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When he first woke in the morning, he remembered that the previous day had not gone by exactly as the days had done for so long-thenight closing on him like an additional prison door, none the less gloomy and hopeless to him if nailed with stars. What had made it different? He looked at a sunbeam lying across the splintery floor, and that reminded him of a name which made him smile as he said it to himself. A soft lowing of cattle drew his eyes to the field before his window, and what he saw made him say the name again. He had looked at the flowers when he came into the room where he sat now, and they too brought the name to his thoughts and lips.

As he sat listening to Kezia's singing, he was also listening for a step to return-a step that had gone away a few minutes since. He had listened to it all day, as it fell along the passages, upon the stairs; it seemed to have a music-a meaning different from all other footsteps.

Soon he heard it going past his window, and then he heard another footstep join it, and knew that Elias and his daughter were walking up and down on the little raised path on which the window of the bedroom opened. The one footstep sounded heavy and despairing, the other light and blithe.

Rymer went to the window and sat down behind the curtain. He saw the two standing still there-Hirell looking at the stars that were crowding out everywhere, Elias looking at her with his slow, wondering gaze.

'What are you thinking of, Hirell?' Rymer heard him ask, when they had stood so for some time. He spoke in a wistful pathetic voice, as if wearying for some of the light that he saw on her face.

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'I was thinking, father,' answered Hirell, while this our world is growing dark, how many, many worlds grow bright.' Then Kezia called Hirell, and Rymer saw Elias standing looking at the stars alone and bareheaded.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE VIRGIN MARTYR.

ABOUT half an hour later, coming from his bedroom into his little parlour adjoining it, he saw Hirell and Nanny, who had just brought in his supper, holding up something between them, and looking at it in a passion of admiration.

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He stood a moment without disturbing them, listening to their exclamations, of which the tone only was comprehensible to him.

They were holding, carefully spread out, an artist's proof of an engraving of the Virgin Martyr. He had that evening taken it from his portmanteau, where it had lain rolled up since he left London, and had opened it out on the table.

There was no mistaking the poise of Nanny's rough head, nor the parted lips and dilating eyes of Hirell, as the two girls held it up between them.

Suddenly the door, opening between this and his bedroom, creaked.

Hirell started and cried imperatively to Nanny to let go. Nanny glanced carelessly towards the door, and seeing no one there for Rymer was just behind her-retained her hold on the picture, answering Hirell's entreaty by a rude refusal, and continued to feast her eyes upon it.

Hirell implored, commanded, and, thinking Nanny would. yield, tried to draw it from her. Nanny gave it a rough pull, and tore it right across the centre.

Hirell dropped it and burst into tears. She had never seen a picture anything like it before, and vaguely estimated its value as something immense.

Rymer approached, making the aghast and contrite Nanny jump as she saw him so close to her.

I hope,' said he to Hirell, as he touched the torn picture, 'it isn't this little accident that's distressing you? The thing is of no value whatever.'

Hirell lifted her tearful eyes in timid amazement to his; and then Nanny and she looked at each other as two penniless wayfarers might do, hearing a prince declare the same after having his watch and diamond ring stolen from him. How rich he must be to call this worthless!

'Indeed, sir, I am truly sorry and ashamed, I am, indeed,' Hirell said with such a sweet and utterly humble look of sorrow that he was at once amused-charmed-yet quite grieved that she should take the trifling accident so much to heart.

'I assure you it doesn't matter in the least. You seemed pleased with the picture,' he said, looking at it carelessly as it lay torn on the table.

'Oh, sir, it is the most wonderful thing I ever saw in my life; and to think-'

And she dropped her wet, flushed face and went slowly from the room, murmuring:

'I must go and tell father about it, and see what is to be done.'

Rymer followed her after a minute's perplexity, and found that Elias was not in the kitchen, but out in the front field. It was yet early, and Kezia was setting off to Dolgarrog to make some purchases for the lodger.

Seeing this, he went back to his room and waited with some impatience for her invariable visit to him before such an expedition, and the usual timid enquiry as to whether she could do anything for him at the town. He was not supposed to know she went there purposely for him.

This evening when she came, instead of the surly 'No, thank you,' she was intrusted with a delicate little commission which put her into a sad state of nervousness.

She was repaid, however, on her return, by the perfect satisfaction and polite thanks of Mr. Rymer, who immediately after opening the little parcels she brought him, set to work with paste, pasteboard, and little tacks, with gum, camel'shair pencil, and dark paints, to the great surprise and curiosity of Nanny. Just before prayer-time, when Elias was taking his good night look into the stable and cow-houses, and Hirell and Kezia were knitting in the kitchen, Mr. Rymer issued from his room with something in his hands.

