"Look at him, Nance. See these lovely little feet, and there's strong he is!"

"Yes, druan bach,[1] he is a beautiful boy, indeed," she would answer with a sigh, drawing her wrinkled finger over the fresh soft cheek.

Valmai began to chafe at the want of brightness which surrounded her little one's life. She was proud of him, and wished to take him into the village.

"No, my child," said Nance gently, "you had better not."

"Why not?" was on Valmai's lips, but she hesitated. A deep blush crimsoned her face. "My boy has nothing to be ashamed of," she said, with a proud toss of her head.

"When is he to be christened?" was Nance's next question.

"September."

"September!" gasped the old woman, "he will be three months old; and what if anything should happen to him before then?"

"Nothing _shall_ happen to him," said Valmai, folding him to her heart.

"My life and my body are larger than his, and they will both have to go before any harm reaches him."

"There's a foolish thing to say," said Nance, "and I wonder at you, merch i. You ought to know by this time that we are clay in the hands of the Potter. Little heart, he ought to be christened, and have a name of his own."

"He can be 'Baby' till September, and then he will be christened."

"And why, September, child?"

Here Valmai took refuge in that silence which had been her only resource since Cardo's departure. She would be perfectly silent. She would make no answer to inquiries or taunts, but would wait patiently until he returned. September! What glowing pictures of happiness the word brought before her mind's eye. Once more to stroll with Cardo by Berwen banks! Once more to linger in the sunshine, and rest in the shade; to listen to the Berwen's prattling, to the whispering of the sea-breeze. Such happiness, she thought, was all in store for her when Cardo came home in September; and the words, "When Cardo comes home in September," rang in her ears, and filled her heart and soul. Yes, the long weary months of waiting, the sorrow and the pain, the cruel words, and the sneering glances, were all coming to an end. She had kept her promise, and had never spoken a word to implicate Cardo, or to suggest that the bond of marriage had united them. He would come home, at latest in a year, and remove every sorrow; and life would be one long shining path of happiness from youth to age.

The light returned to her eyes, and the rose to her cheek; her step was once more light and springy, as she paced the lonely sh.o.r.e, dressed in her favourite white serge, and carrying her little white-robed baby in her arms. She was an object of great interest to the inhabitants of the fishing village on the other side of the island, and they often found an excuse (more especially the young sailor lads) to pa.s.s by the cottage, and to stop at the open door for a drink of water or a chat with Nance. They were as loud in their condemnation of her faithless lover as in admiration of her beauty and pleasant manners.

Once more life seemed full of promise and hope for her, until one day when the bay was glistening in the sunshine, and the sea-gulls, like flecks of snow, flew about the rocks; the soft waves plashing gently between the boulders, a little cloud arose on her horizon. Her baby was fretful and feverish, and Nance had roused her fears.

"He is too fat, merch i," she said, "and if he had any childish illness it would go hard with him."

Valmai had taken fright at once.

"Can you take care of him, Nance, while I go to Abersethin and fetch Dr. Hughes?" she asked.

"Yes, but don't be frightened, cariad; I daresay he will laugh at us, and say there is nothing the matter with the child."

"Being laughed at does not hurt one," said Valmai, as she tied on her hat. "I will bring him back with me if possible."

She took a long look at the baby, who lay with flushed face on Nance's knees, and ran with all speed across the Rock-Bridge, from which the tide was just receding, up the straggling street of Abersethin, and through the shady lane, which led to the doctor's house.

There was great peering and peeping from the kitchen window, as Valmai made her progress between the heaps of straw in the farm-yard to the back door, which stood open. The doctor's wife, who had her arms up to her elbows in curds and whey, looked up from her cheese-tub as she appeared at the door.

"Dear me, Miss Powell! Well, indeed, what's the matter?"

"Oh, it's my baby, Mrs. Hughes! Can Dr. Hughes come with me at once?"

"There's a pity, now," said Mrs. Hughes; "he is gone to Brynderyn. Mr.

Wynne is not well. Grieving, they say, about his son."

Valmai blushed, and Mrs. Hughes was pleased with her success.

"When will he be back, d' you think?"

"Not till evening, I'm afraid. But there's Mr. Francis, the a.s.sistant--shall I call him? he is very clever with children. Here he is. Will you go with Miss Powell, to see--h'm--a baby which she is taking a great interest in on Ynysoer?"

"Yes, certainly," said the young a.s.sistant, colouring, for he had heard Valmai's story, and never having seen her, was now rather bewildered by her beauty, and the awkwardness of the situation.

"Oh, thank you; can you come at once?" said Valmai.

"At once," said the young man. "Is the child very ill?"

"Indeed, I hope not," said Valmai; "he is very flushed and restless."

"Whose child is it?"

"Good-bye, Mrs. Hughes. It is mine," she added, in a clear voice, as they left the kitchen door together.

"Wel, anwl, anwl! there's impidence," said one of the servants, looking after them. "It is mine! As bold as bra.s.s. Well, indeed!"

"Yes, I must say," said her mistress, with a sniff, "she might show a little more shamefacedness about it."

"There's a beauty, she is," said Will the cowman, coming in.

"Beauty, indeed!" said the girl. "A pink and white face like a doll!"

"Her beauty has not done her much good, whatever," said Mrs. Hughes, as she finished her curds and dried her arms.

Meanwhile Valmai and the doctor were walking rapidly down the lane to the sh.o.r.e.

"Dan, will you take us across?" said Valmai to a man who stood leaning against the corner of the Ship Inn.

"With every pleasure, miss fach; you've been out early," he said, as he pushed out his boat, and, seeing the doctor--"if you please, miss, I hope there's n.o.body ill at Nance's?"

"Yes," said Valmai, hesitating, "the little one is ill."

She did not say, "my baby," as she had done at the doctor's. At the first contact with the world beyond Ynysoer, where she had been so long secluded and sheltered, a feeling of nervous shyness began to over-shadow her.

"Dear, dear!" was all Dan's answer,

Once on the island, Mr. Francis found it difficult to keep up with Valmai's hurrying steps. He was full of pity for the beautiful girl beside him, so young and so friendless, and was anxious to serve her, and to cure her child if possible.

As they entered the cottage together, Nance endeavoured gently to prevent Valmai's approaching the child.

"Not you, my dear, not you; let the doctor see him."

Mr. Francis was already attending to the little sufferer.