The few months immediately following Primrose's visit to Glyn Melen verified Lady Bryn Afon's prediction that a new loneliness would make itself felt in her hitherto happy existence with her faithful guardian. Glad though she was to return to the shelter of those loving arms, as well as to her old haunts by the riverside and her beloved books in the vicar's library, yet there was ever present with her a sense of loss, and of something in her life which waited for fulfilment--an uncertain feeling, half pain, half pleasure, that a cup of bliss had been just tasted, and then snatched again from her lips, and might, or might not, await her again somewhere in the dim future. Yet she found a sort of trembling comfort that in her loneliness of spirit she was not alone--that many miles away that same loneliness was surely felt by another, in whose thoughts dwelt the same vague delicious hopes which filled her own. This she frequently told herself, blushing deeply in secret over her own boldness, she had perhaps no right to think or build upon, yet a secret knowledge of its truth ever lay like a hidden well of gladness deep in her heart, and refused to be gainsaid by any reasonings. More than ever were the pages of the _Morte d'Arthur_ conned over in the stillness of the dim wainscotted library, and as she sat in some shady nook on the banks of the Gwynnon, and pictured to herself, as had long been her wont, the holy Sir Galahad riding forth along the vale in quest of the Holy Grail, it was ever the face and form of the young chaplain that were worn by the "lily-knight" of old, and ever the pure and steadfast gaze of his deep and dark-fringed eyes which, as the imaginary figure passed, seemed to bring her a message of undying faithfulness to love and honour. "He would surely have been counted worthy to go in quest of the Holy Grail," she murmured to herself, as she recalled with mingled pain and joy the pure young face, uplifted to heaven in the tiny whitewashed church in the mountains. And softly she said over to herself the words from her favourite book, with which he had one day concluded a sermon, and which she had long ago read over and over, till she knew them well by heart: "Do after the good and leave the evil, and it shall bring you to good fame and renown. All is written for our doctrine, and for to beware that we fall not to vice or sin, but to exercise and follow virtue, by the which we may come and attain to good fame and renown in this life, and after this short and transitory life to come unto everlasting bliss in Heaven, the which He grant us that reigneth in Heaven, the Blessed Trinity. Amen." Primrose recalled to mind how, after the service, she had told the chaplain how well she knew and loved those words, and how he had made answer, that "to do good and leave the evil" had ever been the motto his father had bidden him to make his own, and that because he had the words framed and hanging on