for she was as thin as he was, and about his age.

It was plain to see that my friend and she were at daggers drawn with each other; nor did Miss M'Lachlan seem particularly partial to her. However, Mrs. M'Lachlan was kind and friendly; but with Bob and his father she was certainly no favouritethe latter, indeed, scarcely taking the trouble to conceal his dislike.

I wondered many times during the evening what she was kept there for.

She and my friend's sister played and sang several duets together, but their voices were as different as the croaking of a raven and the cooing of a turtle-dove. However, Miss Marshall was mistress of her instrument, and played the piano to admiration.

I am not particularly fond of instrumental music, as a rule; but her performance moved me. It was exquisite; and when she quitted the instrument, Mrs. M'Lachlan rose up and kissed her, and Bob and his father cried "Bravo!"

The lady took all their admiration as her due; and turning to me, said—

"Do you play chess, Mr. Cochrane?” "I did, a very little, at one time," I replied; "but I have almost forgotten all about it, it is so long now since I tried."

"I shall be most happy to teach you over again."

"You are very kind."

I did not want to play. Bob flew to my rescue. "Drop that, Miss Marshall," he exclaimed; "Jonathan and I are going to have a chat, and you must get some one else to play chess with you.'

"Rude boy!" muttered the lady, below her breath; and Bob must have heard her, for I did, and we were standing together;

but he took no notice.

"Come into the conservatory," he continued, taking my arm. "I suppose we may smoke there?" he said, addressing his father.

"Yes," replied Mr. M'Lachlan; "but keep out of the fernery, boys."

I chanced to be looking at the governess just at that moment, and saw her shrug her shoulders impatiently.

"I think I shall go upstairs," she said, speaking to Mrs. M'Lachlan. "My head aches."

thing which I did not hear, but which had a reviving effect upon Miss Marshall, I imagined, for her eyes sparkled, and she commenced talking, in a low tone of voice, but with a great deal of animation.

Bob had nothing particular to say to me after all.

"I wanted to get you out of the clutches of that old cat," he answered, when I had asked him what it was he had to say.

"Does she teach your sister, Bob?"

"Teach Emmy! Well, that's a good one! Not now, of course. She hasn't taught her anything these three years. And what she sticks on here for I'm sure I can't tell. We hate her, the gov and I; but the mum-I believe the old thing comes it over her, and that's the reason she won't let her go." "She appears to be a very accomplished lady."

"There, don't you go praising her up, old Jonathan, or I'll think you've gone and fallen in love with her." I smiled.

"What do you think of Emmy?"

What did I think of her? Why, that she would simply have been the perfection of beauty if she had not chanced to have a younger brother named Robert; but that, nevertheless, she was the most fascinating girl I had ever seen, and my heart's regent for evermore. But I carefully avoided giving utterance to the above thoughts, and was cogitating for a fitting answer to my friend's inquiry, when he repeated it.

'My dear David," I replied, "she is a very charming young lady; but our acquaintance is so very short-"

"Isn't she pretty?" he persisted.
"She is beautiful," I replied.

"Come," said he, laughing, "you are beginning to warm up, Jonathan. You pronounced that word beautiful' with an unction that was most gratifying and quite refreshing; for every one, you must know, declares that we are the picture of each other."

"David, my boy, don't be so vain.”

"I? I'm not a bit vain, old man. What on earth have I got to be vain about?" By this time we had finished our cigars. Come," I said, "let us go back into the drawing-room."

"I don't feel a bit like dying," I replied. "May be so; but you're blushing like fun, if that's anything to go by."

"I don't believe I'm blushing." "Oh, aint you just! Why, you're as red as a turkey-cock. Well, I asked her what she thought of you-and what do you think she answered?"

"I have not the slightest idea."

"She said you were a gentlemanlike fellow, and she thought she should like you very well. There. Hurrah!"

"My dear Robert, don't," I expostulated. "They'll wonder what's the matter."

"Never mind, Jonathan-it'll be a match some day."

"You ridiculous boy," I said, "don't be so absurd."

