"I know not how others saw her, But to me she was wholly fair, And the light of the heaven she came from Still lingered and gleamed in her hair; For it was as wavy and golden, And as many changes took As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples On the yellow bed of a brook." --JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. It was during the summer of the year 1625 that a somewhat strange adventure befell Little Miss Primrose. She was now six years of age, and every day growing in beauty and intelligence, so that she reigned without dispute as queen of every heart in the village, and had moreover so wound herself into the affections of good old Master Rhys, vicar of Cwmfelin, under whose charge lay also the hamlet of Bryn Afon, that he had some months since offered to instruct her at his own charges in all such branches of education as might befit so fair a damsel for any station in life which should hereafter befall her; which generous offer Jack had been nothing loth to accept, since in those days Widow Griffiths' Dame School was the sole repository of learning which the near neighbourhood afforded, and to that he had been scarce willing to send his darling, while yet sorely perplexed in his mind as to the means of her education. For on this matter the child's mother had expressed as yet no wishes, and this silence thereon on her part had secretly pleased Jack, in spite of his difficulty, for it seemed to him but a further proof of the extreme confidence she placed in his wisdom and judgment. So day by day Jack led his little charge along the shady lanes which lay between the towering summit of Bryn Afon and the little church on the hillside, beyond which stood the ancient monastery of Cwmfelin, now crumbling into ruin, but serving in its best preserved part as vicarage for the use of Master Rhys, who had now walked its dim corridors, and sat hour after hour in its old wainscotted library, for the space of twenty years, demanding no companion save only his beloved books, which lined the oaken shelves, and which the tiny fingers of Miss Primrose were wont to stroke lovingly, as she sat upon his shoulder and counted their numbers, marvelling, in her infant mind, if she must needs read through all their countless pages ere she was a grown girl and had done with lessons for ever. And when her tasks were done she loved nothing better than to roam hand in hand with Master Rhys through the long stone passages and weird, unfrequented chambers, listening to his tales of the holy monks of olden time who had dwelt within those ancient walls; and longest of all her childish feet would tarry in the Priests' Chamber, that she might gaze through the hole in the thick stone wall, through which the penitents in their cell beyond had been wont to make their confessions, and through which she would wave tiny absolving hands upon good Master Rhys, could she prevail upon him for a brief moment to play a penitent's part.