By Berwen Banks | Page 5

my father preached to them. But there were, too, a great
many Spaniards, and many Spanish girls were my friends, and my
nurse was Spanish, so I learnt to speak Welsh and Spanish; but English,
only what I learnt from my father and from books. I don't know it quite
easy yet, but I am coming better every day I think. My father and
mother are dead, both of them--only a few days between them. Another
kind missionary's wife brought me home, and since then I am living
with my uncle. He is quite kind when he notices me, but he is always
reading--reading the old books about the Druids, and Owen Glendwr,
and those old times, and he is forgetting the present; only I must not go
near the church nor the church people, then he is quite kind."
"How curious!" said Cardo. "You have almost described my father and
my home! I think we ought to be friends with so much in common."
"Yes, perhaps," said the girl, looking pensively out to sea, where the
sea-horses were tossing up their white manes in the moonlight. "Well,
good-bye," she added, holding out her hand.
"Good-bye," answered Cardo, taking the proffered hand in a firm,
warm grasp. "Will we meet again soon?" he said, dropping it
reluctantly.
"No, I think," said Valmai, as she began the steep path up the hill.
Cardo stood a moment looking after her, and as she turned to look back,
he called out:
"Yes, I hope."
She waved her hand, and disappeared behind a broom bush.
"Valmai! Valmai!" he said, as he tramped off in the opposite direction.
"Yes, she is Valmai!" [2]

[1] "A pure Welshman." A favourite expression in Wales.
[2] "Like May."
CHAPTER II.
THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF.
The Rev. Meurig Wynne, "y Vicare du," or "the black Vicar," as he
was called by the country people, in allusion to his black hair and eyes,
and also to his black apparel, sat in his musty study, as he had done
every evening for the last twenty-five years, poring ever his old books,
and occasionally jotting down extracts therefrom. He was a
broad-shouldered man, tall and straight, about sixty-five years of age.
His clean-shaven face was white as marble, its cold and lifeless
appearance accentuated by his jet-black hair, strongly-marked
eyebrows of the same dark hue, and his unusually black eyes; his nose
was slightly aquiline, and his mouth well shaped, though wide; but the
firm-set lips and broad nostrils, gave the whole face an expression of
coldness and hardness. In fact he had a peculiarly dour and dark look,
and it was no wonder that when he walked through his parish the little
children left their games in the road, and hurried inside their garden
gates as he passed.
He was perfectly conscious of this, and it pained him, though no one
guessed it except his son, who felt a tender pity for the man who led so
isolated and solitary a life.
The cause of his cold reserve Cardo had never been able to discover;
but he somehow connected it with his mother's name, and therefore
shrank from inquiring into his father's past life, preferring to let old
memories sleep, rather than hear anything which might bring sorrow
and pain into his life.
The Vicar was evidently uneasy, as he looked up listening, with one
thin finger marking the place on the page he was reading. Cardo was
later than usual, and not until he had heard his son's familiar firm step
and whistle did he drop once more into the deep interest of his book.

As Cardo approached the house he saw the light in his father's window,
and pictured to himself the cold, pale face bending over the musty
books. "Poor old dad!" he murmured. Some sons would have tapped
playfully at the window, but Cardo did not, he turned round the corner
of the house, passing by the front door, which was closed, and did not
look inviting, to the other side, where the clatter of wooden shoes and a
stream of light from the open doorway made some show of
cheerfulness. And there was Betto, his old nurse and his father's
housekeeper, in loud, angry tones, reproving the shepherd boy who
stood leaning against the door-post.
"Hello! what's the matter, Betto?" said Cardo in Welsh; "what mischief
has Robin been up to now?"
"Machgen bach i (my dear boy!), is that you?" said Betto; "there's glad
I am! You are late to-night, and I was beginning to puzzle."
"Has my father missed me?"
"Well, indeed, he hasn't said anything," said Betto, hunting for the
frying-pan, and beginning to prepare the ham and eggs for supper. "But
where's that Robin?" she added; "a clout or two with the frying-pan