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'Well, I suppose I must promise-out with it, then, Hugh; you have given me much of your time and labour, and must remember it's only due to me to let me know how I can best assist you.'

'Would you mind, then, sir-I am afraid it's asking a great deal-but would you mind not sending for the rent for some months longer, till Elias has recovered a little from his heavy losses? He is driven so terribly close, sir, I don't know how he will get through it.'

'My dear boy, rely upon my attending to this, and-' Mr. Rhys answered, but before he finished his sentence Catherine's generosity took fire, and she went to Hugh, and pressing her purse into his hand, said—

I shall go up there and see them, Hugh, and do what I can for them-your pretty sister, Hirell—'

'Not my sister,' interposed Hugh, with a smile, but just the same.'

'Yes I forgot—well, I have never seen her, but I intend to do so; I heard from my maid that she has not been well since this dreadful disappointment you have all suffered -now why shouldn't she come here for two or three days? I'm sure it would do her good.'

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'It will give her such pleasure to hear you have wished her to come,' answered Hugh, but she's quite well, and I doubt if they possibly could spare her. Hirell's one that makes the very life of the house-no, I'm sure she couldn't be persuaded to leave Elias for a single day, just now, and as to any more help-' continued Hugh, growing rather frightened at the thoughts of the reception any charitable visitor might meet with at Bod Elian, 'as to any more help-it is not at all—at all-' He would have said 'needed,' but was too truthful, so stammered and broke off, blurting out again with 'They are getting on much better now-they've a lodger, you know, sir,' he said, turning partly towards Mr. Rhys; 'I dare say you have seen him-he's always wandering about-we often wish he knew you, for he's constantly grumbling about not being able to get at any books here.'

'I don't wonder at it, poor fellow-who is he, Hugh ?' 'A Mr. Rymer.'

'Rymer,' echoed the antiquary, half carelessly, half musingly, 'it's familiar, somehow, yet I'm sure I don't know any man with such a name.'

To say the truth, sir, Kezia and I don't think it is his real name,' said Hugh.

'I can't think how it is I seem to know it, Catherine,' he said, his whole face and voice changing to a strange tenderness as he uttered her name, and turned towards her.

But having turned, he stood still as stone.

She knew how bloodless her lips and cheeks had become, but as he turned she did not think he could know what had brought this deadly faintness over her-she expected some ery of surprise -fear-sclicitude, but still felt that he was looking and was silent. Did he remember Cunliff's second name? It was written in a book he had given her when they first knew each other, and that book she had sent, with others, to her husband, when he was in Italy. Could it be that he remembered it ?

Hugh watching them, thought Mr. Rhys must be paralysed with grief or fear at his wife's sudden illness, and seeing him so motionless, said

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What shall I do, sir? Shall I ring? I have noticed Mrs. Rhys growing so pale, but I did not know she was ill.'

I am bettor -I think the room is close,' came in a laboured whisper from the white lips.

Well, good morning, Hugh, I wish you all prosperity,' said Mr. Rhys, in a cold, forced voice.

Good-bye, sir, thank you for all your kindness.'

So Hugh passed out of the room where he had spent so many delightful hours, laying down on a book-shelf, as he went by it, the little purse Mrs. Rhys had given him.

When Catherine felt she was alone with her husband her deadly faintness came back; she closed her eyes and did not open them till the sharp shutting of the door made her spring to her feet, with a suppressed cry.

He had gone away!

She went to the door, then to the window, with a sort of weak, wild, hopeless impetuosity.

Near the window was a cast of a curious old cross-in which she bad taken an interest when she bad first seen this room a it was from the Maen Achwynfan, or Stone of Lamentative war Whitford. She had heard from her husband how pecances were finished there, and how tears of contrition and bumiliation were shed there in elden times; earlier even thu the ninth century.

As she faced it now in her inexpressible terror and anguish, she wondered whether the many burdened souls who had sought relief at its foot, had found what they sought. And then, without waiting to conjecture yes or no, she sank down herself before it with a cry as bitter as any pilgrim penitent that ever sought it could have uttered.

CHAPTER XXI.

A VISITOR AT THE ABBEY FARM.

Ir was fair-day at Dolgarrog, and William Chidlaw, the young master of the Abbey Farm, had gone there with two of his men; and the Abbey farm-yard, in consequence, was shut in by its great gates, and was so quiet and sunny that the Reverend Daniel Lloyd found it a pleasanter study than his damp little parlour, or the great refectory where his boys were buzzing over their lessons.

He was pacing slowly up and down, from the refectory door to the nail-studded doors of the ruined chapel, when the yard dog woke and began to growl, looking menacingly towards the stile. Mr. Lloyd glanced absently in the same direction. The intruder was Mr. Rhys of Dola' Hudol.

