which her English lover had no place. Suddenly, and for the first
time, I felt that she who had inspired within me this all-conquering
passion, though the penniless child of a drunken organist, was a
daughter of Snowdon--a representative of the Cymric race that was
once so mighty, and is still more romantic in its associations than
all others. Already in the little talk I had had with her I began to
guess what I realised before the evening was over, that owing to the
influence of the English lady, Miss Dalrymple, who had lodged at the
cottage with her, she was more than my own equal in culture, and
could have held her own with almost any girl of her own age in
England. It was only in her subjection to Cymric superstitions that
she was benighted.

'Winnie,' I murmured, 'what have you to say?'

After a while her eyes seemed to clear of the visions, and she said,

'What changes have come upon us both, Henry. since that childish
betrothal on the sands!'

'Happy changes for one of the child-lovers,' I said--'happy changes
for the one who was then a lonely cripple shut out from all sympathy
save that which the other child-lover could give.'

'And yet you then seemed happy, Henry--happy with Winnie to help you
up the gangways. And how happy Winnie was! But now the child-lover is
a cripple no longer: he is very, very strong--he is so strong that he
could carry Winnie up the gangways in his arms, I think.'

The thrill of natural pride which such recognition of my physical