall I ever forget it, with its capability of passion and of crime? "Well ——"

       "Young master," he reiterated, with coarse humour, can you not see when a dog is hungry?"

       "Why do you call yourself a dog?" I asked, quietly.

       My hearer rubbed his coarse black hands together and laughed contemptuously, "It's as good as any other name!"

       "Since you are so hungry," I remarked, taking no notice of what he had said, and handing him all the little store I possessed, "you are welcome to what I have."

       He grasped and devoured it like a beast of prey.

       "It must be very bad to be hungry," I admitted, thoughtfully.

       "Bad enough," retorted my hearer, sharply; "the craving's awful." He shook his head, as if to give force to his words, and then went on eating more ravenously, more fiercely than before.

       "Why don't you get work?" I questioned, turning away from the sight, and looking up the long, white road, which, twisting to the left, was bounded by a horizon of jagged peaks which rose to meet the grey chill sky.

       "Work," he re-echoed with a sneer; "thank ye, who would work when they can be kept in state?"

       "In state," I murmured, glancing askance at his poor clothes and naked feet.

       "Ay, young master," he continued, following my gaze with a scornful shrug of his shoulders, "in state; but ye must not wrong those that keep me; these," touching his torn, shabby garments, "ain't my usual dress — that awaits my return." His laugh as he finished was not pleasant to hear.

       "Why don't you return?" I cry, perplexed and interested.

       "I shall soon, no doubt," he answered, with a knowing wink.

       "Is it very far off," I again inquired.

       "Ay, far eno' across the seas."

       "Across the seas? I am afraid I don't quite understand. I know so little of the world. Are you a mariner?"

       "A mariner," he laughed, but in that laugh there was neither mirth nor harmony.

       "Don't, don't," I pleaded, involuntarily.

       My companion paused at my beseeching tone, and looked at me in wonder and astonishment.

       "Hast never heard of a land t'other side of th' ocean where those go who be too well known?" the tramp asked, lowering his voice, and drawing near me as he spoke.

       Yes, I understood all he meant — understood it too plainly, too fully now.

       "You ain't a-going?" the man said, with a ring of regret, for I had moved away a little from where he stood. "I would'na harm thee if only for thy kindness."

       "Have you nowhere to go?" was my answer, as I turned, touched and moved by his simple gratitude.

       "Nowhere."

       "Have you never had no home?"

       "Ay," replied the tramp," when I think hard I mind a little cottage, and an old man who taught me that it was fine to be good."

       "Do you recollect the name of that place?"

       "Ay, Abergwili."

       Feeling in my pockets I took out half the sum I possessed, and laid it in his grimy hands.

       "Please," I whispered, "try not to cross the seas again."

       The tramp smiled almost sadly.

       "I ain't proud," he said, "and the present life does well enough for me."

       "But," I exclaimed, "what of the other — the life that dawns afterwards?"

       "Ay," put in the ragged wretch, striking one hand fiercely against the other, "I make no doubt you be saying aright, and I don't gainsay it; but my heart is hard; that's it, my heart is hard."

       "Oh, if I were but good," I burst forth, "but alas! like you, my heart is hard!"

       "Look here," exclaimed the man passionately, as he touched my shoulders with one heavy hand, "if you ain't good, who is? If I ain't bad, what's the use of hell?"

       At the force, the violence of his tone and manner, my whole frame shook, it seemed that Satan himself faced me, demanding his awful rights.

       "You won't answer me," laughed my companion, triumphantly. "Why? — because you can't. Why? — because you daren't. For you know as well as I that the place where liars, murderers, and thieves go, gapes under my feet, and is gaping wide and black, and waiting for me now."

       "Hush! for pity's sake, hush!" I pleaded; "you don't know how you terrify me."

       "Young master," answered the man, speaking almost gently, "I did not mean to frighten you, but I frighten myself at times when I think; yet it ain't often I do — you see my heart is so hard, leastways that's what they told me over the seas when I said I neither believed nor cared."

       "You care at times?"

       The convict looked doubtfully up, then down, and lastly at me. "How can I tell?" he cried, hoarsely; "sometimes I believe I don't, but now I think I do!"

       "It is better to care; ah! much better to care; ah! much better, could we but know it!"

       His lips attempted a smile. "It ain't good to care when you have so black a life as mine," he muttered, more to himself than to me; "it ain't good to care when you can't mind nought but darkness! darkness!"

       "Try to clear away the mist," I urged.

       "'Tis too thick," he replied. "'Twould be like fighting with the shadows which make the night."

       "Yet the dawn must come."

       "P'raps ay, p'raps no, young master. Good-bye." Grasping my outstretched hand, the outcast shook it warmly and passed silently on, but when he had gone a little way he stood still gazing after me — a solitary, forsaken figure, standing out against the steel heaven and dark hills. Sin, not poverty, had brought him so low; sin, not poverty, was leading him unto the bitter end.

