"My word! There would be wrath."
"Wrath?" said the girl, looking thoughtfully up in her companion's face; "what is that?"
"Oh, something no one could feel towards you. 'Wrath' is anger."
"My uncle is angry sometimes with me, and—too—with—with—"
"My father, I suppose?" said Cardo.
"Yes, indeed," said the girl; "that is true, whatever. Every Wednesday
evening at the prayer-meeting he is praying for the 'Vicare du,' and
Betto told me last week that the Vicare is praying for my uncle on
Tuesday evenings."
"Oh, Lord! has it come to that?" said Cardo. "Then I'm afraid we can never hope for peace between them."
They both laughed, and the girl's rippling tones mingled musically in
Cardo's ears with the gurgle of the Berwen.
"It is getting late," she said, "we had better go on; but I must say good-night here, because it is down by the side of the river is my way to Dinas. You will be nearer to keep on the road till you cross the valley."
"No, indeed," said the young man, already preparing to help his companion over the stone stile. "I will go down by the Berwen too."