The curate's look of quiet thoughtfulness changed to one of subdued anxiety, almost distress. He looked down at the sheet of manuscript he held, while he recovered some presence of mind before meeting his visitor; and the last words his pencil had traced happened to be such as came to him far more impressively than he had hoped could ever affect others for whom they were written.

He had earnestly desired to keep the secret of the poor young wife, if it were possible to do so with honour to her and to himself. And though he had refused to be present at her meeting with the stranger, unless she gave him permission to tell her husband all he knew, if he saw such a course was best, he had earnestly hoped it would not be necessary to take advantage of her promise.

The countenance of his visitor gave him nothing but the most gloomy forebodings; and turning his eyes from it to his page of manuscript, they rested on the words his pencil had just written:

'It is often to those very persons who think that the truth would ruin them, that it is simply salvation.'

Mr. Rhys had two very distinctive manners of speaking. When he dwelt on the ancient glories of Wales, or on the pages of an ancient illumination, he would be discursive, eloquent-full in his speech, but also slow. When, on the contrary, he was in action he spoke few, but curt and decisive words, such as habits of command abroad had given him. It was thus he now spoke to the curate, after they had shaken hands silently; and Daniel Lloyd could see that he scarcely remembered, as he went on, what was due to him whom he addressed.

'You have seen my wife lately?'

'Yes.'

• Will you

be good enough to tell me what passed?' 'I do not know that I can do that.'

'Indeed!'

'Candidly, Mr. Rhys, I would have been very glad to have seen you here on any other business.'

'We may agree in that, Mr. Lloyd.'

The curate paused a moment, with eyes bent on the ground as if in reflection, then began, bluntly, and with effort—

The Sunday before your return, Mrs. Rhys came to our English service. Only two or three other persons were present, one of them my old pupil. After the service she went out; but while I was unrobing she came back in deep agitation, and shutting the doors, came towards me with a cry of anguish and fell down at my feet.

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Astonished, I endeavoured to raise her; and failing that— for she clung to my knees—I strove to quiet her, and induce her to speak.

'When she did so, it was in broken murmurs, reminding me of the next Sunday's communion I had announced, and of the words in the Prayer Book, authorising those who need it, to seek counsel beforehand.

'She did need it, she said; and at last I drew from her that there was some one hovering about in the neighbourhood to see her, whom, to use her own words, it was not for her soul's health she should see.

'Shocked as I was, I could not but see how wisely she had resolved, by making this appeal, and I assured her of my fullest help and sympathy.

'Did she tell you who?'

'No,' said the curate; nor would she tell me, in spite of

my strong reproof. But she promised me solemnly, that if he compelled the meeting, I should be not far off, to protect her, her name, and yours. He did compel that meeting--I too went and I never lost sight of them till they separated. That is substantially all I know. And I believe he yielded · to her resolve, and left her in peace.'

" And you- -a minister of Christ-did not think it necessary or right to inform me?'

'What good could I have hoped for in doing so?' demanded the curate. 'What could I have said but that which I now say-deal tenderly with your wife. She has erred, I doubt not; but not too far to be readily forgiven. As I am Christ's minister, I say to you, one such sinner who repents is, or ought to be, dearer than a thousand who have not known her temptations, and would have sunk irretrievably if they had.'

Mr. Rhys listened in gloomy silence, and walked two or three times with the curate to and fro on the grassy avenue, then abruptly took his leave with the words:

I thank you. Perhaps I have been harsh. You confirm, then, my wife's statement, that you knew of her meeting with -with-before it took place?'

'I do most emphatically.'

'Can you tell me anything more about him, Mr. Lloyd ?' 'Nothing.'

'Good-morning, Mr. Lloyd.'

'Stay-if you please, one moment. Your wife sought me first. You seek now. I did not seek her. I do not seek you. But you are here. Pardon me, then, if I ask you what benefit can accrue from your discovery of this man, whoever he be, if it is clear your wife and he no longer hold any kind of communion ?

There was a kind of smile, and a raising of the eyebrows, and a dreamy, vacant look in Mr. Rhys' face, as he listened to this; but now, as elsewhere, through the brief interview, he did not trouble himself with what Daniel Lloyd thought, but what Daniel Lloyd could tell. For that alone he had evidently come, and looked baffled that he got no other answer.

'Beware! my dear sir, I entreat you,' said the curate, earnestly. Beware how you reject the wife that turns to you in time. If I understand her rightly, she must need you now more than ever she did in her life before need you, your respect, your love, your returning confidence-'

'Thanks!' said Mr. Rhys, interrupting him. He put out

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