purpose and plan now; how wonderful that He should so quickly understand and act! On entering Mrs. Jones's room she found her sitting up in bed wrapped in shawls.

"'N enw'r Tad ! what hast thou been doing this morning, Marged Williams? and I wanting thee all the while. Dia'r anwyl! it is always the same thing; when I do not want thee I am falling over thee all the while, and when I am wanting thee thou art not to be found. I am not well this morning, there is a heavy cold on me, so I will be staying in my bed for a day or two whatever. Thou must get the men's food and see to the washing, and after breakfast go over to the Plas and ask for some soup for me. Now away with thee!'

Maggie went cheerfully from the room to obey her orders. Breakfast over, she hurried to the Plas and proffered her request to the cook in the best English she could muster. She came back with a little soup and the promise of more to follow, then, anxious to show how well she could manage when left to herself, she set diligently about her work.

For nearly a week Mrs. Jones lay in her bed with a severe bronchial attack, though declining with her customary obstinacy to call in a doctor-indeed for the ministrations of the fraternity she had always entertained a lively contempt. It seemed likely that Maggie's stay at Tynycae might really have to be prolonged, but after all it was not to be. The old lady took a turn for the better and began to mend rapidly, and some fortnight after the commencement of her illness Maggie on taking up her mistress's breakfast was greeted by the news she had been dreading for the last two or three days to hear.

'I am quite well,' the old woman announced with her customary brevity. 'I shall be getting up presently and coming down. I was thinking I might be wanting thee to stay on, Marged Williams, but there is no need; I am well again and can manage, and I shall not be getting another girl for the present. Thou hast done well while I have been ill, and I will speak for thee when thou art taking thy new service.'

Without a word Maggie left the room and went down to the kitchen. All was indeed over now, and no hope remained. She felt stunned with grief, but when she began to think of her late hopes and of what had inspired them, a bitter anger seized her. God had only meant to tease her then, to torture her, to play with her as a cat plays with a mouse. As she stood staring out of the back door, she seemed to hear His mocking laughter borne to her on the wings of the strong autumn wind which had arisen and was tossing the trees around the farmstead, tearing the leaves from their branches and swirling them helplessly about in the air.

The fancy roused in her a fury of revengeful feeling. God was

beyond her reach: was there no way in which she could injure her mistress?

Hearing a noise just then, she turned and entered the kitchen. On the table stood a jug of cold soup, and through the window she could see the departing form of the kitchenmaid from the Plas, who had evidently just placed it there. Close beside it stood a bottle which she had often seen in the hand of Griffith, and which contained, she knew, a lotion used for the feet of sheep and cattle. On the bottle was a red label bearing in large letters the words-Gwenwyn -Poison. As she advanced to take up the jug containing the soup, Maggie's eye fell upon the label and its text. She had once asked Griffith what word the letters spelt, and its meaning occurred to her now. The hand outstretched to take the soup dropped, and she stood staring at the bottle with half-opened lips and dilated eyes.

The sun was beginning to sink and shadows to creep over the mountain-tops as some hours later Maggie left the house and took her way across the yard to the further shed, where she had asked Griffith to meet her as she had something of importance to say to him.

Griffith was beginning to feel genuinely grieved at the thought of losing her as the time for her departure drew near. As far as he was capable of loving any one besides himself he loved her, and he hoped that she had some scheme to propound to him now by which she might at any rate be near him after her departure from Tynycae. To have done or even suggested doing anything towards that end himself, however, would never have occurred to him. He was waiting for her already, and, as she entered the shed, looked up with an air of inquiry.

She was looking flushed and excited, her blue eyes glowed as though lit by some inward fire, but she paused for a moment, and when she began to speak it was slowly and very clearly.

There is no need to us to think of parting yet, Griffith, though the mistress is well and has come downstairs. But she will have to be going up to her bed again before very long, and I shall be staying on-with thee.'

She paused as though expecting some sign of pleasure, but Griffith only stared uncomprehending.

'Thou art wanting to know how it is I can speak thus surely; wel 'nghariadi, I will tell thee. I have managed it, I have done it, all for thee and for our love, and for the baban that is to be born to us hereafter.' Her voice did not falter or fall as she spoke these words; she knew no cause for shame. 'I was thinking and thinking what to do and could she be punished for her cruelty towards us, and it came to me to ask God, Who is punishing all evil-doers, to punish her, and I went to the top of Craigoleu and told Him all about us.

He seemed to listen and to answer that He would help, and when I came back she was ill and I thought I saw His plan-to keep her long ill that I might stay-and then I found He was only playing with me, for she got well and told me I could go. I was sorely angered, and it came to me again what I should do to avenge our sorrow since He would not help. The poison-bottle was standing close by the soup and I put some in, remembering what thou hadst said that it would be ill with any one who tasted it. She has taken it and she will be ill again. I care not how ill she may be, but I shall stay and be with thee, my dear one. Why dost thou not speak to me, Griffith? Art thou not pleased with thy Marged? Has she not done well?'

So absorbed was she in her story that she had not noticed her lover's shocked expression at the account of her prayer, or his start of horror when she spoke of the poison. But as she came nearer to him now with the tender query upon her lips she saw his face. It was a sort of ashy-grey under the sunburn, his jaw had dropped, and his eyes stared out large and round and fixed, with a half-vacant, half-terrified expression in them. He made no attempt to speak or to answer her question, but stood as though turned to stone. Maggie gazed at him first in wonder, then in alarm.

