Welshman, with the hot blood of Caedmon in
my veins. I couldn't bear this, indeed; so I stood outside and cried,
at the top of my voice, "Rhoda--Rhoda Howell, I, Hugh Anwyl, beg and
pray you to come and wish me a farewell! Rhoda, answer me, for I am
going away!"

Silence! She would have come out, indeed, but was prevented. That I
heard afterward. So I left--I'm not ashamed to own the truth--with the
tears a-streaming down my cheeks and my heart breaking. I could have
gone straight and drownded myself, I was so distraught. Presently I
felt a finger on my sleeve.

"Hugh!" whispers a soft voice, "I'm downright grieved for you."

It was Gwen Thomas.

I didn't answer, mates--for why? Because I couldn't; my eyes was
leaking, and my timbers all of a shiver, and I seemed without so much as
a helm. But I suffered her to lead me into the back room of old
Thomas's cottage, not knowing for what port I was being steered. Then I
sat down, and she clasped my hand quite tender.

"Hugh Anwyl," she says, "whatever I am--and I know I'm not as
good-looking as others--I'm a true, sincere friend. Being so, I tell
ye, I am grieved to see ye thus wrecked within sight of land."

I couldn't talk to her; but, after a bit, she got me calmed down, and I
quite felt as if I must try to please her--in a sort of a tame-cat
fashion.

At last, she says, quite as if the thought had come into her false head
accidental indeed, "Write Rhoda a letter, and I'll promise you she shall
have it safe. I'll give it her myself."

I was that excited, I took the girl in my arms and embraced her. Then I
sat down and I wrote to Rhoda, telling her the whole tale, and how, for
her sake, I was going to risk my life on a whaling expedition; and
praying her to keep single for me till I came back again with money in
my hand so as to buy the consent of her father.

When I done that, my lads, I gave it, sealed careful, to Gwen Thomas;
and, kissing the girl, who cried, as I thought, uncommon unaccountably,
I lurched forth, and turned my back upon Glanwern.

Here I ought to pull up and rest a bit, for there's what you may call a
break in my yarn. I was far away from the girl I loved, toiling, as we
mariners only toil, for the cursed gold which should make two miserable
souls happy.

To cut my story short, however, I was gone, as near as may be, twelve
months. Our first venture failed. We met with nothing but bad luck,
and ran into Aberdeen harbour as