The Cardiff Times

.c — ^=—— ■ ..v Vf--w I3-ywjllia7n c Queux .r < Synods of Previous Chapters, CHAPTERS I. & II.—Gerard Granville Ckxegh,, iamJiliap}y known as "Granny," com- iplams to l^ls friend, Phil Ralston. that he has jbeen, swindled by a man named Garshore. Gough had been on the point of securing a ■ valuable.concession in connection with some oil wells in Roumania. Garshore, taking an unfair Advantage of some inLormatiou jGough had given him, steps in and •secures the. concession over the latter's head. A lady friend of the Minister Soutzo's C—by name Lydia Popescu, had been bribed by i ^Craisbore to help him in the matter. Ralston ijinduces Goagh to accompany him back to jLortdon. Granny tells his friend that he is '^secretly engaged to Miss Myra Stapleton. but i that he is now too poor-to marry her. Ralston and: G()Ugft are at the Hotel Cecil when they J.see Ga^shoro and-Lydia Popescu driving away Ltogether in a hansom. On parting Gough tells JEtalstcjn that he may be leaving town, bat will /Kprire his address. Next morning Ralston sees i; startling headline in'the papers. He rushes ito the Cecil to find that Granny's bed has not *-been slept in. k CHAPTERS III & IV.—Ralston asks the tliotel porter the address which Garshore gave .'to the cabman on the previous night, and is .'told 127a, Redcliffe Gardens, West Brompton also that Gough had' made similar inquiries. The morning newspapers all contain an account of a mysterious tragedy of the height at Redcliffe Gardens. A handsome woman of foreign appearance had been ^murdered, evidently after a desperate Struggle. Ralston learns that Garshore, as well as Gough, has left town that morning. He ■Jit once concludes that the dead woman is iLydia Popescu. Going to see his journalistic friend, George Cunliffe, he finds him engaged <on the case, and accompanies him to Red- jCliffe. Gardens. Ralston learns that no mark %as been found *n the body to indicate the cause of death, nor can the police assign any .motive for the crime. He is told that the maid who-had rented the house on the previous day As missing, and the police are trying to trace /her. An old Italian- poignard which Ralston recognises as his own is found in the room. He attributes its presence to Gough. Lifting up the sheet from the dead woman's face he is amaeed to find that it is not that of Lydia Po- vpeseu. CHAPTERS V. & VL—It transpires that the front door of the house in Redcliffe Gar- Idens had been löúDd: open after the. crime, j«l)ut as there is-some possibility of the woman I having died a natural death,secrecy is enjoined on Cunliffe. That same afternoon Gough turns up at Ralston's chambers- Granny tells his i.triend that a banker wishes him to go over to ^.America on business, but that although he is 'practically pehhiless, he does not feel equal to ■'the task. He goes on to speak of the money he 'has made and: lost, but. tells RAlston that he has provided for his adopted daughter Gertie, whóm he loVefe almh^t as much as' his fiancee, MyraSt-apleton. Ralston asks Gough if the woman they saw leaving the Cecil with Gar- sehore was Lydia Popeseue. Granny asks why •.Ralston should doubt Mm, and asks him never 'to repeat what-h6 has said about her. CHAPTERS VII. A; VIII Ralston believes that Gough is keeping something back from k him,'hut respects the other's evident wish not to discuss the subject further. Next morning ^Ralston hears of the illness of a favourite aunt .and goes down to visit her at Worthing. He )mee £ » a cosmopolitan gentleman in the train, who Introduces himself as Charles Grinfield. The latter is his- companion on the return journey also. and" Ralston taxes the stranger with following him to Worthing. His com- panion suavely admits it, and also that Grin. field is not his real name, but Tom Winch. He goes on to say that he is a friend of Granny Gough's, but -that unless the latter leaves Lonqo[L at once he wilfbe,eompel1ed to betray" him. to the police, who seek to arrest him (Goughj on a charge of murder.. By means of a bogus telegram-Which has arranged for -Granny to meet Ralston at an hotel hear the Crystal Palace. CHAPTER IX. A Few Plain Qutsllons. What the stranger told me served only to tonfirm my suspicion of Granny's guilt he would require nwmey. I would pot miajodgohim. No. He was my friend, *Snro T w»,nlri help him 00 get free. The "Btrsjagei- wis his iriend also, and for some mysterious fftuson had warned us both of the Imminent catastrophe which threatened. To obtain money I must first drive to my fooms, before going down to the Crystal palace. I told the stranger this, and begged him to be more exptMit. But he only smiled, replying, I cannot tell you any more, Mr Ralston. I've mertety tried to repay a kind action which Branny Gough once performed for-me. Only be careful. The police know that-you and he Are friends, and may follow you. Therefore, take every precaution." The train had drawn up at Victoria, and raising his hat with the habit of one long resi- dent abroad he wished me "Adieu," and dis- appeared. I drove in hot hasta to fit. Martin's Lane, obtained all the ready cash I had, and then v suddenly recollecting, 1 went to Dane's Inn, where my friend, George Cunliffe, had his chambers. I wanted to hear momhini what. discoveries had been made during the day. I rang the bell, and in a few moments he opened the heavy door. The journalist's rooms were rather dismal apartments, the front win- dow overlooking a dingy paved courtyard, and the back abutting on to a shun. The Inn was not at all a desirable place for residence, but, being