       Dark, lowering clouds chased each other hurriedly across the surface of the firmament, and were beginning to discharge their wet soft vapour on the earth as I reached Llanvaes, and crossed the bridge that spans the wedding of the Usk and Honddu; yet, notwithstanding, I rested awhile to gaze down upon the babbling waters which wash the ivy-covered walls of Brecon Castle, and the base of the houses sloping gradually to its silver rippling feet, and rising up again the other side where the river, broadening, ran between verdant banks losing itself at last in a landscape of green.

       "How fast it flows, and how it murmurs," I mused. "Does it never feel weary? does it never long to rest and be still?"

       Then, hastening up the town, through the opening of the groves, I sought shelter in the porch of the Priory; and the great door, not being fastened, I flung it open and went in. Through the windows, on the massive pillars and silent tombs, and across the wide length of ground, the waning light came stealing, dying almost as it fell.

       In the niche of the wall on my left the image of a woman reposed, with hands clasped as if mutely praying, with heavy, closed lids, and time-marked features. How long had she lain thus? In what generation had she been young, and bright, and fair? In what generation had she fallen asleep?

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

[NOTE. — Here more than half a page is missing, but this the context can easily supply. Owain falls asleep, and the following is the dream he dreamt.]

       I thought that I rested on the brink of a river which sparkled and glistened as though a hundred suns shone over it, and along the edges fair white lilies grew in one undulating mass of bloom; and on the banks of these shining waters stood a figure, veiled and misty, so that I could neither clearly see its form, nor face; but presently it came and touched me by the hand, and the iciness of the pressure made me shrink away.

       "Do not fear," the stranger said, "I do not need thee yet awhile."

       "Who and what are you?" I questioned.

       "My name is Marwhun" (death)."

       "And this, this place?"

       "Is my garden."

       Looking all around, I saw a wilderness of flowers blending in glorious confusion and wondrous medley.

       "This river," whispered Marwhun, "has its source in human tears, the tears which the dying shed, when looking for the last time on the features they love," and the lilies smiled, Marwhun flinging back his veil. "Within their petals lies the innocence of childhood; but if thou would'st see more of my garden follow me." And I, arising silently, followed him until we came to a golden flood of sunbeams floating over a sea of blossoms.

       "These," cried my guide, "are the radiance of the smiles I caught when I kissed the lips of the blest."

       Then he led me to a waste of snowdrops, whose purity was like the driven snow. ""Behold," said he, "the untold actions of the humble breast which I claimed when the heart was voiceless."

       And now he had drawn me near a crowd of roses, crimson as blood, blushing as the glow of a summer's dawn. "In all my garden," he said, "there is naught I prize like these; there is naught that does me so much honour, that bespeaks my power half as well."

       "And these?" I asked.

       "These," Marwhun cried triumphantly, "I stole from youth's happy cheek."

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       A small sharp face, and an odd little figure, leant over me, and shook me fiercely, though not unkindly, by the shoulder. "For goodness' sake wake up," it declared briskly. "I declare it gave me quite a turn to see you lying so quietly, so motionless, by the side of the old tomb."

       "I am very sorry," I pleaded, rubbing my eyes vigorously, and feeling somewhat guilty, "but I was so tired."

       "Nonsense," retorted the small creature resolutely, as though accustomed to make up everybody's mind for them; "tired, not a bit of it; 'tis lazy you were."

       I laughed, a little timidly, it must be confessed, and to my relief, I discovered my companion smiling likewise.

       "Come now," remarked the tiny woman, peering at me with her merry twinkling eyes; "come now, and tell me who I am."

       "I — I don't know," was my confused response.

       "Anyway, I know you," she answered, "but who don't I know? Haven't my whole life been spent in and out the Priory?"

       "Oh!" I said.

       "Lucy — Lucy Fechan, my dear; that's what people call me, because I am so little" — she glanced down at herself as she spoke, and laughed heartily, as though it were some pleasant joke.

       "And you are fond of the Priory?" I questioned.

       "Fond!" Lucy reiterated scornfully; "it's more than fond I am. I sit here all day and most of the night, too; and when I go home to my little cottage opposite, 'tis but to dream of the bells, the tombs, and the spirits."

       "The spirits! Are there any spirits here?" I asked, glancing around me.

       "I am certain I don't know whether there are or not," replied my companion with a shrug of her shoulders; "anyhow, I dream there are."

       "And the bells, they haunt you likewise?"

       "Oh, just don't they! Un, dau, tri, pedwar, pump, chwech, saith, wyth, naw, deg, un-ar-ddeg, deuddegg" sang Lucy, beating time as she counted each imaginary stroke.

