the revival of the interest in Welsh folk-song, thanks to the stimulus of the new Welsh Folk-Song Society, added a store of fresh lyric moments to the programme. And the Pennillion-singing to the harp, a deliciously simple fireside art, which calls at its best for the tuneful wit of an improvisator, and which has been threatened of late by the tyrannous piano, certainly appeared in better sort than for some time before. This was the verdict of Eos Dar, who was the adjudicator, and who is the most masterly Penillion-singer I have ever had the fortune to hear. There is no fear of the Welsh harp falling out of favor while he can stir the oak-leaves (his name, "Eos Dar," means Nightingale of the Oaks).

་་

The complaint has often been made of late years that Welsh singing as a fine art does not advance, and that its choirs do not hold their own with their English rivals. But to my prejudiced ear there is always a particular emotional quality in Welsh singing at its best which is a thing apart, and which I would walk miles to hear. The musical men and adjudicators who choose the music and decide the prizes at the National Eisteddfod have seemed latThe Contemporary Review.

terly to discount this emotional warmth and color. It is not refined, according to the ordinary concert-room standard. Neither is Pennillion-singing refined, judged by the art of the drawingroom. But the qualities I mean are born of true Welsh characteristics, and these are the things an Eisteddfod lives to maintain.

A word should be said about the development of the elements in the literary side of the festival, which have helped to make it an itinerant university of the people. The London programme offered serious prizes in history and folk-lore, in the prose essay, in romance, in the drama too, most of which were worked hard for, and the results of which in some cases at least will prove, I believe, to be solid, regenerative and lasting. They all speak to the refrain which Mr. Lloyd George phrased as a "nation going forwardyes, a nation going forward." But he wise in saying the Eisteddfod should not often come to London: "It would be too much like an eagle in the Zoological Gardens." Yes, even Eos Dar, nightingale of the oaks, might lose his music at last in the oaks of Kensington.

was

Ernest Rhys.

I be nigh cryin' for grief.

The folks at the hospital think father 'ull very like get well, Stephen."

"Oh, and do they?" said Stephen, blankly. It was a little difficult to adjust his ideas to a prospect so utterly unlooked-for, and so completely undesirable. So the old reprobate was going to cheat death! Many a good man would have been laid low by half the injuries he had received, yet here was Richard Baverstock recovering, to resume his former life no doubt, to be a drag upon his daughter for an indefinite number of years, and a discredit to all who were connected with her.

Though Sheba did not look at him, she guessed what was passing in his mind.

"Ye needn't say anything," she murmured, presently. "I know, without your tellin' me. And, anyhow, I wouldn't be your wife now, not if ye was to beg me on your knees. I'll not disgrace any man by marryin' him while father's alive."

"Nay, now," said Stephen, "don't be in such a hurry my maid. You've given me your word, and you can't go back on it. I'll take care of your father. He shan't want for anything as long as he lives."

He spoke very gravely, and looking straight before him; and drew a long breath after the last words.

"No need to make plans yet," he went on, after a pause. "We must see what's best to do when your father comes out of the hospital. But come in now, and have a cup of tea and rest a bit-you look very tired."

She glanced up at him hesitating.

"There's one thing I'd like to ax ye," she said, falteringly. "There! I've been a-thinkin' of it all the way along. It bain't late yet-not so very. If ye didn't mind, Stephen, you and me mid go up-along to the Lovers' Walk yonder just for a little bit. I'm not so very tired. It 'ud rest me."

Probably no request could have been more unwelcome to Stephen; he stood gazing at the girl with a perplexed expression.

"I know you must think it terr'ble foolish of me," she went on, hastily; "it's just a fancy-but I would like it."

"I don't understand-why," returned he. His voice was harsh, but she was so intent on her own thoughts that she did not perceive it.

"Ye haven't forgot," she said, "how you and me used to play there long ago? When we did use to play at be

"It's terr'ble good o' ye, Stephen, and I'll never forget it, but ye'll not make me change my mind. Father and me must shift for ourselves so long as he be livin'. The doctors bain't sure how long that may be-they bain't even sure whether he will get over this, but they say there's a chance. Oh, Stephen, isn't it awful wicked of me not to be glad there's a chance? My own fa'ther?"

"My dear," said Stephen, "he hasn't been much of a father to you-there's no use pretending. And I'm not going to give you up, so don't think it. What's settled is settled."

