Cardo knew it at once.

It was Valmai singing at her work, and he longed to break through the elder bushes and call her attention.

He was so near that he could even hear the words of her song, softly as they were sung.
She was interrupted by a querulous voice.
"Valmai," it said in Welsh, "have you written that ?" "Oh! long ago, uncle.

I am waiting for the next line." "Here it is then, child, and well worth waiting for;" and, with outstretched arm marking the cadence of its rhythm, he read aloud from a book of old poems.

"There's poetry for you, girl! There's a description of Nature! Where will you find such real poetry amongst modern bards?
No, no! the bards are dead, Valmai!" "Well, I don't know much about it, uncle; but isn't it a modern bard who writes: "'Come and see the misty mountains In their grey and purple sheen, When they blush to see the sunrise Like a maiden of thirteen!'" That seems very pretty, whatever." "Very pretty," growled the man's voice, "very pretty; of course it is--very pretty! That's just it; but that's all, Valmai.