The thrill of natural pride which such recognition of my physical powers would otherwise have given me was quelled by a something in the tone in which she spoke.

‘And he is powerful in every way,’ she went on, as if talking to herself.  ’He is a great rich Englishman to whom (as auntie was never tired of saying) that childish betrothal must needs seem a dream—­a quaint and pretty dream.’

’And so your aunt said that, Winnie.  How far from the truth she was you see to-night.’

’Yes, she thought you would forget all about me; and yet she could not have felt quite confident about it, for she made me promise that if you should not forget me—­if you should ever ask me what you have just asked—­she made me promise—­’

’What, Winnie? what?  She did not make promise that you would refuse me?’

‘That is what she asked me to promise.’

‘But you did not.’

‘I did not.’

’No, no! you did not, Winnie.  My darling refused to make any such cruel, monstrous promise as that.’

’But I promised her that I would in such an event wait a year—­at least a year—­before betrothing myself to you.’

’Shame! shame!  What made her do this cruel thing?  A year! wait for a year!’

’She brought forward many reasons, Henry, but upon two of them she was constantly dwelling.’

‘And what were these?’

’Well, the news of the death of your brother Frank of course reached us in Shire-Carnarvon, and how well I remember hearing my aunt say, “Henry Aylwin will be one of the wealthiest landowners in England.”  And I remember how my heart sank at her words, for I was always thinking of the dear little lame boy with the language of suffering in his eyes and the deep music of sorrow in his voice.’

‘Your heart sank, Winnie, and why?’

’I felt as if a breath of icy air had blown between us, dividing us for ever.  And then my aunt began to talk about you and your future.’

After some trouble I persuaded Winnie to tell me what was the homily that this aunt of hers preached a propos of Frank’s death.  And as she talked I could not help observing what, as a child, I had only observed in a dim, semi-conscious way—­a strange kind of double personality in Winnie.  At one moment she seemed to me nothing but the dancing fairy of the sands, objective and unconscious as a young animal playing to itself, at another she seemed the mouthpiece of the narrow world-wisdom of this Welsh aunt.  No sooner had she spoken of herself as a friendless, homeless girl, than her brow began to shine with the pride of the Cymry.

‘My aunt,’ said she, ’used to tell me that until disaster came upon my uncle, and they were reduced to living upon a very narrow income, he and she never really knew what love was—­they never really knew how rich their hearts were in the capacity of loving.’

‘Ah, I thought so,’ I said bitterly.  ’I thought the text was,