God

a-courtin' in the Lovers' Walk. Now we be real sweethearts-but knows how long it will last! I'd like to go up there wi' you this once, just to find it had all come true, what we did pretend, and what I have so often"

She broke off quickly, her natural reticence reasserting itself, and forbidding her to finish the phrase. "Longed for," had been the words which had risen to her lips. Stephen pulled himself together. The Lovers' Walk had hateful associations for him, but that was no reason why he should balk the girl to whom he was pledged of her very natural desire.

"Come," he said, "we'll step up there then, and try to fancy we are children again."

"Not children," murmured she, and, though she spoke softly, that wonderful new tone which had of late come into her voice made itself heard.

"Not children, Stephen! No, no, we be man and woman! I be thinkin' o' now-now! Oh! how I wish it could always be now, wi' no looking forrard, no fear of anythin' comin' between us!"

He drew her hand through his arm without speaking, but with great tenderness. Nevertheless, as they rounded the corner of the lane and passed the Little Farm, he averted his face, dreading to see Kitty's form, or hear Kitty's voice.

Though he was silent, and preserved an outward appearance of composure, a turmoil was raging within him. He was cursing himself for a coward. Reproaching himself, even, with treachery towards the trusting creature by his side. Why should the turn of Kitty's head, the tone of her voice, have haunted him all day, when it was Sheba's head which was so near his own, Sheba's voice which but now had assumed a tenderness that should have thrilled his heart?

They did not speak to each other as they mounted the rough track between the hedges which led to the wood, but as they followed in that the custom of rustic lovers, the silence did not strike Sheba as peculiar. Her face, indeed, wore an expression of such bliss that Stephen's heart smote him when he glanced at it.

Here was their goal at last, the Lovers' Walk, the lovers' hour, sunset; and here they were, they two, man and woman, as Sheba had said, full of youth, and health and vigor-yet only one heart sang to itself the lovers' pæan of joy.

The wood was very still, with that

intense stillness which comes only in midsummer and in midwinter. On either side of the path the trees were scattered, and it seemed a very hall of light, every motionless leaf a little point of fire, every tree-trunk a pillar of pale or ruddy flame as birch or beech alternated with sturdy fir. As the couple advanced, they snapped lush stalks of bluebells, the sweet scent of which weighted the air about them; other flowers in the place, raggedrobins and orchises, made little glowing filters for the sun's rays. Further on, all was mystery, gentle twilight, with here and there a sombre shape looming forth.

"Stephen," said Sheba, "I'm going to have my way for once. Who knows what may happen to-morrow? 'Tis what I do keep a-sayin' to myself. But we be here now, you an' me, an' I be a-goin' to have a proper lovers' walk. You'll not think me bold-faced, will ye?"

He looked down at the face which was upturned to his, upturned a very little way, for Sheba was a tall woman, and saw that it was glowing with feeling, wistfully tender, expectant. With an effort he concentrated his whole thought upon her.

"A proper lovers' walk?" he said. "Yes sure, Sheba, love."

He put his arm round her waist and kissed her; and Sheba, with that innocent trustful ardor of hers, clasped both her hands about his neck and kissed him back. But as she loosed him again she uttered an exclamation, and withdrew quickly from his embrace; her face was startled, angry. Stephen, turning, glanced in the same direction, and there, just emerging from one of the more secret recesses of the wood, stood Kitty Leslie. She was gazing at them with an expression of shocked, horrified amazement, such as Stephen had never seen on her face.

Rallying her self-possession, however, she wheeled, and would have plunged back into the depths of the thicket if he had not called to her. "Wait a bit, Miss Leslie!" he cried. "No, Stephen, let her go,” exclaimed Sheba. ""Tis too bad that we couldn't have these few moments to ourselves wi'out bein' spied on; I don't want to talk to her."

"Stay there if you like, then," said Stephen. "I must tell her. There mustn't be any misunderstanding."

"I'll come wi' you then," cried Sheba, and stepped along by his side with the grace, the restrained energy of a young panther, with something also of the watchful savagery of the wild beast in her gaze. Kitty awaited their approach with an expression of haughty surprise, as though wondering that Stephen had hailed her.

He was breathing quickly as he halted before her.

"I want to tell you, Miss Leslie," he began abruptly, "that Sheba Baverstock has promised to be my wife."

"Indeed?" said Kitty, coldly. "I congratulate you."

"I'd 'low you're a bit surprised," interrupted Sheba defiantly.

Kitty turned to her with a scarcely perceptible curl of the lip.

"Why should you think me likely to be surprised?" she rejoined with a faintly sarcastic emphasis.

