"come back as a spirit or a ghost—only
come back, that I may tell you how I have
loved you."

But the dead never come back.

The passionate adjuration ended in tears—
the first she had shed. When they ceased, or
were absorbed into long quivering sobs, David
knelt down. Nest did not kneel, but bowed
her head. He prayed, while his own tears
fell fast. He rose up. They were both calm.

"Nest," said he, "your love has been the
love of youth; passionate, wild, natural to
youth. Henceforward you must love like
Christ; without thought of self, or wish for
return. You must take the sick and the
weary to your heart and love them. That
love will lift you up above the storms of the
world into God's own peace. The very
vehemence of your nature proves that you are
capable of this. I do not pity you. You do
not require pity. You are powerful enough
to trample down your own sorrows into a
blessing for others; and to others you will be
a blessing; I see it before you; I see in it
the answer to your mother's prayer."

The old man's dim eyes glittered as if they
saw a vision; the fire-light sprang up and
glinted on his long white hair. Nest was
awed as if she saw a prophet, and a prophet he
was to her.

When next David Hughes came to Pen-
Morfa, he asked about Nest Gwynn, with a
hovering doubt as to the answer. The inn-
folk told him she was living still in the
cottage, which was now her own.

"But would you believe it, David," said
Mrs. Thomas, "she has gone and taken Mary
Williams to live with her? You remember
Mary Williams, I'm sure."

No! David Hughes remembered no Mary
Williams at Pen-Morfa.

"You must have seen her, for I know
you've called at Thomas Griffiths", where the
parish boarded her?"

"You don't mean the half witted-woman—
the poor crazy creature!"

"But I do!" said Mrs. Thomas.

"I have seen her sure enough, but I never
thought of learning her name. And Nest
Gwynn has taken her to live with her."

"Yes! I thought I should surprise you.
She might have had many a decent girl for
companion. My own niece, her that is an
orphan, would have gone and been thankful.
Besides, Mary Williams is a regular savage
at times; John Griffiths says there were days
when he used to beat her till she howled
again, and yet she would not do as he told
her. Nay, once, he says, if he had not seen
her eyes glare like a wild beast, from under
the shadow of the table where she had taken
shelter, and got pretty quickly out of her way,
she would have flown upon him and throttled
him. He gave Nest fair warning of what
she must expect, and he thinks some day she
will be found murdered."

David Hughes thought awhile. "How
came Nest to take her to live with her?"
asked he.

"Well! Folk say John Griffiths did not
give her enough to eat. Half-wits, they tell
me, take more to feed them than others, and
Eleanor Gwynn had given her oat-cake and
porridge a time or two, and most likely
spoken kindly to her (you know Eleanor spoke
kind to all), so some months ago, when John
Griffiths had been beating her, and keeping
her without food to try and tame her, she ran
away and came to Nest's cottage in the dead
of night, all shivering and starved, for she
did not know Eleanor was dead, and thought
to meet with kindness from her, I've no
doubt; and Nest remembered how her mother
used to feed and comfort the poor idiot, and
made her some gruel, and wrapped her up by
the fire. And in the morning when John
Griffiths came in search of Mary, he found her
with Nest, and Mary wailed so piteously at
the sight of him, that Nest went to the parish
officers and offered to take her to board with
her for the same money they gave to him.
John says he was right glad to be off his
bargain."

David Hughes knew there was a kind of
remorse which sought relief in the performance
of the most difficult and repugnant
tasks. He thought he could understand how,
in her bitter repentence for her conduct
towards her mother, Nest had taken in the
first helpless creature that came seeking shelter
in her name. It was not what he would have
chosen, but he knew it was God that had sent
the poor wandering idiot there.

He went to see Nest the next morning.
As he drew near the cottage—it was summer
time, and the doors and windows were all
open—he heard an angry, passionate kind of
sound that was scarcely human. That sound
prevented his approach from being heard;
and standing at the threshold, he saw poor
Mary Williams pacing backwards and
forwards in some wild mood. Nest, cripple as
she was, was walking with her, speaking low
soothing words, till the pace was slackened,
and time and breathing was given to put her
arm around the crazy woman's neck, and
soothe her by this tender caress into the
quiet luxury of tears; tears which give
the hot brain relief. Then David Hughes
came in. His first words, as he took off his
hat, standing on the lintel, were—"The peace
of God be upon this house." Neither he nor
Nest recurred to the past; though solemn
recollections filled their minds. Before he
went, all three knelt and prayed; for, as
Nest told him, some mysterious influence of
peace came over the poor half-wit's mind
when she heard the holy words of prayer;
and often when she felt a paroxysm coming
on, she would kneel and repeat a homily
rapidly over, as if it were a charm to scare
away the Demon in possession; sometimes,
indeed, the control over herself requisite
for this effort was enough to dispel the