After remaining in town some two or three months, until the Christmas season was well over and the New Year had gained a firm foothold for its brighter days and dawning promises of spring-tide joys, Primrose returned, by her mother's and her own wish, to spend the last few weeks of her girlhood in her own sheltered home on the banks of the Gwynnon, where for a short time she again gladdened the heart of her old grandfather by her bright presence, and ministered with tender hands and willing feet to the wants of the scattered villagers, who from her childhood had loved her dearly, and had lately looked forward with rejoicing to the happy time when she would come to dwell among them as their new vicar's bride. Even Master Jones could not find it in his heart to speak one word of harshness or utter one gloomy foreboding to one so sweet and fair as the far-famed Maid of Gwynnon, although behind her back he was heard to lament with grievous nasal whine over the increase of Popery, which, on the arrival of a new vicar, but lately fresh from an Oxford Fellowship and known to be a zealous adherent of King Charles and his Popish Queen, and moreover gifted by Satan with the gifts of powerful eloquence and great charm of presence, could not fail to drown the whole valley in perdition. Wherefore he and his most zealous followers made long prayers night after night in the chapel, commending their king and their church, whom they had forsworn, to the Evil One, and invoking the blessing of Providence on their own heresy and schism, which they hastened to sow yet more broadcast through the valley, wearing ever sadder countenances, and rolling more dismally the whites of their eyes than before. Seeing which, the good old vicar, whose days of labour were well-nigh ended, rejoiced more and more in the thought that ere long his troublous and anxious charge would be resigned into the hands of one with strong and willing hands and heart, better able than he to call back the simple village folk from the errors but of late years grown rife among them, and to fight for his church and country. And many a time, when Primrose sat with him in his beloved library, thinking with strange feelings how soon she would sit there, no longer to pore over the fortunes of the ideal Sir Galahad, but sharing those of her own true, living knight, they talked much together over the great work which Percival would find to do in the valley; and good old Master Rhys would sorely lament that his books had ever been to him a snare, perchance keeping him far more often than he had dreamed from the performance of other sacred duties. Whereupon Primrose cheered him to the best of her power, and oft prayed at evensong, as she saw his venerable hands uplifted to Heaven, that she and her husband might be found worthy to walk in the footsteps of so good and holy a servant of God. So passed the days away, and early in March came, to