By Berwen Banks | Page 3

Caer Madoc alone."
"To Abersethin it is not so far," said the girl.
"Do you live at Abersethin?"
"Yes, not far off; round the edge of the cliffs, under Moel Hiraethog."
"Oh! I know," said Cardo; "the mill in the valley?"
"No, round the next shore, and up to the top of the cliff is our house."
"Traeth Berwen? That is where I live!"
"Well, indeed!"
"Yes, I am Caradoc Wynne, and I live at Brynderyn."
"Oh! are you Cardo Wynne? I have heard plenty about you, and about your father, the 'Vicare du.'"
"Ah! poor old dad! I daresay you have not heard much good of him; the people do not understand him."
"Well, indeed, the worst I have heard of him is that he is not very kind to you; that he is making you to work on the farm, when you ought to be a gentleman."
"That is not true," said Cardo, flushing in the darkness; "it is my wish to be a farmer; I like it better than any other work; it is my own free choice. Besides, can I not be a farmer and a gentleman too? Where could I be so happy as here at home, where my ancestors have lived for generations?"
"Ancestors?" said the girl; "what is that?"
"Oh! my grandfather and great-grandfather, and all the long dead of my family."
"Yes, indeed, I see. Ancestors," she repeated, with a sort of scheduling tone, as though making sure of the fresh information; "I do not know much English, but there's good you are speaking it! Can you speak Welsh?"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Cardo, and his voice woke the echoes from Moel Hiraethog, the hill which they were nearing, and which they must compass before reaching the valley of the Berwen. "Ha! ha! ha! Can I speak Welsh? Why, I am Welsh to the core, Cymro glan gloyw![1] What are you?"
"Oh! Welsh, of course. You can hear that by my talk."
"Indeed no," said Cardo. "I did not know anyone at Traeth Berwen could speak English as well as you do."
He was longing to find out who his fellow-traveller was. He saw in the dim light she was slim and fair, and had a wealth of golden hair; he saw her dress was grey and her hood was red. So much the moonlight revealed, but further than this he could not discover, and politeness forbade his asking. As if in answer to his thoughts, however, her next words enlightened him.
"I am Valmai Powell, the niece of Essec Powell, the preacher."
A long, low whistle escaped from the young man's lips.
"By Jove!" he said.
The girl was silent, but could he have seen the hot blush which spread over her face and neck, he would have known that he had roused the quick Welsh temper. He was unconscious of it, however, and strode on in silence, until they reached a rough-built, moss-grown bridge, and here they both stopped as if by mutual consent. Leaning their elbows on the mossy stone wall, they looked down to the depths below, where the little river Berwen babbled and whispered on its way to the sea.
"There's a nice noise it is making down there," said Valmai. "But why do you say a bad word when I tell you my uncle's name?"
"A bad word? In your presence? Not for the world! But I could not help thinking how shocked my father and your uncle would be to see us walking together."
"Yes, I think, indeed," said the girl, opening a little basket and spreading its contents on the low wall. "See!" she said, in almost childish tones, and turning her face straight to the moonlight.
Cardo saw, as he looked down at her, that it was a beautiful face.
"See!" she said, "gingerbread that I bought in that old street they call 'The Mwntroyd.' Here is a silver ship, and here is a gold watch, and a golden girl. Which will you have?"
"Well, indeed, I am as hungry as a hunter," said Cardo. "I will have the lassie, if you are sure you have enough for two."
"Anwl! anwl! I have a lamb and a sheep and some little pigs in my basket." And she proceeded to spread them out and divide them; and they continued to chat as they ate their gilded gingerbread.
"Suppose your uncle and my father knew we were standing on the same bridge and looking at the same moon," said Cardo, laughing.
"And eating the same gingerbread," added Valmai.
"My word! There would be wrath."
"Wrath?" said the girl, looking thoughtfully up in her companion's face; "what is that?"
"Oh, something no one could feel towards you. 'Wrath' is anger."
"My uncle is angry sometimes with me, and--too--with--with--"
"My father, I suppose?" said Cardo.
"Yes, indeed," said the girl; "that is true, whatever. Every Wednesday evening at the prayer-meeting he is praying for the 'Vicare du,' and Betto told me last week that the