Transcriber’s note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed. [Illustration: “Now tell me what is your name?”] A QUIET VALLEY BY AGNES GIBERNE, AUTHOR OF “GWENDOLINE; OR, HALCOTS AND HALCOMBES,” “THROUGH THE LINN,” “NUMBER THREE WINIFRED PLACE,” ETC. REVISED BY THE COMMITTEE OF PUBLICATION. PHILADELPHIA: THE AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 1122 CHESTNUT STREET. NEW YORK: 8 AND 10 BIBLE HOUSE. THE OXFORD PRESS, PHILADELPHIA. CONTENTS. CHAP. I. A WELSH HOTEL II. THE CHILD III. A SEARCH IV. JOAN’S MOTHER V. THE LETTER VI. DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE VII. THE RED HOUSE VIII. OLD MR. BROOKE IX. “GEORGE’S VALLEY” X. LIFE AND DEATH XI. CAIRNS FARM XII. “POLLY” XIII. A COLLISION XIV. MARIAN’S FEAR XV. DULCIBEL’S NURSE XVI. MOTHER AND CHILD XVII. TROUBLE STILL XVIII. ANOTHER MEETING XIX. ABOUT THE FUTURE XX. HALL AND FARM XXI. AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR XXII. WHAT MIGHT BE XXIII. A PRESENT HELP XXIV. JOAN’S CONFESSION XXV. PERPLEXITY XXVI. SHOULD SHE GIVE HER UP? XXVII. THE INTERVIEW XXVIII. WARFARE XXIX. HIS CHILD XXX. THE VALLEY ONCE MORE A QUIET VALLEY. CHAPTER I. A WELSH HOTEL. “COME, Dulcie! Dulcie, my dear! Not ready yet?” A spice of good-humored impatience breathed through the rich bass tones. George Rutherford stood in the hall of a somewhat primitive Welsh hotel. The door opening into a sitting-room, on one side, displayed sundry ladies and gentlemen, occupied or non-occupied in various ways. The door opening into the kitchen, on the other side, displayed a waiter or two in shirtsleeves, coming and going. The front door, opening on the hotel grounds, displayed a bare, gravelly space, with shrubs around, a short avenue of trees beyond, and glimpses of distant hills softly outlined against a blue sky. Mr. Rutherford was a man of perhaps five or six-and-thirty years, unusually tall and massive in make, yet not stout. Honest brown eyes looked out from beneath a brow of remarkable breadth, which was framed in an abundant growth of tawny hair, fine as silk in texture. Moustache and beard, of a somewhat darker hue than the hair upon his head, almost hid a mouth of characteristic and beautiful outlines. He stood at the foot of the staircase, grasping a huge, crook-handled walking stick as tall as himself; and blissfully unconscious of, or indifferent to, the attention he was attracting from the inmates of the drawing-room, while he called again, in tones “not loud, but deep” — “Dulcie, my dear, make haste!”