‘I have the whole scene of the angel and the cripple,’ Gower replied.

‘O that day!’

They ’were soon speculating on the unimpressionable house in its clump of wood midway below, which had no response for anxieties.

A maid-servant at the garden gate, by Mr. Wythan’s orders, informed Carinthia that her mistress had opened her eyes:  There was a hope of weathering the ominous third time.  But the hope was a bird of short flight from bush to bush until the doctor should speak to confirm it.  Even the child was under the shadow of the house.  Carinthia had him in her arms, trusting to life as she hugged him, and seeing innumerable darts out of all regions assailing her treasure.

‘She wishes to have you,’ Mr. Wythan came and said to her.  ’Almost her first word.  The heart is quickening.  She will live for me if she can.’

He whispered it.  His features shot the sparkle.

Rebecca Wythan had strength to press Carinthia’s hand faintly.  She made herself heard:  ‘No pain.’  Her husband sat upright, quite still, attentive for any sign.  His look of quiet pleasure ready to show, sprightliness dwelt on her.  She returned the look, unable to give it greeting.  Past the sense of humour, she wanted to say:  ’See the poor simple fellow who will think it a wife that he has!’ She did but look.

Carinthia spoke his name, ‘Mr. Wythan,’ by chance, and Rebecca breathed heavily until she formed the words:  ‘Owain to me.’

‘To me,’ Owain added.

The three formed a chain of clasped hands.

It was in the mind of the sick lady to disburden herself of more than her weakness could utter, so far was she above earthly links.  The desire in her was to be quit of the flesh, bearing a picture of her husband as having the dues of his merits.

Her recovered strength next day brought her nearer to our laws.  ’You will call him Owain, Carinthia?’ she said.  ’He is not one to presume on familiarity.  I must be going soon.  I cannot leave him the wife I would choose.  I can leave him the sister.  He is a sure friend.  He is the knightly man women dream of.  I harp on it because I long for testimony that I leave him to have some reward.  And this may be, between two so pure at heart as you two.’

‘Dear soul friend, yes, and Owain, yes, I can say it,’ Carinthia rejoined.  ’Brother?  I have only my Chillon.  My life is now for him.  I am punished for separating myself from the son of my father.  I have no heart for a second brother.  What I can give to my friend I will.  I shall love you in him, if I am to lose you.’

’Not Owain—­it was I was the wretch refused to call on the lonely lady at the castle until I heard she had done a romantic little bit of thing—­ hushed a lambkin’s bleating.  My loss! my loss!  And I could afford it so poorly.  Since then Carinthia has filled my days.  I shudder to leave you and think of your going back to the English.  Their sneer withers.  They sent you down among us as a young woman to be shunned.’