       [Lucy evidently repeated here the numbers in rhyme, but being unable to make it out, I have merely given the numbers in Welsh from one to twelve.]

       Her voice was far from good, and yet it had a pleasing effect.

       "Do they speak to you?" I questioned, feeling interested in the odd little creature.

       "Speak! ay, like a human being."

       "What is it they say?" I asked again.

       "Say?" sharply; "what don't they say, what don't they teach me, with their ding, dong, ding, ding, dong, ding?"

       "Yes?" I said, interrogatively; but Lucy was not disposed to talk any more.

       "Gracious!" she cried, "the sun has set these two hours, and I must be going."

       "And I likewise," I joined in; rising as I did, and drawing my cloak around me, for it was still very cold, though the clouds had disappeared, and the threatened storm had passed away, and bidding Lucy good-bye, I soon left the quiet town behind, and was tramping along the country roads.

       Behind me lay the clustered houses of Brecon, lying in its low, long valley, and sheltered by the mother mountains, now wrapt in the misty gloom of falling night, and to the left rose the snow-clad Beacons, sloping gradually to endless fields, and faintly outlined in the uncertain light; and between a plain of dewy green the twin tides of the Tarrall and Usk, like streaks of silver, ran by the quaint dwelling erected by Sir David Gam, ever murmuring as they flowed, until their voices united in a triumphant strain under the castle walls.

       On a stone seat, hollowed, as it were, out of the wall, I sat down at length, shielded from the keen wind by a stony covering overhead, and rested there until a man on a horse passed.

       "Will you let me get up behind you?" I asked, anxiously and timidly.

       "Ay, that you may," said the labourer, readily helping me up.

       "Are you going far?" was my next question, as he whipped up his horse, with an encouraging sound.

       "Na, only to Cradoc."

       We were neither of us inclined to talk, so I said no more.

       The Crug when we reached it was almost hidden by mist and vapour, yet my eyes wandered there with a melancholy interest, for once that verdant height had been stained with the blood of Cambria's noblest sons, and on the grassy steeps had struggled the death-throes of Welsh independence.

       Cradoc itself was a mere hamlet, with a few cottages facing a small common, and a dirty pond. But everything swam before my eyes. I felt so faint, so ill, that I could scarcely crawl to the first habitation and knock for admittance at the door. A woman opened it, and on hearing my request invited me to enter. It was a very poor room into which she led me, lighted by a peat fire, near which sat a middle-aged man and a little girl, who poked vigorously into its glow.

       Even such lives as these, I thought, gazing on the peaceful scene, have their simple joys and homely consolations. There is love's sweet dream to fling a roseate hue over the hours of youth, there are baby fingers to bless maturity, and strong, tender arms to guide old age down the great descent.

       "Poor soul," the woman said, presently, as I sank exhausted on the "skew," "poor soul, he's tired, that's what he is."

       "Tired!" exclaimed the man, "maybe it's a long way he's come."

       "Yes," I answered faintly, "I — I have come a long way — at least I have walked far."

       "Ay, and the roads be main bad," he replied, rubbing his forehead thoughtfully. "Mary, dost thou mind the day," but I heard no more, for with a thud I fell to the ground.

                         .       .       .       .       .       .      .
.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       What next I remember is lying on a poor bed in a narrow little room, with a woman kneeling beside me, and bathing my temples with vinegar, moaning softly to herself.

       Nothing is very clear to me save that suddenly I clung to her convulsively, entreating her to save me from those hideous phantom forms surrounding my couch, all pointing at me with their spectral fingers, all hissing in my ears with their unearthly voices. Then comes a blank, a blank which I can never fill; but what to me was a blank was to others a terrible reality, a stern battle 'twixt life and death, and during all that fearful time Gwilym (who had never rested till he found me) scarcely ever quitted my side; his was ever the hand to pour cooling draughts down my parched throat, to moisten my burning head, to smooth my restless pillow, and perfume the fever-tainted atmosphere with sweet woodland flowers; his was the voice to lull me to sleep with soft song, and calm my maddening terrors.

       For weeks brain-fever wrestled with my slight and already weakened frame, and set my mind on fire, and when at length it left me, it left me so faint and feeble, that I was scarcely conscious of existence, but I will dwell no longer on so wearisome a time, neither will I recall the dull, dreary days, the slow, creeping hours, the helpless moments that followed.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       One morning, when I lay, a shadow of myself, on a couch drawn close to the window, Gwilym came in and sat beside me, as was his wont, and took my helpless, limp hand within his own.

       "Owain," he said, gravely; "I have much to tell you, do you think you can listen?"

       "Oh, Gwilym," I cried, rapturously, my face flushing with interest, "tell me anything, anything to while away the long and tedious hours."

       The harper smiled sadly.

       "Poor child, poor child," he murmured.

