books, my only one for long months together; and here, in your sweet company, dear madam, and surrounded by such wonderfully beautiful scenes, I have no fear of being dull." "That is well," said Lady Bryn Afon, kissing her with loving gentleness, while a strangely wistful expression crossed her pale features. "I am glad you are so well content to be for a time once more my companion. I much desired to have you with me in this, to me, much-loved spot, and to make you love its strange and solitary beauties as I do." "And I am so glad you had need of me this summer," said Primrose, "for we cannot tell what next year may bring forth, since next April I shall reach my twenty-first birthday." "And then?" said Lady Bryn Afon inquiringly. "Then," said Primrose, "I may at any moment expect a summons from my mother, and may never again be at your command as now. For who can tell what strange changes our meeting may bring to my life?" "Dread them not, sweet one," said her friend affectionately. "Take what present joy God gives you, and wait in patience for what may hereafter befall. Be she whom she may, your mother can scarce fail to love so fair and sweet a daughter!" "I hope she may indeed love me!" said the girl wistfully. "Yet, after so strange a desertion of me in my babyhood, I cannot tell. But I will think no more of my own matters, nor let the thought of the future trouble me in this beautiful place!" And bidding Lady Bryn Afon an affectionate good-night, she went to her little white-washed chamber, and fell asleep, wondering on what errand of mercy the chaplain might be bent, and if he were indeed the very least like Sir Galahad of old! On going downstairs next morning, Primrose found that she must take her morning meal alone, Lady Bryn Afon being still too much fatigued to rise for some hours. The chaplain, moreover, having not yet returned, the morning prayer could not be said, and the young girl, free as soon as her meal was over to roam whither she would, betook herself to an exploration of the premises without further delay. Beyond the farmyard and the greensward, where cows, pigs, and geese wandered in full liberty, lay a second well-wooded orchard, similar to the one on the front side of the house, and passing through it, Primrose found herself in a shady copse, through which bubbled a merry little brooklet, in which she gleefully bathed her face and hands; then, finding no one in sight, took off shoes and stockings, and waded down the cool stream, till it emerged from its shady hiding-place into the open grassy plain beneath the hill, and, joined by other tiny streamlets, became a wide and noisy river, forming a barrier between the farm-lands and the mountain-slopes beyond, too deep for her to wade across. But donning her shoes once more, she soon discovered a rude extempore bridge, consisting of well-worn boulders, which lay at wide intervals across the stream, yet were