"Grow up Welsh? Well, indeed, I don't know what have I grown up! Welsh, or English, or Spanish, or Patagonian! I am mixed of them all, I think. Where we were living there was a large settlement of Welsh people, and my father preached to them. But there were, too, a great many Spaniards, and many Spanish girls were my friends, and my nurse was Spanish, so I learnt to speak Welsh and Spanish; but English, only what I learnt from my father and from books. I don't know it quite easy yet, but I am coming better every day I think. My father and mother are dead, both of them--only a few days between them. Another kind missionary's wife brought me home, and since then I am living with my uncle. He is quite kind when he notices me, but he is always reading--reading the old books about the Druids, and Owen Glendwr, and those old times, and he is forgetting the present; only I must not go near the church nor the church people, then he is quite kind." "How curious!" said Cardo. "You have almost described my father and my home! I think we ought to be friends with so much in common." "Yes, perhaps," said the girl, looking pensively out to sea, where the sea-horses were tossing up their white manes in the moonlight. "Well, good-bye," she added, holding out her hand. "Good-bye," answered Cardo, taking the proffered hand in a firm, warm grasp. "Will we meet again soon?" he said, dropping it reluctantly. "No, I think," said Valmai, as she began the steep path up the hill. Cardo stood a moment looking after her, and as she turned to look back, he called out: "Yes, I hope." She waved her hand, and disappeared behind a broom bush. "Valmai! Valmai!" he said, as he tramped off in the opposite direction. "Yes, she is _Valmai_!" [2] [1] "A pure Welshman." A favourite expression in Wales. [2] "Like May." CHAPTER II. THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF. The Rev. Meurig Wynne, "y Vicare du," or "the black Vicar," as he was called by the country people, in allusion to his black hair and eyes, and also to his black apparel, sat in his musty study, as he had done every evening for the last twenty-five years, poring ever his old books, and occasionally jotting down extracts therefrom. He was a broad-shouldered man, tall and straight, about sixty-five years of age. His clean-shaven face was white as marble, its cold and lifeless appearance accentuated by his jet-black hair, strongly-marked eyebrows of the same dark hue, and his unusually black eyes; his nose was slightly aquiline, and his mouth well shaped, though wide; but the firm-set lips and broad nostrils, gave the whole face an expression of coldness and hardness. In fact he had a peculiarly dour and dark look, and it was no wonder that when he walked through his parish the little children left their games in the road, and hurried inside their garden gates as he passed.