       "Dear Gwilym," I pleaded, "only give me something to think of, something that will save me from my own wild thoughts."

       "Hush, hush!" he said, soothingly, scanning my agitated features. "Why distress yourself thus?"

       Did Gwilym know all, had I betrayed my secret when unconscious? but surely no. For he was as patient, as loving with me as ever.

       "If you knew the past," I exclaimed, passionately, flinging myself into his protecting arms; "you would despise and perhaps leave me; oh Gwilym, Gwilym, speak, and tell me that though you do, I am forgiven!"

       "I do know all," he answered; "but, Owain, I have no power to forgive."

       "And Helen!" I cried, trembling; "how often have I asked, and yet received no answer. Gwilym, if you have any mercy, any pity, tell me, tell me, what of her?"

       "Helen," replied the harper, slowly, "is no more; she died a day after sentence was passed upon her father."

       "Yes," I said, hoarsely.

       "You must not grieve," Gwilym gently went on, "but rather thank God she has been taken away from pain.'

       "Thank God," I cried in my agony; "thank God, that never in this world shall I behold Helen's face again or hear Helen's voice. Why don't you ask me to thank God for living? Merciful Saviour, take me too," I ended, burying my face in the pillow, and breaking into choking sobs.

       "Owain, my poor Owain," Gwilym whispered, tenderly, soon you will understand how terrible must have been Helen's life had our Father spared her. Listen to these lines traced by her dying hand to you."

       "Give, give, give it to me," I gasped. "Oh! Helen, Helen, my darling, why can't I come to you?" Burnt and stamped for ever on my heart, written there for all eternity, are these words:—

       "TO MY FRIEND, OWAIN, —
              "When you read this my lips will be silent, and my eyes closed in the last great sleep — forget me then, or remember me only as one who gave you nothing but anguish. If you love me, mourn and weep not, but rather rejoice that suffering for me is over, and that henceforth I shall be at rest.

       "Pray, pray often for my unhappy father, and for the soul of —

"HELEN."       

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

---

CHAPTER XVII
THE HARPER'S STORY.

       "Now," I said, turning to Gwilym, and speaking with awful deliberation, "now tell me all the rest!"

       "Nesta," answered the harper, "has returned, and she and Ivor have met once more."

       "And Gwladys?"

       "Gwladys," smiled my listener, "has learnt the lesson of love likewise, and your old friend Jestyn Herbert has taught it to her."

       "Thank God," I murmured, "that some are happy."

       "Owain," Gwilym cried, after a brief silence, "there is one thing you have yet to do: to ask pardon of those you have wronged."

       "Give me something greater to perform," I pleaded.

       "The simpler the duty the harder the task," replied Gwilym; "for in the greater trials we summon all our strength and energies to aid us, in the minor struggles we are content to let them bear us down."

       "That is too true."

       "To ask forgiveness of Christ," proceeded my companion, "is so much easier than asking it of man; for His mercy, His compassion, are ever sure."

       "Yes, yes, I assented."

       "Had I not been a coward, yes, a coward," repeated Gwilym, meeting my surprised contradictory glance, "I should have told you the history of my life before, but I shrank from opening old wounds, and laying bare the secrets of my life. I dreaded mentioning names, as sacred to me as Heaven, and going over scenes whose torture time has not lessened. So, I let the dead past bury its dead and was silent."

       Thus, with my head upon his breast, and his arms around me, I listened to the harper's story.

---

       "Years ago when I was young — for I was young once, however strange that may now seem to you — I, too, had my dream of love and happiness; it was in truth but a short one, yet none the less sweet for being short.

       "In those bygone hours life was to me a carpet woven of the brightest and fairest sunbeams, for I saw no cloud overhead, no shadow near.

       "I had one brother, whom I loved dearly, but no dispositions could be more strongly contrasted than his and mine; I was hopeful, he was desponding; I was trusting, he was suspicious; I was cheerful, he was melancholy; every human creature he met was looked upon as a future and probable enemy, whom it were useless to conciliate; on the contrary, I believed all mankind to be honest and faithful — all mankind did I say? then I erred. In one feeling only were we united, the love of our country and hatred for its conquerors — in the moments of our pleasure we would steal away to our chamber and pass the time in rearing castles in the misty atmosphere of thought; and whilst employed 'in this empty happiness,' as the Greeks term it, we would talk of how one day our strong young arms should win glory and independence for Wales; of how one day we would fall, if fall we must, with honour and just pride. In this strong affection and wild patriotism we were encouraged by our father, a man of energy and undaunted will. Urged onwards, and impelled by his enthusiasm, I know not in what wild scheme we might have indulged had not my mother lived, for, constrained by her calm common-sense, her practical mind, we were brought to look at things as they were, and not as they might or should be. For hours she would patiently sit beside us listening with mild disapproval to our passionate outbreak and violent speeches, and then, when we were exhausted and weary, would reprove us thus: 'My children, let not the strength of your love be its destruction, let not zeal bear you beyond the margin of reason; remember the days of Glyndwr and Llewellyn are passed, and that we stand upon the threshold of a new era, an era of refinement and cultivation, when men fight not so much with swords as with words and noble actions, and when the prowess of the past is sufficient to speak for the bravery of the present. Abide, my sons, and when the time is ripe, strike; strike then, and not before.'

