When they had passed out of the wood into the pasture-land beyond, Ruth once more turned to mark him.  She was struck afresh with the mild beauty of the face, though there was something in the countenance which told of the body’s deformity, something more and beyond the pallor of habitual ill-health, something of a quick spiritual light in the deep-set eyes, a sensibility about the mouth; but altogether, though a peculiar, it was a most attractive face.  “Will you allow me to accompany you if you are going the round by Cwm Dhu, as I imagine you are?  The handrail is blown away from the little wooden bridge by the storm last night, and the rush of waters below may make you dizzy; and it is really dangerous to fall there, the stream is so deep.”

They walked on without much speech.  She wondered who her companion might be.  She should have known him, if she had seen him among the strangers at the inn; and yet he spoke English too well to be a Welshman; he knew the country and the paths so perfectly, he must be a resident; and so she tossed him from England to Wales, and back again, in her imagination.

“I only came here yesterday,” said he, as a widening in the path permitted them to walk abreast.  “Last night I went to the higher waterfalls; they are most splendid.”

“Did you go out in all that rain?” asked Ruth timidly.

“Oh, yes.  Rain never hinders me from walking.  Indeed, it gives a new beauty to such a country as this.  Besides, my time for my excursion is so short, I cannot afford to waste a day.”

“Then you do not live here?” asked Ruth.

“No! my home is in a very different place.  I live in a busy town, where at times it is difficult to feel the truth that

’There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of th’ everlasting chime; Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and crowded mart, Plying their task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.’

I have an annual holiday, which I generally spend in Wales; and often in this immediate neighbourhood.”

“I do not wonder at your choice,” replied Ruth.  “It is a beautiful country.”

“It is, indeed; and I have been inoculated by an old inn-keeper at Conway with a love for its people, and history, and traditions.  I have picked up enough of the language to understand many of their legends; and some are very fine and awe-inspiring, others very poetic and fanciful.”

Ruth was too shy to keep up the conversation by any remark of her own, although his gentle, pensive manner was very winning.

“For instance,” said he, touching a long bud-laden stem of foxglove in the hedge-aide, at the bottom of which one or two crimson-speckled flowers were bursting from their green sheaths, “I dare say, you don’t know what makes this fox-glove bend and sway so gracefully.  You think it is blown by the wind, don’t you?” He looked at her with a grave smile, which did not enliven his thoughtful eyes, but gave an inexpressible sweetness to his face.