back to the present with a scarlet blush,
which told what she had been thinking of.

That was a sunny, happy, enchanted autumn.
But the winter was nigh at hand; and with
it came sorrow. One fine frosty morning,
Nest went out with her lover—she to the
well, he to some farming business, which was
to be transacted at the little inn of Pen-
Morfa. He was late for his appointment; so
he left her at the entrance of the village, and
hastened to the inn; and she, in her best
cloak and new hat (put on against her
mother's advice; but they were a recent
purchase, and very becoming,) went through
the Dol Mawr, radiant with love and happiness.
One who lived until lately, met her
going down towards the well, that morning;
and said he turned round to look after her,
she seemed unusually lovely. He wondered
at the time at her wearing her Sunday
clothes; for the pretty, hooded blue-cloth
cloak is kept among the Welsh women as a
church and market garment, and not
commonly used even on the coldest days of
winter for such household errands as fetching
water from the well. However, as he said,
"It was not possible to look in her face, and
'fault' anything she wore." Down the sloping-
stones the girl went blithely with her pail.
She filled it at the well; and then she took
off her hat, tied the strings together, and
shing it over her arm; she lifted the heavy
pail and balanced it on her head. But alas!
in going up the smooth, slippery, treacherous
rock, the encumbrance of her cloak—it might
be such a trifle as her slung hat—something,
at any rate, took away her evenness of poise;
the freshet had frozen on the slanting stone,
and was one coat of ice; poor Nest fell, and
put out her hip. No more flushing rosy
colour on that sweet face—no more look of
beaming innocent happiness; instead, there
was deadly pallor,' and filmy eyes, over which
dark shades seemed to chase each other as
the shoots of agony grew more and more
intense. She screamed once or twice; but
the exertion (involuntary, and forced out of
her by excessive pain) overcame her, and she
fainted. A child coming an hour or so after-
wards on the same errand, saw her lying
there, ice-glued to the stone, and thought she
was dead. It flew crying back.

"Nest Gwynn is dead! Nest Gwynn is
dead!" and, crazy with fear, it did not stop
until it had hid its head in its mother's lap.
The village was alarmed, and all who were able
went in haste towards the well. Poor Nest
had often thought she was dying in that
dreary hour; had taken fainting for death,
and struggled against it; and prayed that
God would keep her alive till she could see
her lover's face once more; and when she did
see it, white with terror, bending over her, she
gave a feeble smile, and let herself faint away
into unconsciousness.

Many a month she lay on her bed unable to
move. Sometimes she was delirious,
sometimes worn-out into the deepest depression.
Through all, her mother watched her with
tenderest care. The neighbours would come
and offer help. They would bring presents of
country dainties; and I do not suppose that
there was a better dinner than ordinary
cooked in any household in Pen-Morfa parish,
but a portion of it was sent to Eleanor Gwynn,
if not for her sick daughter, to try and tempt
her herself to eat and be strengthened; for to
no one would she delegate the duty of watching
over her child. Edward Williams was for a
long time most assiduous in his inquiries and
attentions; but by-and-by (ah! you see the
dark fate of poor Nest now), he slackened, so
little at first that Eleanor blamed herself for
her jealousy on her daughter's behalf, and
chid her suspicious heart. But as spring
ripened into summer, and Nest was still bed-
ridden, Edward's coolness was visible to more
than the poor mother. The neighbours would
have spoken to her about it, but she shrunk
from the subject as if they were probing a
wound. " At any rate," thought she, " Nest
shall be strong before she is told about it.
I will tell lies—I shall be forgiven—but I
must save my child; and when she is stronger
perhaps I may be able to comfort her. Oh!
I wish she would not speak to him so tenderly
and trustfully, when she is delirious. I could
curse him when she does." And then Nest
would call for her mother, and Eleanor would
go, and invent some strange story about the
summonses Edward had had to Caernarvon
assizes, or to Harlech cattle market. But at
last she was driven to her wits' end; it was
three weeks since he had even stopped at the
door to enquire, and Eleanor, mad with
anxiety about her child, who was silently
pining off to death for want of tidings of her
lover, put on her cloak, when she had lulled
her daughter to sleep one fine June evening,
and set off to "The End of Time." The great
plain which stretches out like an
amphitheatre, in the half-circle of hills formed by
the ranges of Moel Gwyun and the Trê-
Madoc Rocks, was all golden-green in the
mellow light of sunset. To Eleanor it might
have been black with winter frost, she never
noticed outward things till she reached
The End of Time; and there, in the little
farm-yard, she was brought to a sense
of her present hour and errand by seeing
Edward. He was examining some hay,
newly stacked; the air was scented by its
fragrance, and by the lingering sweetness of
the breath of the cows. When Edward
turned round at the footstep-and saw
Eleanor, he coloured and looked confused:
however, he came forward to meet her in a
cordial manner enough.

"It's a fine evening," said he. " How is
Nest? But, indeed, you 're being here is a
sign she is better. Won't you come in and
sit down? " He spoke hurredly, as if affecting
a welcome which he did not feel.

"Thank you. I'll just take this milking-