       "Soothed by such arguments, and chid by such gentle reasoning, we would promise to improve and defend, not by violence or hatred, the land of our birth; but, alas! as we reached manhood our mother's spirit was borne home, and we were left entirely to the guidance of our father, whose passionate nature recognised no affection that was not stormy, no strength that did not fight. His stern impetuosity, his force of character, alienated the reflecting, amused the indifferent, frightened the timid; and, calling upon heaven to avenge the cowardice, the ingratitude of his countrymen, my father died lonely and unhonoured.

       "In those bygone days when the sun had sunk to rest, and when all save our restless hearts seemed at peace, my brother and I, ascending some platform of wavy grass or heather, would give vent to our burning ambitions and desires.

       "Then all my brother's icy reserve and cold demeanour were swept away, and he became almost as passionate, as excited as myself, but a close observer and attentive listener would have detected a difference, as my orations were marked by furious invectives and scornful vehemence, and his were full of philosophical periods and well-based arguments.

       "To influence or advance any cause, it is necessary to begin with almost exaggerated enthusiasm and bigotry, for every year our minds grow less susceptible and more tolerant. Thus, as time passed, my fellow-orator grew more and more impartial, and more and more indifferent, yet, notwithstanding this change, our love for one another remained as fervent, as firm as ever.

       "About this period of my life I met the one being to whom I could surrender willingly, nay, gladly, my heart. Gentle without affectation, affectionate without effusion, clever without egotism, modest without prudery, strong without self-assertion, she was my ideal of womanly virtue and womanly nobility. Possessing no strict physical beauty, every feature, every curve, every movement was expressive of dignity and grace. My son, I will not dwell on the anguish of my soul when I learnt from her sweet lips that she had plighted her troth to my brother; but maddened with pain, stung with grief, I hastened into his presence, and flung violent reproaches and wild taunts recklessly upon him, and he listened calmly, though sadly, to my accusations.

       "'Gwilym,' he pleaded, when, from sheer exhaustion, I had desisted, 'even as they fell, I have forgiven all your cruel words. Oh! if I had but confided in you, and you in me, all this torture might have been spared; but my pride forbade me to confess; for, had my love been repulsed, I swore to bury it for ever within the depths of my own breast. Gwilym, Gwilym, turn not so coldly away; hearken to what I say.'

       "'Repent, now; it is well!' I answered, scornfully, gazing into his grieved face; I understand your suspicious nature feared me as a rival.' Oh, false bitter words that can never be recalled, remembered through all the long future years by him who listens; forgotten as soon as uttered by him who speaks them.

       "My brother attempted no defence, offered no excuse, but stood speechless and looked into my eyes; and it was thus I left him without one penitent glance, without one farewell; left my home and him to travel to foreign lands and unknown climes; strange faces pressed around me, strange voices, strange scenes greeted me wherever I roamed; yet often, often I would dream of the old sweet days when we were boys together.

       "Owain, I have wandered far, learnt many different tongues, studied many races. I have stood on Chimalari's dizzy height, and mused on Euphrates' tangled banks; I have watched the red sun set over the flowery billows of the prairies, and strolled in the gloomy forests that shade the purple Alleghanies; I have stood entranced before the mirage of the burning Sahara, and hunted the wild cattle that haunt the leafless Ilanos; I have rested under the feathery acacias of Northern Senegambia, and smelt the fragrance of rose-scented Cashmere; I have traced the source of the sluggish Volga, and lingered amongst the orange groves of sunny Spain; I have seen the moonbeams quiver on the silvery waters of the Arno, and listened to the ceaseless roar of the Maelstrom; I have beheld the brilliant Aurora Borealis flash through the northern sky, and counted the cedars on lofty Lebanon. And of man I know as much as I do of Nature, for I have lived with the proud Spanish American, the patient Negro, the superstitious Russian, the hardy Norwegian, the scornful Turk; and of creeds there are few whose veiled philosophy and vague science I do not understand. Islamism, Buddhism, and Paganism, into all have I dipped, and literature as well, from the wondrous lore that strews Granada's golden halls to the divine melodies the Hebrews sang of yore. Yet, Owain, I was never at rest, never satisfied; for a voice, an inner voice, spoke to me always, night and day, until I sat down and commenced my life-labour, which is not even now completed. My son, I cannot hope to see its fruit; yet something tells me that future generations shall read the lines this hand has traced, and, inspired by their deep love and truth, shall give unto my beloved country the justice it now lacks. But should it come in thy day, remember, and whisper it to me. But, Owain, I must not linger thus; my work will speak for itself when Gwilym is no more."

