Cardo, ruthlessly striding through the dew-bespangled gossamer of the turnip field, heard with pleasure from Dye that the adjoining field, which sloped down to the valley, had been fixed upon for the holding of the Sassiwn. On the flat at the bottom the carpenters were already at work at a large platform, upon which the preachers and most honoured guests were to be seated; while the congregation would sit on the hillside, which reached up to the Vicar's land. At least three thousand, or even four, might be expected. All day Cardo looked over the valley with intense interest, and when the day's work was over, unable to restrain his curiosity and impatience any longer, he determined to take a closer survey of the old house on the hill, which for so many years he had seen with his outward eyes, though his inner perception had never taken account of it. At last, crossing the beach, he took his way up the steep path that led to Dinas. As he rounded a little clump of stunted pine trees he came in sight of the house, grey, gaunt, and bare, not old enough to be picturesque, but too old to look neat and comfortable, on that wind-swept, storm-beaten cliff. Its grey walls, marked with patches of damp and lichen, looked like a tear-stained face, out of which the two upstairs windows stared like mournful eyes. Downstairs, in one room, there was a little sign of comfort and adornment; crimson curtains hung at the window, inside which a few flowers grew in pots. Keeping well under the hedge of elders which surrounded the cwrt or front garden, Cardo passed round to the side--the pine end, as it is called in Wales--and here a little lattice window stood open. It faced the south, and away from the sea a white rose tree had ventured to stretch out its straggling branches. They had evidently lately been drawn by some loving hand towards the little window. A muslin curtain fluttered in the evening breeze, on which came the sound of a voice. Cardo knew it at once. It was Valmai singing at her work, and he longed to break through the elder bushes and call her attention. He was so near that he could even hear the words of her song, softly as they were sung. She was interrupted by a querulous voice. "Valmai," it said in Welsh, "have you written that?" "Oh! long ago, uncle. I am waiting for the next line." "Here it is then, child, and well worth waiting for;" and, with outstretched arm marking the cadence of its rhythm, he read aloud from a book of old poems. "There's poetry for you, girl! There's a description of Nature! Where will you find such real poetry amongst modern bards? No, no! the bards are dead, Valmai!" "Well, I don't know much about it, uncle; but isn't it a modern bard who writes: "'Come and see the misty mountains In their grey and purple sheen, When they blush to see the sunrise Like a maiden of thirteen!'" That seems very pretty, whatever."