But why should I weary the reader by a detailed account of my wanderings and searchings with my strange guide that day, and the next, and the next?  Why should I burthen him with the mental agonies I suffered as Sinfi and I, during the following days, explored the country for miles and miles—­right away beyond the Cross Foxes, as far as Dolgelley and the region of Cader Idris?  At last, one evening, when I and Rhona Boswell and some of her family were walking down Snowdon towards Llanberis, Sinfi announced her conviction that Winifred was no longer in the Snowdon region at all, perhaps not even in Wales at all.

‘You mean, I suppose, that she is dead,’ I said.

‘Dead?’ said Sinfi, the mysterious sibylline look returning immediately to her face, that had just seemed so frank and simple.  ‘She ain’t got to die; she’s only got to beg.  But I shall ha’ to leave you now.  I can’t do you no more good.  And besides, my daddy’s goin’ into the Eastern Counties with the Welsh ponies, and so is Jasper Bozzell and Rhona.  Videy and me are goin’ too, in course.’

With deep regret and dismay I felt that I must part from her.  How well I remember that evening.  I feel as now I write the delicious summer breeze of Snowdon blowing on my forehead.  The sky, which for some time had been growing very rich, grew at every moment rarer in colour, and glassed itself in the llyns which shone with an enjoyment of the beauty like the magic mirrors of Snowdonian spirits.  The loveliness indeed was so bewitching that one or two of the Gypsies—­a race who are, as I had already noticed, among the few uncultivated people that show a susceptibility to the beauties of nature—­gave a long sigh of pleasure, and lingered at the llyn of the triple echo, to see how the soft iridescent opal brightened and shifted into sapphire and orange, and then into green and gold.  As a small requital of her valuable services I offered her what money I had about me, and promised to send as much more as she might require as soon as I reached the hotel at Dolgelley, where at the moment my portmanteau was lying in the landlord’s charge.

‘Me take money for tryin’ to find my sister, Winnie Wynne?’ said Sinfi, in astonishment more than in anger.  ‘Seein’, reia, as I’d jist sell everythink I’ve got to find her, I should like to know how many gold balansers [sovereigns] ’ud pay me.  No, reia, Winnie Wynne ain’t in Wales at all, else I’d never give up this patrin-chase.  So fare ye well;’ and she held out her hand, which I grasped, reluctant to let it go.

‘Fare ye well, reia,’ she repeated, as she walked swiftly away; ’I wonder whether we shall ever meet agin.’

‘Indeed, I hope so,’ I said.

Her sister Videy, who with Rhona Boswell was walking near us, was present at the parting—­a bright-eyed, dark-skinned little girl, a head shorter than Sinfi.  I saw Videy’s eyes glisten greedily at sight of the gold, and, after we had parted, I was not at all surprised, though I knew her father, Panuel Lovell, a frequenter of Raxton fairs, to be a man of means, when she came back and said, with a coquettish smile,