"Look here," he continued-" if you say another word, I'll go in and tell her all you said about her."

"Robert!"

her.

Yes, she was altogether lovely; and my heart was prostrate, bound for ever in adamantine chains, at her feet.

Soon afterwards I took my leave, and went home to think; and, after some hours, fell asleep to dream of her.

Surely she was my fate.

It may be surmised that no long interval after this elapsed between my visits at The Grove. I went there every day, nominally to read with Bob-whose examination, as well as my own, was approaching; but, by some mysterious process of mental evolution, our studies invariably ended in a long conversation, of which Emmy was the

theme.

Robert loved his sister, and was as sincerely attached to me as I was to him. He would have hailed an engagement between us with the liveliest joy; but what would his father and mother say to such a marriage for their only daughter?

I felt more than doubtful of gaining their consent; but Robert was full of hope; and, all the time, we neither of us had the slightest inkling of what the young lady's feelings on the subject might be.

In the meantime, we saw a good deal of each other, we three; and when we chanced to be by ourselves, Bob kept good-naturedly in the background, in order to give me a chance, as he laughingly used to say.

I have often thought since that my conduct at that time was not as strictly honourable as it ought to have been; though, Heaven knows, it was my deep love that prompted me, almost unconsciously, to prosecute my suit.

Did Emma love me, or was her cordiality merely the expression of a natural goodwill towards the friend of her brother? What would I not, then, have given for an answer that would have set my doubts at rest, one way or the other?

She never avoided me: that, I thought, was one great point in my favour.

Her father and mother, too, seemed to have no objection to our growing intimacy; but, on the other hand, Miss Marshall enacted the part of duenna to such perfection, that they probably had no fear.

She never allowed us to be alone together for a moment when she was at home; and it was only on the occasion of her accompanying Mrs. M'Lachlan into town that we were permitted to enjoy a solitary ramble Bob, as I have before stated, always linthrough the grounds. I say solitary, for gered behind as much as possible.

"How would you like to live in Australia, Miss M'Lachlan?" I once ventured to inquire as we strolled together beneath the elms in the park.

"Not at all," was her immediate and unhesitating reply.

My heart was crushed for the remainder of the day; for, next to Emma, I loved my native land.

SOME WELSH LEGENDS.

THES
THESE are devation. History is read

HESE are days not only of progress,

"between the lines," so as to revolutionize all established notions. The old is becoming new again in the revival of all but forgotten lore. The poems and chronicles of the remote past are unearthed from dusty repositories, and receiving a new lease of life.

This work of revival and recovery has been going on for many years in England; and, stimulated perhaps by English example, similar attempts have of late been made in Wales. Tradition pure and simple-that is to say, tales and legends never committed to writing-may be said to have disappeared from among us. Literary activity, the restless search for new topics, and the everready means of publication afforded by the press, have probably secured for all English legends worth preserving a more permanent form than that of mere verbal transmission. But in Wales the state of things is very different. Although it has now a periodical literature of considerable extent, that literature has come into being within the lifetime of men still living, and but a very small part of it is given to matters directly connected with the principality. One result of this is, that many traditions still circulate in the secluded villages and farmhouses of the principality which are still unwritten, or have only lately been committed to writing. The spread of education, the growing circulation of English literature, and with that the decline of the Welsh as a spoken tongue, are facts that are gradually obliterating the memory of such of these legends as still remain, "llafar gwlad" that is, "told among the people." Many of those that have already been published are of considerable interest; and, for that reason, I lay a few of them before the readers of ONCE A WEEK, in the hope that narratives, the recital of which has whiled away many a winter evening amidst the Welsh mountains, may help to pass an idle hour of some who speak another but hardly a strange tongue.

As usual among mountaineers, who are generally more imaginative or more superstitious than dwellers in less romantic re gions, these fireside stories deal largely with love, war, and the supernatural, fairies, ghosts, giants, and monsters. Examples

taken from one or two of these classes must suffice at present. Those given are from "Y Gordovigion" and "Cymru Fu," two Welsh publications, in which they have lately appeared. The first will probably suggest recollections of the immortal Rip van Winkle, whose story, in one form or another, is to be found in the legendary lore of so many nations.

