As to her indifference towards me,—­that is easily explained.  I was an incorrigible little bohemian by nature.  She despaired of ever changing me.  During several years this indifference distressed me, though it in no way diminished my affection for her.  At last, however, I got accustomed to it and accepted it as inevitable.  But the remarkable thing was that Frank’s affection for his mother was of the most languid kind.  He was an open-hearted boy, and never took advantage of my mother’s favouritism.  Thus I was left entirely to my own resources.  My little love-idyl with Winifred was for a long time unknown to my mother, and no amount of ocular demonstration could have made it known (in such a dream was he) to my father.

On one occasion, however, my mother, having been struck by her beauty at church, told Wynne to bring her to the house, little thinking what she was doing.  Accordingly, Winifred came one evening and charmed my mother, charmed the entire household, by her grace of manner.  My mother, upon whom what she called ‘style’ made a far greater impression than anything else, pronounced her to be a perfect little lady, and I heard her remark that she wondered how the child of such a scapegrace as Wynne could have been so reared.

Unfortunately I was not old enough to disguise the transports of delight that set my heart beating and my crippled limbs trembling as I saw Winifred gliding like a fairy about the house and gardens, and petted even by my proud and awful mother.  My mother did not fail to notice this, and before long she had got from Frank the history of our little loves, and even of the ‘cripple water’ from St. Winifred’s Well.  I partly heard what Frank was telling her, and I was the only one to notice the expression of displeasure that overspread her features.  She did not, however, show it to the child, but she never invited her there again, and from that evening was much more vigilant over my movements, lest I should go to Wynne’s cottage.  I still, however, continued to meet Winifred in Graylingham Wood during her stay with her father; and at last, when she again left me, I felt desolate indeed.

I wrote her a letter, and took it to him to address.  He was very fond of showing his penmanship, which was remarkably good.  He had indeed been well educated, though from his beer-house associations he had entirely caught the rustic accent.  I saw him address it, and took it myself to the post-office at Rington, where I was not so well known as at Raxton, but I never got any reply.

And who was Tom Wynne?  Though the organist of the new church at Raxton, and custodian of the old deserted church on the cliffs, he was the local ne’er-do-well, drunkard, and scapegrace.  He was, however, a well-connected man, reduced to his present position by drink.  He had lived in Raxton until he returned to Wales, which was his birthplace—­having obtained there some appointment the nature of which I never could understand.  In Wales he had got married; and there his wife had died shortly after the birth of Winnie.  It was no doubt through his intemperate habits that he lost his post in Wales.  It was then that he again came to Raxton, leaving the child with his sister-in-law.