He approached Hirell and held it before her with a smile. It was the torn picture wonderfully mended, mounted and framed in a plain, bright gilt frame.

'Is it worth being hung up in your room now? I am afraid not,' he said, meeting her wondering eyes with a strange thrill of delight.

'My room, sir!' echoed Hirell faintly.

'Or anywhere you like. I have put it together for you as well as I could, as you liked it so much.'

Hirell rose, putting her little hands timidly on the frame, but so tremulously that he thought if he let go it would fall. Again she looked full into his eyes, her own strangely bright -her cheeks a shade paler than usual-it seemed, he thought, if not too absurd to believe-with emotion.

'You have done this for-me? You give it to me?' she said. 'No, perhaps not; it's not worth having, is it?' said he, pretending to draw it away.

Then her fingers took firmer hold on it.

Once having it out of his hands, the joy of possession made her forget herself.

'Kezia!' she cried in a voice of sweet childish triumph, 'look-it is mine-my very own!'

'But you have never thanked Mr. Rymer, Hirell,' said Kezia reprovingly.

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'No, and I never can,' she replied, turning to him suddenly, with swimming eyes, only when I look at it-only then to myself.'

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Nonsense, child,' said Kezia in Welsh, 'you can say thank

you.'

'Yes, I can say thank you.' And she looked over her picture at him, and uttered the two words with a mixture of delight, despair of being able to express her delight, and of entreaty to him to believe in her gratitude.

The look and voice haunted him all night. Several times he found himself shaken by a tender laughter as he thought of Hirell and Nanny over the torn picture; and constantly, when he hardly suspected himself of thinking about her, his lips twitched with some such exclamation as―

'Quaint little creature!'

Solemn, delicious gratitude.' 'Sweet, holy little face!'

CHAPTER XXIV.

AFTERNOON AT DOLA' HUDOL.

On his return from the Abbey Farm, Mr. Rhys went into his library, where such pleasant hours had been spent that morning, and, after standing hesitatingly a minute before the bell

rope, rang.

6 Ask your mistress to be kind enough to come to me here,' he said to the servant, and then sat down in the throne-like chair, took a pen and sheet of note-paper, and began to write a letter.

Before five minutes had passed his wife came in. He did not look up or take any notice, but her keen eye saw that he was conscious of her presence. She put on no assumption of

carelessness or annoyance, but walked straight up to the window, and stood by the table where he was writing, and looked gravely out on to the lawn.

It was

His hand trembled a little at feeling her so near. hard to sit unmoved while she stood there in her sweet, pale, morning colours, fresh as the new-blown bells of the convolvulus, that waved against the window-hard to know how the living gold of her hair was glittering in the sun, nor dare to lift his eyes to it-hard to know the sweet rose on her cheek was deepening in colour at his silence, yet remain mute--to feel the kindling fire of her blue, averted eye, and keep his own cold—to know how her breast was heaving with the misery of her young, passionate heart, and not fall down a cringing lover at her feet, and sue for it once more.

But a little quiver of the hand, and the passion was subdued; he wrote on; his wife waited at the window, and whenever she glanced at him his profile was cold as that of his bust on the bookcase.

At last he felt she was beginning to be impatient-to lose her self-command. Perhaps he needed this to begin his task at all. She walked once or twice to the door. Suddenly she turned upon him.

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Owen!' she said, in a rich, half-laughing voice, while her eyes looked at him gravely enough, if ever I commit suicide, it will be while I am waiting for you to speak. For God's sake, say what you have to say. Your words may kill me, but your silence maddens me, and I'd rather be killed than sent mad. If I am what I am sane, God knows what I should be as a lunatic.'

He paused in his writing, looked up at her, laid down his pen, and said with the old courtesy:

'Pardon me, I forgot; I hoped to have finished this before speaking to you. I am writing to your uncle.'

To my

uncle!' Was it merely the fire-light he saw suddenly reflected in his wife's eyes, or was it—but he did not choose to pause to answer himself.

'Owen, beware! I can bear much. You may easily degrade me in my own eyes, almost as much as I see I am already degraded in your eyes;-but-but-he loves me; is the one being that thinks me not altogether worthless. You would not-oh, you would not ruin me with him-my last friend!'

'I desire, Catherine, to spare you every pain that your own

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