OWAIN AND THE FAIRIES.

the harvest field one evening, to resume the task of gathering in the corn-a duty rendered urgent by the need of making the best of the harvest moon, then at its brightest. They took food with them for their evening meal.

"Boy," said Owain to his companion, "would it not be well that I should run to Cemaes at supper-time, to get my shoes from the cobbler? Our master is not likely to come to us to-night; and, even if he should, I can get back in time to resume work after supper."

"Yes, you can easily do that," was the answer.

Supper-time having come, Owain put his bread and cheese in his pocket, and started on his errand. After going some distance he perceived close to his path a circle of little men and women, some of grotesque, and all of playful aspect. At the sight he was of course greatly frightened; but, after pausing a moment to recover breath, he summoned courage to approach them, and on doing so saw a little woman of rare beauty in the midst of the group. She was so surpassingly fair that honest Owain was quite smitten by her charms. Seeing his attention fixed on herself, she ran from among the fairy crowd, and, clasping her soft arms round his neck, invited him to join them; to which he joyfully assented, for his fears had now left him, and he thought only of this, the loveliest creature of her sex he had ever seen. Long was the time he spent in company of his new friends

-company so delightful that he forgot the lapse of time. But at last, remembering his duty, and fearing that Dafydd might need his help, or that his employer might come to the field and discover his absence, he unwillingly returned without going to Ce

maes.

A certain man-probably John Jones by name-dwelt at Pont Newydd, Carnarvonshire. One night, when returning homewards, after rather deep potations at the village inn, he was suddenly whisked away by unseen hands to a splendid palace, where he found himself waited upon by servants in gorgeous attire, and supplied with luxuries of which he had never even dreamt. At length, worn out with these novel enjoyments, he became sleepy, and asked permission to be shown a bench in some quiet corner where he might repose. He was urged to go into another room, and rest on a couch; but he firmly refused, and was at last allowed to sleep where he was. When he awoke he found he had spent his hours of forgetfulness on the very edge of a steep precipice overhanging a lake.

THE CRUSADER'S WEDDING. Euronwy, one of the fairest of her sex, was the only child of a Welsh noble who dwelt in Lleyn, not far from Aberdaron. Arthur's home was not far, and there were but few dwellings between the two houses. Both children being nearly the same age, and of similar worldly position, the two were playmates from their earliest years. In due time they passed from playmates to lovers; but, before they married, it was decided that Arthur, who longed for military glory, should go away to fight under the banner of the Cross for a while. Soon after

his departure, a fierce war broke out between the English and Welsh. A force of English invaders pushed their way into Lleyn, and beset the home of the beautiful Euronwy. In those stormy times, the houses of country gentlemen were meant more for strongholds than pleasaunces; so the invaders found that, in attacking this mansion, they had undertaken no easy task-more especially as the two families, in addition to the strength of their houses, had plenty of sturdy retainers. The home of Euronwy would probably have fallen a prey to the foe if a strong force had not been sent by Arthur's father to assail the enemy in the rear. The manoeuvre succeeded. The English were beaten off, many of them being taken and cast into the dungeons provided for the accommodation of prisoners of war. Among these captives was a young English knight named Alfred, who remained in the custody of Euronwy's father. One result of this was that he fell desperately in love with the young Welsh beauty; and when at last he was set at liberty, he told her of his love, and resolved to make her his wife or perish in the attempt. Now, in those days there was a class of travelling harpers who passed from house to house, being everywhere gladly received for the sake of their mastery of an instrument of which the Welsh were passionately fond. Few guests were more welcome than the wandering minstrel. Some time after the parting of Alfred and Euronwy, a travelling harper came to the door, and played some of those airs which are never sweeter than when performed on the instrument for which they were first composed. Alfred-for the disguised harper was no other-at once became a favoured guest. He had been at the pains of learning to play the harp, for the express purpose of carrying off the girl who had so completely won his heart.

