He is changeable as the wind, and I was roaming over here to seek for calmness from the sea wind, and perhaps a talk with Sara."

"Yes, come! She is in the herb garden gathering her bear's claws and rue; 'tis the proper time for them. But first we must cut the bracken."

Will took her sickle and soon cut a pile of the dry brittle fuel, binding it with a rope which she carried; and turning towards the cottage, they dragged it behind them.

"You go and seek mother," said Morva, "while I go and boil the porridge."

And in the garden Will found Sara stooping over her herb bed, and deeply intent upon her task.

The sun was setting now, and threw its ruddy beams upon the sunny corner, and upon the aged face and figure of the old woman.

"Well, 'machgen i," she said, straightening herself. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing," said Will; "only, roaming about the moor, I came in to see you, and Morva has asked me to have supper with you—you are gathering your herbs?"

"Yes, 'tis time to dry them and hang them up under the rafters; if they will save one human being from pain 'twill be a good thing. Last night Mari Lewis came to ask me for something for her boy; I gave it to her, but she never came to tell me whether it had done him any good," and she smiled as she led the way back to the cottage carrying her bunches of herbs.

"Was it Dan?" asked Will.

"Yes."

"Then he is well, for I saw him ploughing this evening."

"That's better than thanks," said the old woman, entering the dark cottage, where Morva was stirring a crock which hung on a chain from the open chimney, the furze and bracken flaming and crackling beneath it and lighting up her beautiful face. Once in the cottage, Sara sat down on the old oak settle and waited for her supper, her herbs lying in a green heap on the floor beside her. The square of scarlet flannel, which she always wore pinned on her shoulders, made a bit of bright colour in the gloom, her wrinkled hands were clasped on her lap, and a far-away look came into her wonderful dark eyes.

Morva looked up from her work.

"Are you seeing anything, mother?"

"No, no, child, nothing. Make haste with the supper," said Sara.

And when Morva had divided the porridge in the three shining black bowls, they drew round the bare oak table, on which the red of the setting sun made a flickering pattern of the mallow bush growing on the garden hedge. They talked about the farm work, the fishing, the lime burning, the fate of the Lapwing, which had sailed in the autumn and had never returned, until, when supper was over, Will rose to go with a stretch and a yawn.

"Ann wants me to give the white calf his medicine to-night, mother," said Morva.

"Wilt come with me now?" said Will, "for I am going."

"Yes, go," said the old woman, "go together."

But as the two young people went out under the low doorway she looked after them pensively, and remained long looking up at the evening sky, which the open door revealed. At last she tied up her herbs and began washing her bowls, and while engaged at her work she sang. Her voice had the pathetic tremble of old age, but was still true and musical, for she had once been a singer among singers, and the song that she sang—who shall describe it? from what old stores of memory did it come to light? from what old wells of ancient folklore and tradition did it spring? But Sara was full of songs and hymns—of the simplest and oldest—of the rocky path—of the golden summit—of the angelic host—of the cloud of witnesses—but of the more modern hymns of church festivals or chapel revivals, of creeds and shibboleths, she knew nothing!

Outside on the heath and gorse Will and Morva made their way along the narrow sheep paths, until, reaching the green sward where two could walk abreast, he drew nearer, and passing his arm round her shoulders, turned her gently towards the side of the cliff, where jutting crags and stunted thorns made "sheltered nooks for lovers' seats."

"Come, sit down here, Morva," he said; "all day I have wanted to talk to thee. Dost know what kept me so long at Castell On to-day? Dost know what grand thing is opening out before me? Dost know, lass, the time is coming when I will be able to put rings on thy fingers, and silken scarves on thy shoulders, and pretty shoes on thy little feet?"

Morva's lips parted, disclosing two rows of pearly teeth, as she stared in astonishment at her companion.

"Oh, Will, lad, what is the matter with thee? Hast lost thy senses?
We mustn't be long or Ann will be waiting."

"Oh, Ann!" said Will pettishly, "let her wait; listen thou. I am going to finish with them all before long; I am not going to plod on here on the farm any longer; I am going to college, lass; I am going to pass my examination and be a clergyman, like Mr. Price, or like that young curate who was stopping with him a month ago. Didst see him, Morva? Such a gentleman! dressed so grand, and went from town in the Nantmyny carriage."

Morva was still speechless.

"Oh, anwl! what art talking about, Will?" she said at last.

"Truth, Morva; I will be like that young man before long, and when I have a home ready I will send for thee; thou shalt come secretly to meet me in some large town where no one will know us. I will have a silken gown ready for thee, and we will be married, and thou shalt be a real lady."

Morva's only answer was a peal of laughter, which reached over moor and crag and down to the sandy beach below.

"Oh, Will, Will!" she gasped, with her hand on her side, "now indeed thy senses are roaming. Morva Lloyd in velvet shoes and silken gowns, and Will Owens with flapping coat tails like Mr. Price, and one of those ugly shining hats that the gentlemen wear! Oh, Will, Will! there's funny indeed!" and she laughed again until she woke the echoes from the cliffs.

"Hush-sh-sh!" said Will, a good deal nettled, "or laugh at thyself if thou wilt, but not at me, for I tell thee that's how thou'lt see me very soon."

"Well, indeed, then," said the girl, "when thou tak'st that path thou must say 'good-bye' to Morva Lloyd, for such things will never suit her."

"I tell thee, girl," said Will, taking both her hands in his, "thou must come with me. I will follow that path—I feel I must, and I feel it will lead to riches and honour, but I feel, too, that I can never live without thee; thou must come with me, Morva. What is in the future for me must be for thee too! dost hear?"

"Yes, I hear," said the girl, with a gasp.

"Dost remember thy promise, Morva? When we were children together, and sat here watching the stars, didn't I hold thy little finger and point it up to the North Star and make thee promise to marry me? And if thou art going to change thy mind, 'twill break my heart," and his mouth took a sad, pathetic curve.

"But I am not going to change. I remember the star which I pointed to when I promised to marry thee. 'Twill be up there by and by when the light is gone, for it is always there, though the others move about."

"Yes, 'tis the North Star, and the English have a saying, 'As true as the North Star'—that's what thou must be to me, Morva."

"Yes, indeed. The English are very wise people. But after all, Will, I must laugh when I think of a clergyman marrying a shepherdess. Oh! Will, Will!" added the girl more seriously and in a deprecating tone, "thou art talking nonsense. Think it