young gentlemen down below, there, in England, or over in foreign parts, that you could fancy-If I was but a furriner, miss-"

Whether the miller would have arrived at another proposal, or whether Clare would have accepted him, can never, now, be known, as his loquacity was cut short by their arrival in the little village of Craigyvellyn.

Clare went about from one house to another delivering her various messages; seeing one or two sick people, and making herself very much at home with every body, until she arrived at the door of the inn. The miller, who had been following her about at a respectful distance, here came up to her, and contrasted well with a portly little landlady, who stood at the door dressed in Welsh costume.

to speak to Mrs. Jones,

who, like most hostesses,

Clare stopped

"Golden Lion,"

had plenty to

say, and who indulged herself by entertaining Clare with the history of her

astonishment, when she found that the young lady who brought Miss Llewellen home in the chariot, and "put up at the Golden Lion," turned out to be Mrs. Llewellen's own daughter. Meanwhile, Clare was much interested in a little curly-headed, rosy cheeked urchin, who had separated himself from a group of children that were at play near the inn, and was timidly touching, with the tip of one finger, the fringe of her parasol. She sat down upon the stone seat just underneath the flaming yellow lion-the only thing 'golden' about the place and listened to the child's expressions of wonder, which, being in Welsh, she vainly tried to understand, but which were duly translated by Mrs. Jones. At last she opened the parasol, and gave it to the half-naked, dimpled child, who strutted about with it proudly, to the admiration of the other children, who looked on jealously. One little, delicate girl, gaining courage by seeing the success of her bolder companion, crept up to Clare's

side, and looked up into her face; after which, she offered her a somewhat suspiciouslooking cake that she held in her hand. Clare smothed her tolerably-well-brushed hair, but declined the cake, at which the miller's fat sides shook with an internal chuckle.

The scene is a pretty one. The little picturesque, scattered village, built on the sea-shore, with here and there a straggling tree in the back ground; rocks on the right, and mountainous hills, sprinkled with sheep behind. Clare and her group of children, the miller, the landlady, and a few straggling women, who have joined them, in the foreground; and fishermen mending their nets by the side of their boats, on the sea-shore to the left. Suddenly there appears a large party of cockle-women, winding irregularly beneath the rocks, and approaching the village across the sands. At this distance they look strangely picturesque, with their bare feet, short petticoats, and jackets, and broad-brimmed,

flat hats. Upon their heads they bear, not ungracefully, their large baskets, filled with the fruits of their hard labours; and beside most of them walk the patient donkeys, also laden with paniers and baskets of cockles, or, perchance, with some weary child, whose mother thinks more of his legs than those of the poor beast. Other children trot merrily along by the side of their parents, holding fast by the end of the jackets; whilst here and there a dog, who has been the companion of their toils, leads the way homewards. Few know how hard those poor women have been labouring for hours. Up to their knees in sand, they have been scraping up, with their hooked knives, the hard shellfish that adhere so pertinaciously to their beds, that you would think they knew the fate that awaited them. And small are their gains, half a sack full of cockles yielding them, perchance, sixpence.

Onwards they come, two or three dozen of them, some in pairs, some straggling

alone, others by their donkeys, others with their children, looking more like foreigners than other race of people I ever saw. The broad afternoon sun shines full upon them --the blue distant mountains are at their backs; the rocks on one side, and the sea, flowing up to their feet, on the other: whilst the little mud-walled village in which they dwell, and where their moderate hopes are centered, lies before them. Nearer they come, and we can hear their merry voices, as they talk and laugh together, and we wonder how they manage to be so happy, clothed so scantily, fed so poorly, and housed so humbly as they are. Blessed is the truth, that happiness dwells just as contentedly with the peasant as the monarch. I will not say more contentedly because she is as willing to take up her abode with the one as with the other. By degrees the bare feet approach the village -the women curtsey and smile at Clare as they pass, who returns their recognition pleasantly--the children glance with amaze