Sheba stepped back as though she had received a blow. The remembrance of their previous encounter on this very spot, and of Sheba's subsequent confidences, were in the minds of both. Sheba did not speak, however; and Kitty glanced, still with the same ironical smile, at Stephen, stepped past them, and walked away.

The couple stood still till the swish of her skirts was no longer heard, and then Stephen drew near Sheba again. "Come," he said.

He extended his arm mechanically,

and she took it; they walked on in silence, but not the silence of a little while before which had been so fraught with happiness for Sheba. The sense of shame and remorse of which Stephen had been conscious had previously been all for the sake of the girl beside him; but now it became twofold. What kind of figure must he cut in Kitty's eyes? How could she reconcile his recent words with the state of things which she had just witnessed. It well became him to reproach her with fickleness of purpose, when he himself, who had professed to love her with such depth and earnestness, had turned so lightly, as she must think, to another woman. He writhed inwardly as he remembered the pale, scornful little face, the derisive smile which he had never before seen on Kitty's lips.

Sheba broke in upon his painful meditations.

"Your arm's just same as a block o' wood, here in mine!" she cried, with a kind of passionate impatience. "What's come to ye?" Then, without waiting for an answer-"Oh! I wish, I wish we'd never met her! We might ha' had one hour. Jist the one hour I craved for-but she's come between!" Stephen stopped short and looked at

her.

"You mustn't say such things as that, my girl," he said. "We are promised man and wife. I'm not the man to let any one come between us."

But Sheba, unconvinced, clutched his

arm.

"Tell me one thing-was it to be re venged on her you took up wi' me?"

"No!" he cried angrily. "I wonder you dare ask me such a question! Miss Leslie is nothing to me-If I had my will I'd never see her again," he added bitterly.

"That's summat," said Sheba, half to herself. Then, with one of her swift changes of mood, she flung her arms

about his neck and Stephen kissed her sorrowfully.

"Oh!' she cried, drawing away from him immediately-"I don't know how I can forget myself like this! I think we had better go home along now," she added in a different tone, for he did not speak, though he would have given worlds to have found loving words. ""Tis gettin' dark, and I d' 'low you must be tired, if I'm not-you what's goin' about all day."

"I'm not tired," said Stephen; nevertheless he turned, and the two went slowly homewards; Sheba's heart yearning and Stephen's like a stone.

"Stephen."

V.

Stephen halted outside the milkhouse door; he could see Sheba within bending over one of the long "leads" which contained milk in different stages, from the still foaming evening yield to the already cream-covered product of the morning.

"Did you call me?"

"Yes; can you step in a moment?" Stephen. stepped in, but Sheba continued to skim without turning her head.

"Did you want me for something?" he asked a little impatiently, and then, "Isn't it tea-time?"

"Yes, but your mother's got company."

"Well, but we must have our tea, I suppose."

"It's Miss Kitty Leslie," said Sheba, straightening herself and turning round.

Stephen came a step or two further into the milk-house and Sheba resumed her work. He stood by her tapping his boot with his riding crop.

"Well," said she after a moment, "you bain't in such a hurry to go in now?"

"I'll wait till you're ready," returned he.

"You'll wait till she's gone, then," said Sheba, "I bain't a-going in till then. I don't know why Mrs. Hardy did bring her in, I'm sure, for she wasn't so very willin'."

Stephen made no direct reply; he crossed the flagged floor to a shelf in the corner on which sundry rolls of butter, each neatly folded up in its own particular square of muslin, lay piled for to-morrow's market.

"Did you have a good churning this morning?" he inquired.

"Ees, the cows be givin' a deal of milk now, This lot be waitin' for Frisby's cart. We sold twice as much this marnin'."

"Did you?" said he.

66

'Ees," said Sheba. She tapped her skimmer against the side of the shallow pan and went on to the next.

Stephen stood still, whistling under his breath. Sheba, though apparently intent on her work, watched him furtively.

"You've got a new customer for cream," she remarked after a pause. "Have we?" returned he.

"That lady what have a-took Parson Filton's Rectory, she've ordered it to be sent twice a day."

"Rather a bother for a small order." "Mrs. Hardy says if folks mean to do business they must show themselves willin' to carry out all orders, great or small. Don't you agree wi' she?"

Stephen, looking absently out of the window, made no reply.

"Don't you agree, I say?" asked the girl, and the hand which held the tin skimmer shook a little.

"I beg your pardon," said he, going towards her again. "I'm afraid I wasn't listening just then. What did you say?"

"It doesn't matter. I saw you warn't listenin' to I. You was listenin' to summat else though."

"What do you mean?"

Sheba made no answer, and in the