Circumstances favoured his plan. Euronwy was accustomed to go in the early twilight to walk to and fro along the path on which she had parted with the absent Arthur, and of this habit Alfred decided to avail himself. He had previously arranged that a strong force of his friends should land at Aberdaron, whenever he sent them word to come. The next step was to frequent this path at the hour when Euronwy was to be found there. Ere long she-unsuspecting evil-began to take more pleasure in his society than her absent lover would have

liked, if he had been there to see; and often, in the long summer evenings, would the harper play his instrument, while Euronwy sat by listening. As he gained her confidence, by degrees she told him of Arthur, that he was away in the Crusade, and that at a fixed time he would return to claim her for his bride. She besought the disguised knight to await the lover's return, in order to play his harp at the wedding. Alfred assenting, delayed the arrival of his friends, arranging that they should arrive on the very day of Arthur's return; for he hoped in this way to snatch her, as it were, from the very arms of her lover, so that by such an achievement his prowess might be more conspicuously displayed.

In due time the allies came, bringing with them the treacherous harper's horse and armour. Having met Euronwy as usual, and perceiving that they were near, he played his harp as a signal for their advance; and then, leaving the girl for a moment, went aside into a copse, cast off his disguise, and assumed his martial attire. Returning with some armed men, he seized Euronwy, put her on a horse, and, accompanied by the new-comers, sped away to Aberdaron.

While Alfred carried out this part of his wicked scheme, others went for the priest of Aberdaron, and brought him to the church, compelling him, sword in hand, to hold himself ready for the marriage. Meanwhile, Arthur had returned, and sought his love, who he was told had not come back from her evening walk. To await her return he joined her father, and sat down to tell his adventures; and, as might be supposed, time sped swiftly with his hearers, until at last even their interest in the story of the returned Crusader gave way to anxiety about the girl.

They sought her, but without success. Arthur's feelings may be imagined. But he had been through a school in which he had learned to displace vain regrets by swift action. He promptly called together a band of mounted retainers, and away they sped in search, Arthur with brandished sword urging them on. At the cross-roads they met an old man coming from Aberdaron, who, in answer to their hasty inquiries, told them that a band of horsemen had passed him going that way, and that they had with them a woman whose face was covered. On they went; and, as they approached the church, they could see that,

late as was the hour, there was a light inside. Hastily dismounting, Arthur rushed past the English soldiers who guarded the porch, and, bursting into the church, he saw Euronwy on the point of being forcibly married to the English knight who stood by her side. Both men at once saw what was before them. At the same instant, they drew sword. Then began a deadly duel at the very altar. At last, Arthur, with one mighty stroke, cleft his rival through helmet and skull, and Alfred fell dead on the floor. Euronwy's father, who had arrived by this time, ordered the priest to proceed with the service. Thus weirdly were Arthur and Euronwy reunited for ever, after their long separation; while he who had all but robbed the Crusader of his love lay dead at his feet.

THE FAIRY BRIDE.

The valley which extends from Hafod Ruffydd to Llyn y Dywarchen is called the Fairies' Land, because they might formerly be always seen in some part of it at full moon. In the vale there dwelt a fine young fellow, who spent much more of his time in their company than was good for him. The reason was that he was in love with one of them.

One night, when they met near his home, he joined them as usual; and, in the excitement of love, he seized his fair one, carried her off by main force, and, having brought her to his home, exerted all his arts of persuasion to induce her not to return. At length, overcome by his entreaties, she promised to stay at his house as a servant, and to become his wife, if he could find out her name within a fixed time. He of course began to guess at every conceivable name he could think of, but without success. When almost at his wits' end, and nearly frantic at the prospect of losing his love after all, he chanced one night to be on his way home from market at a rather late hour, when, passing the very spot whence he had carried her off, he perceived a group of fairies, not engaged in their usual pastimes, but seemingly in earnest consultation. He stole along the bed of a stream until within hearing, and then found that they were talking about the abduction of their companion. One of them exclaimed—

"Bronwen, Bronwen, why didst thou leave us to marry a mortal?"

This was truly an ample reward for trail