This night's meeting was the prelude to many more on the cliffs, on the shore, or on the bay, and when the winter came in real earnest, Ivor's visits to Mwntseison were of very frequent occurrence.
One evening in the early spring he walked again in the mill garden, and sought and found under the furze hedge a bunch of sweet violets, which he gathered before he took his way up the side of the hill to meet Gwladys.
"Vayolettes! vayolettes!" he thought. "Mari Vone was right, the name does suit them." And as Gwladys pinned them into her bodice, he was reminded of the sea-pinks which he had snatched from the table while 'n'wncwl Jos lay ill in his bed, and which he still treasured between the pages of one of the old brown books in the mill bookcase.
He would have told her of the incident had not a tender regard for Hugh's memory made him hesitate to speak of anything which should contrast their present freedom with the restraint of their former meetings.
Backwards and forwards over the velvet turf at the top of the cliffs they roamed together, the hours passing by unheeded, until, as they reached the green mound, now lying bathed in the silver moonlight, which they had named "Mari's pillow," Gwladys said:
"I must not go further, or my mother will be bolting the door."
"Wilt not come to the brow of the hill, 'tis only a little further, and I have something to show thee there."
And she made no demur, but continued her walk to the edge of the hill, which sloped down to the valley of the Berwen. The little river gurgled and whispered in the moonlight, as it ran below them on its way to the sea.
"We can hear the Berwen from here," said Gwladys; "but what hast to show me, Ivor?"
"Only the mill!" said he, pointing across the valley to where the old mill stood by the noisy little stream.