"Reuben Street, Fordsea," he began. "Oh, dear, dear! here's writing!

Caton pawb! I could write better myself. Read it, Valmai."

And she obeyed.

"REV. ESSEC POWELL,

"DEAR SIR,--I am grieve more than words can say to tell you this sad news, and I hope you will prepare for the worst. Becos your brother, Captain John Powell, No. 8 Reuben Street, Fordsea, was drownded yesterday in the harbour, and I have loast the best frind ever I had and ever I will have. Please to tell Miss Powell the sad news, and please to tell her that Captain Powell was oleways talking great deal about her, and was missing her very much. Oh, we shall never see n.o.body like him again. He went out in a small boat with two frinds to the steamer Penelope, Captain Parley, and coming back the boat was capsize and the three gentlemen was upset in the water. One was saved, but Captain Powell and Mr. Jones was drownded. Please to come and see about the funeral as soon as you can.

"I remain in great sorrow,

"Yours truly,

"JAMES HARRIS."

Valmai's trembling voice failed, and letting the letter drop, she covered her face with her hands and burst into a flood of tears, as she realised that her best friend had slipped away from her. In the trouble and anxiety which had latterly clouded her life, she had often been comforted by the thought that at all events there was one warm heart and home open to her, but now all was lost, and her loneliness and friendlessness pressed heavily upon her. Sob after sob shook her whole frame.

Essec Powell picked up the letter, and read it again.

"Well, well," he said, "to think that John, my brother, should go before me! Poor fellow, bach! To be taken so suddenly and unprepared as he was."

"Oh, no, uncle," said Valmai, between her sobs, "he was not unprepared.

There never was a kinder soul, a more unselfish man, nor a more generous. Oh, you don't know how good he was to the poor, how kind and gentle to every one who suffered! Oh, G.o.d has him in His safe keeping somewhere!"

"Well, well," said Essec Powell, sitting down to his dinner, "we won't argue about it now, but some day, Valmai, I would like to explain to you the difference between that natural goodness and the saving grace which is necessary for salvation. Come to dinner, Valmai. I wonder how much did he leave? When is the funeral?" he said, addressing Gwen.

"You've got to go down and settle that," she answered. "Will I tell Shoni to put the gig ready?"

"Yes, yes. I better go. I will be back by Sunday."

"James Harris will help you in every way, uncle, and will settle everything for you."

"Oh! very well, very well. Tis a pity about the 'Mabinogion,' too; but we'll go on with them next week, Valmai."

Shoni and Gwen continued until bedtime to discuss with unction every item of information past, possible, or prospective, connected with the death of the old Captain, while Valmai lay on the old red sofa, and thought sadly of her loss.

"There's sudden," said Gwen, "but 'twill be a good thing for the master, whatever!"

Valmai lay awake far into the night recalling with tears the kindness and even tenderness of her old uncle.

On the following Sat.u.r.day Essec Powell returned from the funeral, and as he stepped out of the gig at the door, his face wore an unusual expression which Valmai noticed at once. He seemed more alive to the world around him; there was a red spot on each cheek, and he did not answer his niece's low greeting, but walked into the parlour with a stamping tread very unlike his usual listless shuffle.

"Are you tired, uncle?" the girl asked gently.

"No, I am not tired; but I am hurt and offended with you, Valmai. You are a sly, ungrateful girl, and it is very hard on me, a poor, struggling preacher very badly paid, to find that my only brother has left all his worldly goods to you, who are already well provided for.

What do you think yourself? Wasn't it a shame on you to turn him against his brother?"

"Oh, I never did," said Valmai; "I never thought of such a thing!

Dear, dear Uncle John! I didn't want his money, I only wanted his love."

"What is the matter?" said Gwen, coming in.

"Matter enough," said her master, in angry, stammering tones. "John, my brother, has left all his money to this Judas of a girl! A hundred and fifty pounds a year, if you please! and only a paltry 100 pounds to me, and the same to Jim Harris, the sailor. Ach y fi! the greediness of people is enough to turn on me."

Between Gwen's exclamations and Essec Powell's angry harping on the same string, the evening was made miserable to Valmai, and she was glad enough to escape to her bedroom.

The next day she awoke with a throbbing headache.

"You are not going to chapel to-day, I suppose?" said Gwen.

"No, my head aches too badly. I have never missed before, but to-day I think I will rest at home."

"Yes, rest at home, certainly," said Gwen. "You ought to have stopped at home long ago; in my opinion, it would be more decent."

Her meaning was too plain, and Valmai's head drooped as she answered:

"Perhaps it would have been wiser, considering all things."

"Considering all things, indeed!" sneered Gwen. "Yes, they will turn you out of the 'Sciet, because when the calf won't go through the scibor door he has to be pushed out!" And with a toss of her head she carried the tray away.

It was a miserable day for Valmai, and not even after events of more bitterness were able to efface it from her memory.

She roamed about the house restlessly, and round the garden, which was beginning to show signs of the budding life which had slept through the storms and snows of winter. Already in a sheltered corner she detected the scent of violets, an early daffodil nodded at her, a bee hummed noisily, and a sweet spring breeze swept over the garden. What memories it awoke within her! How long ago it seemed since she and Cardo had roamed together by the Berwen! Years and years ago, surely!

Her reverie was disturbed by Shoni, who, coming back early from chapel, had found his way into the garden.

"You wa.s.s quite right not to go to chapel this morning," he said.

"Don't go to-night again, neither!"

"No," said Valmai, "I won't. But why, Shoni?"

"Why?" he said, "because you better not. John Jones and William Hughes, the deacons, is bin speaking to master about you, and next week is the 'Sciet,[1] and you will be turn out."

Valmai turned a shade paler; she knew the disgrace this excommunication implied; but she only turned with a sigh towards the house, Shoni marching before her with the air of a man who felt he had performed a disagreeable duty. Essec Powell had stopped to dine with a farmer living near the chapel, and did not return home until near tea-time.

Then burst upon the girl the storm she had so long dreaded; her uncle's anger had already been roused by his brother's "will," and his feelings of greed and spite had been augmented by the information imparted to him by his deacons.

"How dare you?" he said. His eyes flashed with anger, and his voice trembled with the intensity of his fury.

Valmai, who was arranging something on the tea-table, sank down on a chair beside it; and Gwen, carrying a slice of toast on a fork, came in to listen. To hear her master speak in such excited tones was an event so unusual as to cause her not only astonishment but pleasure.

Shoni, too, was attracted by the loud tones, and stood blocking up the doorway.

Valmai flung her arms on the table, and leant her head upon them, sobbing quietly.

"Are you not ashamed of yourself?" thundered the old man. "Sitting at my table, sleeping under my roof, and attending my chapel--and all the time to be the vile thing that you are! Dear Uncle John, indeed! what would your dear Uncle John say of you now? You fooled him as you have fooled me. Do you think I can bear you any longer in the house with me?"

There was no answer from Valmai, and the old man, angered by her silence, clutched her by the arm and shook her violently.