       Here the harper paused, and then once more began:

       "It was the winter of —– when I came to Florence, and had it in my power to render a slight service to a fellow-countryman named Conwy; with him was his wife and two young children. Now, about this time all the mean fortune I possessed was lost, so that I was left penniless; but I was young and hopeful. Thus I sat down to write, and put on paper the strange fancies that beset my brain; but in vain, no one would accept them. 'Gwilym,' asked my friend one day, 'tell me your trouble and your distress;' and I, touched by his sympathy told him all. 'My poor lad,' he cried, when I had ceased, 'why is it you have never turned to music?' and from that day forth to this I have found a never-failing solace and joy in the melody of my harp.

       "When at length my new friends went back to their mountains, I roamed from city to city, from place to place, playing always on my beloved instrument as I went along. It was a free roving life, and often had I no bed save the green grass, and no canopy save the blue heavens and silent stars; and everywhere I wandered the simple peasants delighted in my harp, and asked often what strange language I sang. Then I would gather them around me, and tell of a little land beyond the sea where, years ago, princes and heroes fell fighting for its freedom and honour; and of its once gilded courts and happy halls, where minstrels played and bards sang, until the maidens and youths, dreaming of such glory and of love, would arise and dance under the trees, keeping time with the weird and plaintive notes on my harp.

       "But at last I grew weary of my lonely roving life, and longed to look upon the land of my birth once more; so crossing the sea, I returned home to find my brother, his wife and children dwelling amid the hills, under whose shadows we had roamed so often together when we were young.

       "Fearing to behold their blest union, lest old love should awake, I sought the friends I had made in Florence, and found them in a stately mansion on the banks of the Alun, not far from the Vale of Clwyd, which shelter I never quitted again until death claimed its master.

       "These were peaceful pleasant years of love and sweet content; that followeth until, alas! even into this hallowed home came sorrow and shame, and the end of all things.

       "One still July evening, I sat in the dusky light, letting my fingers glide gently and idly over the strings of my beloved harp. It was warm, and the whispering ripples of the Alun were borne in through the open casement mingling with the music that I made.

       "'Gwilym,' a voice, low, thrilling with strange and new-born passion, fell upon my ear, awaking me from the reverie into which I had fallen, and striking dumb the notes of my instrument: there, just in the gathering twilight, half hid by the lingering shadows, stood my mistress. Around her fair, pale face her rich brown hair streamed, and a single blood-red rose stained the whiteness of her gown. 'Gwilym,' she said, in a voice quivering with emotion, 'play — play the melody I love so dearly.'

       "It was one that she had often listened to at such an hour as this, with her children clustered at her knees, and the beautiful glow of motherhood shining on her features. It was one that I had played nearly always in the dying day, but never, never, had I played it as I did then.

       "When the last strain had died away, like a great human sob, my mistress flung herself at my feet, and burst into a passion of tears.

       "'Tell me,' I cried, earnestly, lifting her slight form in my arms; 'trust one whom your kindness has befriended so long, and, by yonder heaven! you shall not find me faithless.'

       "'Hush, hush!' she whispered, staggering to her feet. 'Some one comes, listen!'

       "But though I hearkened anxiously, nothing broke the silence but the swish of the waters and the sighing of the leaves.

       "'Do not tremble, we are alone,' I said, gently; 'rest on this couch a little; and your husband, where is he?'

       "'My husband?'

       "My mistress dwelt on these words as though they sounded strange to her, then, turning to me once more, her tears flowed thick and fast.

       "The last time, the last time!' she sobbed; 'oh, play that wail again.'

       "'No, no,' I interposed hastily, 'you are over-wrought, unlike yourself; let me play you something glad and joyous.'

       "'Gwilym, stay; you said just now I should not find you faithless.'

       "'So hear me, God,' I answered reverently.

       "'Then never, never again, awake that melody.'

       "Her earnest pleading tones, her beseeching manner, frightened and chilled me; but, bending down to kiss her hand, I swore to keep her wish.

       "'You said, likewise, I had been kind to you; be kind to me now.'

       Holding my arm as though she held a vice, she went on: 'In the day's that will come the world will deem me heartless, they will tell my children so. Gwilym, Gwilym, at such a time, at such a moment, say it is not true.'

.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       "In the morning of that night my friend was indeed alone. 'I could not deceive you longer, John,' the erring woman wrote; 'I could not listen to your kind voice, I could not kiss my little ones, when I remembered how I had betrayed you; for your forgiveness I do not plead, John; I only ask you to forget that I have ever lived.'

