Slowly the dark days of winter passed by, and when the early spring-time of a new year dawned the earl might often be seen, treading with slow and feeble footstep, as he leaned upon his daughter's arm, the narrow footpath across the fields to the little church on the hillside, from whose steeple the bells called merrily to Evensong, and within whose walls, as the light from the beautiful stained window he had erected in the chancel to the memory of the wife who had suffered so many things for his sake, fell in many-coloured shadows on the pavement at his feet, his spirit once more held communion with hers, and the past sorrows of their troubled life together rolled away from his burdened memory as the peace of that holy sanctuary filled his soul. And it was not till the chilly winds of autumn began to blow through the valley that the halting footsteps ceased to pass to and fro, and that those among the village folk who had loved to linger on a warm summer's evening on the hillside, to catch the earl's kindly smile as he passed, began to venture for the first time in the memory of the oldest among them within the great iron gates, which had so long shut off the dark avenue from the outer world, to the very door of the castle, to bring some humble offering to him whom their loyal hearts had ever been ready to love an he would have let them, and to crave from their golden-haired idol, Lady Shanno, one word of assurance with her own lips that her father yet lived and was in peace. The year had been an exciting one to the staunch little band of Cavaliers in the remote Welsh valley, and whether for the fugitive king himself or for their own beloved earl, his faithful friend and servant, they were ready to dare all things, and many of them in their enthusiasm to commit any wild extravagance of loyalty. The execution of Archbishop Laud in the early spring had aroused their most stormy feelings, and mightily increased the violence of their animosity towards the Roundhead party in the village and neighbourhood, of whom Master Jones was a more valiant leader than ever. Not a man among them but felt that bloody deed to be a personal insult to himself, for had not the good archbishop been formerly bishop of their own St. David's, and ever the friend and benefactor of that holy and learned friend of their vicar's, Master Jeremy Taylor, to whom they were well-nigh as loyal in devotion as to Percival Vere himself? Hardly could Percival restrain his flock within peaceable limits, and protect the person, goods, and chattels, and whitewashed conventicle of his brother preacher from the indignation of the gallant Cavaliers! And side by side with their political excitement ran that on behalf of the earl, the anxiety with which they anticipated his now possible realisation of his fiftieth birthday growing keener day by day, until when at length, early in the month of October, that long-prayed-for yet