MISS GWYNNE'S BURGLAR, By Violet Etynge Mitchell
IN the heart of Wales, nestling between two dark frowning mountains, and lulled to drowsy indifference of the big outside world by the murmurs of the not far distant sea, stands the little village of Cod-y-glyn.
Just outside the village, on the main road stands—or did stand ten years ago—an old stone house, in the middle of a large garden, which was surrounded on all sides by a high wall, also of stone. It was the pride of the owner, Miss Gwynne.
One night, in the early spring of the year, there was to be a wedding at Cod-y-Glyn—a wedding in humble life, but anticipated with great glee by the invited guests, among whom were Miss Gwynne's servants, the coachman and his wife (who was also cook) and Ylva, their daughter, employed as a maid-of-all-work.
Knowing the disappointment it would be to them if they were denied the pleasure of attending the wedding, she had declined the coachman's offer to remain with her, allowing his wife and daughter to go, and laughingly assured him that with her father's gun for company she feared nothing.
Miss Gwynne retired at an early hour, having locked up the house.
She lay for some time gazing through the window at the twinkling stars, lost in quiet retrospection.
I will let Miss Gwynne tell the rest of the story in her own way, repeating as well as I can from memory the words as I heard them from her lips ten years ago.