central, most of its denizens were jour- naKstsrwhose duties kept them up till the early houra; actors, solicitors., and also one or two men about town. George's sitting room was a rather large old- fashipned one, with dark oak panelling and an Adams ceiling, for those houses had been in the Georgian days quite fashionable residences. The fireplace was of smoke-stained marble of light design in keeping with the ceiling, but the carpet was threadbare, the bookcase dingy, andundusted, and the furniture shabby, while over the whole place hong a pall of smoke from a particularly strong pipe. Cunliffe was still in his old coat and slip- pers. Sit downy old boy," he cried cheerily, pull. ing forward a big armchair from which the stuffing- poked forth obtrusively. "So glad you've come in. I was up all last night at the office. Got in at seven, and had three hours' snooze. Been busy all day, and I'm going down to the office, again presently." That's just why I called," I said. X dent see much in the papers about it this even- ing." Oficoarae not. You remember Morton's wishes. The least pubjbshed-aboofc.it at present the better." Why T", ftecaujSft the'mystify seema to increase-It's greater than we at first believed." How's that T" I asked quickly. Morton and his men have been "very busy night and day upon it, and they've discovered one or two facts which, in themselves, show an extraordinary situation." Tell me about them; George. rm most in- te^Bted," I said. Well, I Was with them all day yesterday, indeed until nearly midnight," Cunliffe said. "I saw the doctors iminediatetythey had made the post-mortem." And what did tbcyfind ?" 'J They established that it was dearly a case of murder. But it was murder under most un- usual, add, indeed, 'almost' unheard of circum- stances." In what way ?** The woman died of some means, the exact nature of whish they have not yet been able to determine. The Home Office analyst is atwork, To-night, or tonteoiTow, he will give his certi- ficated' '*But it might surely have been suicide ?" j "No. The medical men have pronounced against such a theory. There wa» the struggle. Besides, why should the front door have been left opera ? The assassin escaped,a«d was afraid to ctose ttoie door, after him." Perhaps it was some ttfrasctal poison," I hazarded. 'f I hardly think that. Treberne, the police divfeidnal surgeoii, is a frieod- of mine, and assisted at the examination. He pronounced against the poison theory, and says it's one of the-queerest cases in all his experience. The poor woman died swiftly, that is certain. But they could discover no natural cause. In fact, it is a complete mystery." She might have died a. natural death, and someone in the house, alarmed at her collapse, and fearing to be mixed up with an unpleasant affair, may have fled." Such things have, of course, occurred. But in this case there are certain features which entirely negative that idea. The secrecy in which the house was rented, for instance, shows a distinct intention of foul play," my friend declared. Is the poison theory entirely negatived ?** I asked. Few of the most expert analysts in.Lo»don are at this moment at work upon it," he said. Up to the present, however, they've failed to identify any poison known to toxicologists. Their report will, no doubt, be intensely inter- esting." — Then why are the -police so very cock-snro that it is a aase of murder. If it was not poison there must be some wound." They haven't discovered any," he replied, seated at his writing table, with his chair tilted back. That's the most curious point about it. But if there is no wound might it not yet be suicide ?" "The medi^al-^mferni^n^attrp^thr.t theory, as -I've already told you. No poison has been found in the slorn/vih- If it had—to some, suicide-might be the explanation," he said. •• I tell you Philr" he went ,on," the ease is a most amazing one in every respect. The mys- 5 J terious arrival of the lady in London, the tak- ing of the furnished house by the maid, and the sudden disappearance of the latter, are all matters which the police are trying to clear | up." I That maid, whoever she is, knows some- ithing about it," I suggested. My opinion, exactly." Is there any suspicion of a man in the case ?" I inquired, not without trepidation. case ?" I inquired, not without trepidation. At present, none—at least, as far as I've gathered," was his answer. But it seems that two servants were engaged -by the maid through a registry office in theBrompton Road. They turned up at the house yesterday after. noon to commence their duties, and found their new mistress—whom they'd never seen- dead, and the place in the possession of the police." Rather a shock for them—eh ? Did they see the maid ?" No. It was all by correspondence. The maid signed herself Marie Lebas, and gave the address in Redcliffe Gardens." The police are in search of her, I sup- pose T" Yes. And they hope to find her." The engagement of servants does not ap- pear as though death was anticipated," I re- marked. If the maid were guilty she would hardly have sent for them." She might have done seas ablind. One can never tell. Both women were evidently for- eigners, and in all probability a foreigner was the assassin." Well," I said, what is your candid opin- ion upon the whole affair ? You've been with Morton all day yesterday, so you are the most competent to form a theory." Theory," he echoed; I have no theory. The case is a mystery absolutely complete up to the present. The people over at Scotland Yard are puzzled because of certain features