       "But John Conwy never forgot; such natures as his have no such power. And when, after twelve months of shame and anguish, he died, his dying lips charged me never to leave his children or tell them of their mother's sin.

       "A little before his death we had left the stately mansion on the Alun for a simple cottage in the beautiful vale of Neath.

       "'Here men know not of my disgrace and sorrow, here will I die,' John Conwy said; and so it came to pass.

       "Then, with my dead friend's children, and his sister, I came once more to the scene of my early youth, to find my brother a gloomy, heartbroken recluse, and the woman I had so madly loved lying cold and silent in the lonely churchyard. Truly, the ways of Providence are marvellous! Him whom I had envied so bitterly I now tenderly pitied; my probation was now almost ended, his long agony had but just commenced — for he had known the sunlight, and the darkness had been mine.

       "With remorse and pain I sought my brother and his pardon. 'You need not have envied me, my darling. It was such a little while,' was the only reproach he gave. Yet it cut me like a knife. To all, save him, I was Gwilym, Gwilym the poor harper. Now, were there any living who could trace in my gaunt form and grey locks the bright boy who so silently and mysteriously went way? Soon after we came to Llanrhayadr, one of my little charges died, and I was left to fulfil my sacred promise to the other.

       "Resolving to bury the past, Nesta knew me but as the faithful retainer, the lonely harper, and the sister of John Conwy, she called 'Mother.'

       "Now, Owain, I met and loved you, all the more because of your solitary afflicted life, loved you as a father should love his son. I tried to guide your faltering feet, and pour balm into your bruised heart. I tried to make you see that, however stricken we may be with pain and grief, we can, nevertheless, make our lives grand and blessed."

       "And you did, you did," I cried out.

       "Nesta's days, Nesta's childhood, Nesta's early girlhood," proceeded Gwilym, were full of content and love, amongst the ever glorious hues of nature had her young soul been nurtured, and no shadow crossed her pathway until the parent's transgression fell upon the child.

       "From place to place, from hamlet to hamlet, a weary woman wandered, asking God to let her, in His infinite compassion, look upon the faces of her children whom she had forsaken."

       "For Edward Trevor?" I put in.

       "For Edward Trevor." Gwilym had paused.

       "Go on," I said, faintly.

       "Never hopeless, never resting, always lonely, always despised, this woman struggled on; those she had known in her innocence and purity knew her no more; stern faces looked coldly on her, stern moralists forgot her hungering soul, and spoke of the depravity of sin; stern creeds shut her out of the beautiful kind gates of Christianity. Thus scorned by so many, pushed forward on the road to despair so relentlessly by the mocking world, she, in her great solitude, turned to One Who never fails, and Who led her weary erring feet to the grave of one child, and to the home of the other; but, alas! no loving arms were outstretched to bid her welcome, no loving voice whispered the name of 'Mother,' no fond reunion hid the bitter past in the happy present. Hour after hour, behind hedges, in solitary haunts, under the fierce sun, or in the icy snow, Anne Conwy would patiently wait only to catch one 'glimpse of her bright young daughter.

       "One night, it was the night when you and Nesta passed us in the lane, she met me there to say that on the morrow she was going away for ever. 'Gwilym, were her words, 'I have by my own recklessness aroused her fears. Oh, God! how never-to-be-satisfied is a mother's love.' The light falling upon her upturned face revealed its intensity and agony, 'Gwilym,' she continued, 'let her never know my crime, or the torture that is my just punishment.' And as Anne Conwy spoke, you passed.

       "All through the long silent hours I kept watch for the dawn, when I had promised to meet the wretched woman in the churchyard for the last time. Owain, in the bleak, dreary daylight, I hastened there to behold not only the mother but the child. Around the former's poor frail form the daughter's strong young arms were clasped, and on the pallid, quivering features of shame and remorse youth's pure lips were pressed; it was a strange and touching picture, and one that I shall never forget. The forgiven and the forgiving, the tainted and the spotless, the penitent and outcast.

       "'Gwilym, Gwilym,' pleaded my once kind mistress and friend, 'I could not help it. I only watched the light in her window, and her shadow upon the blind.'

       "'Mother,' said the girl, oh, so gently, 'do not distress yourself; Gwilym, she added, turning to me with flashing eyes, and disdainful lips; 'you have deceived me, you have let me believe that another woman was my mother, yet,' and her head drooped and her voice grew tender, 'Gwilym, I should be the last to reproach you, but, henceforth, no human influence or earthly power shall divide mother and child.'

       "'Nesta, Nesta,' urged Anne Conwy, 'I never meant you to have known, my dearest.'

