Hitherto the life of Little Miss Primrose had rolled on in unbroken sunshine. Tenderly guarded by her foster-father, and protected by the charm of her own pure loveliness and unconscious childish dignity, she had moved among the rough villagers unharmed by sight or sound of evil, which, however rife among the ruder sort, was fain to hide itself at the sound of her light girlish footfall, or driven in very shame to put on an outward garb of virtue before the pure and fearless gaze of the River Maiden's wondrous eyes. Looked upon by the superstitious country-folk as some mystic sprite from Fairy-land, or even, by some few of her yet more humble and devoted admirers, as some youthful saint from Paradise itself, ordained to walk the earth for a season, Primrose grew into maidenhood as innocent of the world's evil as if her unknown mother's own arms had shielded her from her cradle. A true child of nature, she revelled in the beauties of the far-famed Gwynnon Valley, finding endless joy and amusement in her play by the riverside, and rambles over hill and dale in the company of Jack or good Master Rhys, and in the dim wainscotted library of Cwmfelin Parsonage her intellectual faculties unfolded themselves under the old vicar's guidance like some fair flower opening its petals to the sun. Often Jack would go with her to the rectory, and enjoy a prolonged discussion upon divers matters, religious and political, with Master Rhys, while she buried herself among the treasures of those deep oaken book-shelves. Chief among her favourites was Sir Thomas Malory's _Morte d'Arthur_, over which she was never weary of poring. Great was the fascination of discovering that King Arthur's knights had once been used to ride up and down the fair Gwynnon Valley, and that Arthur had even held court in Caer Caradoc itself, the now half-ruined castle dwelling majestic upon its steep, solitary crag, within whose walls the boatman's own unfortunate daughter had gone forth to her mysterious doom in the silent depths of the earth. Sir Galahad, the pure and noble "lily knight," was her hero and favourite mental companion, and so often did she picture him, with holy, reverend face, riding in quest of the Holy Grail, bearing ever about with him the purity arid beauty of his stainless manhood, that he became almost a reality to her, a true "first love," brave and true and tender, strong as a lion, yet pure as a lily and gentle as a true servant of Jesus Christ--her ideal of what a man should be. But these girlish dreams she kept locked within her own breast, for even though her Sir Galahad was but a ghost of the long-gone past, there was to her mind a halo of sanctity about even the thought of love, a feeling, scarcely understood, that the future reality would be spoiled and tainted by any foolish trifling with the shadow. And as she grew older, the imaginary existence of this ideal hero was perhaps the best protection she