Her short-winged hive set to work in her head as usual, building scaffoldings of great things to be done by Chillon, present evils escaped.

The rolling big bade hills with the riding clouds excited her as she mounted, and she was a figure of gladness on the ridge bending over to hospitable Plas Llwyn, where the Wythans lived, entertaining rich and poor alike.
They had led the neighbourhood to call on the discarded Countess of Fleetwood.
A warm strain of arms about her neck was Carinthia's welcome from Mrs.
Wythan lying along the couch in her boudoir; an established invalid, who yearned sanely to life, and caught a spark of it from the guest eyed tenderly by her as they conversed.
'Our boy ?--our Chillon Kirby till he has his baptism names; he is well?
I am to see him ?' 'He follows me.

He sleeps almost through the night now.' 'Ah, my dear,' Mrs.Wythan sighed, imagining: 'It would disappoint me if he did not wake me.' 'I wake at his old time and watch him.' Carinthia put on the baby's face in the soft mould of slumber.
'I see him!' Mrs.Wythan cried.

'He is part mine.

He has taught Owain to love babies.' A tray of breakfast was placed before the countess.