'Be' sy' arnat ti? What is on thee, Griffith?' she cried, advancing towards him. But Griffith recoiled a step.

Keep back-keep back,' he said hoarsely; 'do not touch me. What art thou-a devil? Thou hast murdered the old mistress, and thou wilt surely get thy hanging for it. Keep back, I say; I will have nought to do with thee. There is fear on me-thy fear. Whom hast thou been killing before this, or whom wilt thou be for killing next? perhaps myself, or perhaps thou wilt be saying it was I put the stuff in and harm will be coming to me! And thou pretending thou lovest me. Ah! monster that thou art, I hate thee, I hate thee Fear had loosened the strings of his tongue, but he stopped now breathless.

'Griffith, Griffith,' cried Maggie, horror-struck at his looks and language, 'I understand thee not; what have I done to thee that thou shouldst speak to me so? How have I harmed thee? I did it for thee, I would do it again and more, because I love thee, oh! yes, indeed, I do, only thee in all the world; thou lovest me too, thou hast said so. I am thy little Marged; I am not changed and I have done nothing wrong. Oh, say thou didst not mean those cruel words, say thou lovest me still, f'anwyled!' and before he was aware of her intention she had sprung forward and clasped her arms round his neck. But this was more than he could bear: with a cry of rage and fear, he tore the encircling arms from his neck and thrust her so savagely from him that she fell heavily to the ground; then he rushed from the shed, across the yard, and down the lane as though pursued by evil spirits.

As the sound of his footsteps died away Maggie slowly arose, and, supporting herself tremblingly against the rough wooden side of the shed, strove to collect her scattered senses. Just then the doorway was darkened by the form of some one entering, and looking up she saw her mistress. For a moment the two confronted one another in silence, then as Maggie would have spoken the old woman stopped her.

Thou needst say nothing, I have heard all. I know what thou hast done--nay, what thou hast tried to do only, for I tasted not the soup; it was cold and smelt but ill, so I threw it away. I came to seek thee even now to scold thee for spoiling it. Wel, Marged Williams, thou didst think to do me a terrible harm, but I forgive thee because of thy great ignorance-and because of thy great sorrow. I too was ignorant, I too suffered and learned wisdom, and therefore I am greatly to blame. I should have warned thee of the ways of men, that they will take all and give naught, they will let us risk all and then leave us, because they fear the sacrifices of love -for themselves. And so thou too art cast off. Wel, time will cure and thou wilt forget. But I have been greatly to blame. Wilt thou forgive me and stay with me here? I will do my best to comfort thee; I will try to teach thee and take care of thee-and of thy baban!'

The harsh voice sounded harsher than ever in the stress of emotion and awakened memories, but there were tears in the old woman's eyes. The girl, who had been standing with bent head, raised it now, and, turning her white face and despairing eyes upon her mistress, spoke slowly, almost sullenly.

'No, mistress, I will not stay; I will not take your charity. Indeed it comes too late to be of any use to me. I will not be staying here and Griffith hating me. He used to love me, but God has made him hate me; to punish me for seeking to harm you, is it? I do not know, I am all confused. But God is your friend; He is not mine. I see that. I must go away and try to hide myself from Him, I and my baban. I will change my name, and be always quiet and sad, and then perhaps He will forget me and my sins. I do not know what was my sin in the beginning, but I think it must be that I was too happy and that I loved Griffith too well. Wise people hide their happiness, and they do not love. My father is wise; you are wise, and so God is your friend. Yes, yes, I see it We were not meant to be happy, and it is wrong to love. Good-bye, mistress, I must go and forget my happiness and my love or God will be punishing me again. He does not mind how much we love the trees and flowers and hills, and the animals. But we must not love each other. If we do, harm comes.'

now.

She turned to leave the shed, but her mistress followed her with outstretched hands.

'Nay, nay, Marged, thou art surely wrong. God is not like that. He is working always for our good-in the end, though we are not seeing it, nor understanding. Be patient and wait, fy mhlentyn, and thou wilt see it is as I say. Wait here and learn and I will be helping thee if I can, and then there will be the child. God will perhaps deal more gently with thee and let it live.

Ah! Marged, there is a better love than the one thou knowest. I knew it once; I am beginning to remember it now. It was taken from me almost as soon as it was born, that love; before I could learn all that it meant, perhaps; and so I forgot it, and grew hard and bitter. But it might return. If thou wilt stay, Marged, we will learn together the secret of this love, and try to understand the lesson that it teaches. Stay then, and I will bid Griffith to go. He it is should suffer, ie siwr.'

But Marged turned quickly at these words.

'Griffith suffer!' she cried, and through me! No, never; that I could not bear. I will kill myself and the baban before that shall happen. Why, mistress, you do not understand! I love him just the same as ever. That is why I must not stay, why I will not stay to harm him with my love. So let me go, let me go quickly, mistress! Oh! there is longing on me to be gone,' she sobbed, as she stumbled blindly towards the doorway.

The old woman followed, arguing and entreating, but it was all in vain. For Marged Williams the chastening lesson of life was but yet begun, and in her bitter grief and disappointment she had failed to read its teaching aright. Time alone can show her the truth, time alone assuage her pain. She has gone far into the country of sorrow, but she must go farther yet ere she come to the fountain of healing.

Gloom and despair encompassed her now; no glimmer of the light of Hope was anywhere visible.

She went into the house and collected her few poor belongings, then, without further farewell to any there, tramped out into the night, thankful for the darkness which hid her going from their sight and from her own sad eyes the scenes of her dead happiness.

JEANNIE S. POPHAM.