"Betto left me, sobbing bitterly. I think she has never forgiven herself; neither can I forgive myself, Cardo. As the years went on, my sorrow only deepened, and an intense longing arose in my heart for the friendship of the brother who had been so much to me for so many years. I wrote to him, Caradoc--a humble, penitent letter, beseeching his forgiveness even as a man begs for his life. He has never answered my letter. I know he is alive and thriving, as he writes sometimes to Dr. Hughes; but to me he has never sent a message or even acknowledged my letter, and I thirst for his forgiveness--I cannot die without it. "I have long cherished the thought that when you came to man's estate I would send you to him. I would send the best of earthly treasure that I possess--my only son--to plead for me, to explain for me, and to bring back his love and forgiveness. Now, Cardo, will you go?" "I will, father," said Cardo, rising and placing his hand in his father's. "And can you think over what I have told you and still retain a little love and pity for your old father?" "Father, I feel nothing but the deepest sorrow and pity for you both--father and mother. I don't know which is to be pitied most. Thank you for telling me all this, it explains so much that has puzzled me--it accounts for your sadness and gloom--and--and your apparent coldness. I will go to Australia, and, please God, I will bring back my uncle's love and forgiveness to you." "God bless you, my boy, and good-night." There was a warm hand-clasp, and Cardo left his father sitting by the flickering candle, which had burnt down to its socket. [1] A blue mug containing a little over half a pint. [2] Dear sweetheart. [3] "Oh, dear! what shall I do?" CHAPTER VIII. THE OLD REGISTER. The summer had passed, with all its charms of June roses and soft July showers, with its sweet, long days of sunshine, and its soft, west winds brine-laden, its flights of happy birds, and its full promise in orchard and corn-field. Cardo and Valmai still haunted the woods by the Berwen, and walked along its banks, or sat listening to its trickling music as it hastened down to the sea; but there was a sadder look on both their faces. Cardo had new lines about his mouth, and Valmai had a wistful look in her blue eyes; both had an unaccountable premonition of something sorrowful to come. "Oh, I am afraid of something," the girl had said one day, as she sat beside her lover, throwing pebbles into the brook, "something worse even than this terrible parting, which must come next month. What is it, Cardo? What is hanging over us? Something that darkens the sunlight and dims the moonlight to me? Are we parting for ever, do you think?"