       "'No,' answered the girl, firmly, 'since the moment when I first beheld your face it has haunted me, waking or sleeping; and last night when you sat so patiently, so long, under my window I forced the truth from your reluctant lips. Oh, mother! do not weep. What is the whole world if you have me to love and guard you?' And the bells rang out full and clear, for it was the sabbath.

       "That evening, when mother and child had asked God's blessing on their new life, in the quiet little chapel, Llanrhayadr knew no more my once bright and joyous young charge, and the lonely grave was haunted no longer by sorrowing, weary Anne Conwy; and when, at last, Nesta came back to us, it was only when Anne's spirit had taken flight to the unseen world, and her soul been washed anew with the blood of the Lamb.

       "Owain, my story is ended, my history is finished."

---

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PILGRIMAGE NEARLY ENDED.

       In through the window came stealing like some noiseless silver flood the rush of the falling moonlight; with what poetry it clothed the barest dullest object; with what a glory it shone on the serene countenance of one whose pallor equalled its transcendent hue; with what a lustre it slept in eyes whose calmness was unrebuked by its own spiritual effulgence, and whose glance saw far beyond its glistening shrine.

       The soft, pure moonbeams did they divine, could they tell the message that was wafted at their birth, the message that had glided down the shining ladder out of the gates of gold, the message whose import was eternity. Perchance they were whispering it to him, now so soon to set forth on his lonely journey, perchance they were preparing him for that brighter radiance which bathes the streets and bulwarks of the celestial city, and greets the pilgrim's weary heart as he gains its crystal strand.

       There is silence in the room, profound silence, the silence which dawns with death, yet so gentle, so motionless is his advent, that neither he who waits for his release, nor I who dread his fatal presence, dream that he is so near. So gradual, so peaceful is the falling of the shadow that it does not dim the moonbeams, or arouse one fear within the breast which his icy hand already grasps.

       The harper's wonderful eyes have a glazed, fixed look, and the fingers which have so often awakened a wild melody are now powerless to wipe his clammy brow. Yes, the comforter of all my griefs, the counsellor of all my actions, the instructor of all I had done right, is passing away to the well-earned rest his tired soul demands.

       And now he turns to me with a gaze so soon to respond to Christ's answering smile, and grow ten times sweeter than in life's most blessed moments.

       "Gwilym, Gwilym," I cried in agonised entreaty. "Oh, do not leave me, stay — stay a little longer. Paradise has so many just souls, God cannot need thee."

       "He has called," replied the harper; "and 'who so mighty not to obey, who so proud not to listen?'"

       The moonlight, as Gwilym spoke, fell over him like a sheet, and mingled with the snow of his long thin hair, and I, with pain-worn features, looked at him through its sublimity.

       "My country," he went on, breathing with difficulty, "I bequeath to —–, and for all my hatred and my passion — I crave forgiveness."

       "Amen," I said, fighting with my blinding, burning tears.

       "Amen."

       Then once more a silence fell, broken only by the wind rustling amid the branches, and the laboured breath of the dying man, a silence rendered awful by the presence of death standing waiting so noiselessly, so dumbly, beside the bed with the patience of one confident of victory.

       "Give — give me air — air — air," gasped Gwilym, struggling to rise, only to sink back helplessly on the pillows again, whilst his feeble hands sought in vain to unloose the tight, terrible cord which every moment grew tighter and more terrible.

       Close to his couch, on the wall, hung in golden letters these lines: "Good is death in the end for the man who speaks the truth; with God's cheering presence there is abundance, without the blessed God we are without satisfaction."

       I watched Gwilym's eyes, over which a film had gathered, wander there, as if those words gave him consolation in the hour of his suffering.

       "Hush," cried the harper, "hush —– my harp plays —— Owain don't you hear it?"

       But although I listened intently I could not hear the music.

       "It would always awake to my touch, —– it has often soothed my saddest moments —– and saddest memories —– and now at the dawn of my coming bliss, it still responds."

       Did I dream, or was it fancy, for suddenly a wondrous flow of sweetest, loveliest melody filled the silent chamber, swelling from strains of plaintive murmurings to glad triumphant outbursts. It seemed as though a chorus of angels joined in that heavenly cadence and beautiful refrain.

       "Gwilym, I hear," I whispered, pressing his damp hands as if by sheer strength of love to give them back their warmth and energy.

       Over the harper's features came his weird smile, and into his eyes crept the old yearning tenderness and wistful earnestness.

       "Owain," he gasped . . . "up there we are of one nationality . . . . . . . Saxon, Celt . . . and all."

       The darkness stole into the room, but the next instant the moon issued from out of the clouds, which had for a moment hid it, and shed its soft silver lustre on the earth below.

       "At last," cried Gwilym, starting up, and stretching forth his arm. "I see the land . . . my home . . . ."

       Then he fell back, and the moonbeams tenderly kissed his peaceful face.

(THE END)