that are so unusual." Then they've made some discoveries," I exclaimed breathlessly. Well, yes," my friend replied. You re- collect that old Italian knife they found in the drawing-room. You were there at the time. Well, the house agent has produced the inven- tory of all the things, and that knife isn't in the list. They are waiting for the arrival of the landlady from the North,but as the inven- tory was made only a ago, chere seems no question that the knite—a very service- able weapon, by the vvay-was left behind by the assassin." But who was the assassin T" Aye, that's the question, my dear boy," laughed my friend, sticking his hands deeply Tnto his trousers pockets. At present they haven't the slightest clue. They are seeking among the cabmen for information as to any- one having been driven to the house on the night in question: Such an inquiry takes time, of course, but if anybody did drive there-or if the lady drove there-they will know. Mor- ton isn't asleep over this—you bet." I bit my lip. That police request would sui ely lead to inquiries at the Cecil. Morton would know that a lady called at the hotel for Ralph Garshore, and that the pair drove out to Redcliffe Gardens. Butr that was early in the evening, while the crime was not believed to have been committed prior to midnighl. In this I saw a discrepancy. In that dis- crepancy I realised that the man who hated Garshore and the fair Lydia with equal fierce- ness filled the breach. He could, after leaving me, have easily gone out to Redcliffe Gardens by appointment,have been admitted in silence, r so as not to awaken the fathful maid, Marie f Lebas, and left again without closing the front door. I knew that Granny Gough was revenge- ful. It was his nature. He was a good fellow -one of the very best. But, like all men of great intelligence, he was impetuous and never forgot an injury. He hated that woman, Lvdia Popescue, and had cause for his antagonism, having in view that her double-dealing had meant to him the loss of the sweet-faced girl he loved. I sat there in that silent, shabby room, so near the bustle of the Strand, and yet so far from the London turmoil, speechless in won- derment. My senses were paralysed by that sudden and most mysterious tragedy in which I had become so intimately implicated as to be almost an accessory after the fact. I had formed a theory, it was true and I recollected the warning 9f the stranger who Ila e had followed me; to Wprthing. That theory "v^ould have a sound one" if not fat thV astounding fact thati "the unknown womanwbo hatd died by meatas that puzzled the doctors, was not Lydia Popescu. °'r Who, therefore, was she? CHAPTER X. Shows the Peril of Grarmy Gough. About haif-pastfften o'clock I arrived at the Crystal Palace (High Level) Station, and in- quiring the way to the Queen's Hotel, skirted the front of the Palace as I walked in the direction of Granny's hiding-place. The night was bright and star-lit and few people were about, for in that rather gentle and salubrious suburb of London people retire early. Only in the neighbourhood of the public houses is there any life after ten, the roads, many of which still retain their semi-rural aspect, being quiet and deserted, Upper Sydenham, Lawrie Park, and Weston Hill are districts much frequented oh summer evenings by London"lovers,andonwinternights a.re a favourite hunting-ground for the enter- prising burglar. Most of the houses are de- tached, standing back from the road in their own garden, and hidden from the vulgar gaze by wooden fences. Often, too, big trees grow in the old-fashioned grounds, now-a-days, alas, grimy with the smoke of the fast-encroaching metropolis. metropolis. Sudd,enly,as I walked, it occurred to me that Gough would not have given his right name at the hotel therefore, I could not inquire for him. This thought caused me to hesitate. I had no baggage with me, otherwise I might take a room for the night, and meet him cas- ually in the smoking-room. Almostiat that moment, however, I heard a Ight footstep on the gravel behind me, and, a voice exclaimed— Phil." Turning quickly, I found Granny himself My dear fellow," he exclaimed, stretching out his hand in the darkness, I've been waiting about for you ever since half-past ei^ht. Tell me, what did you mean by your Wire this morning ? What has happened ? Let us walk this way—it's quieter." And he turned on his heel, causing me to retrace my steps. Is the poison theory entirely negatived I" -I asked. I hardly know what's happened, Granny— except that there, seems to be—we!I, there's a warrant out for your arrest." "A—a warrant," he gasped in a, strange voice. Why-how do you know that ?*' rve been told," wa,smy answer. I didn't send you that warning this morning." But it was signed by you. You told me to leave at once, come down here, and wait till you joined me to-night." I toaow. But it was a-stranwr-a stranger who says he is your friend—who sent it." What's his name "He gave a false one—the name of Qrinfield. But he afterwards admitted .that he lied to me." What was he like ? Describe him. TeU me all, Phil," urged the big, burly man in dark tweeds and soft grey hat, as he strode at my side along the facade "of the Cryst al Palace to- wards Sydenham. My experience to-day, my dear fellow, has been a most unusual Otoe," I said. The police are in active search of you." Yes," he groaned. I expected as much, Phil," he said. But you are my friend, aren't you ?" he went on hoarsely. I know you are or you wouldn't bo down here." I am your friend, Granny, and I'll remain so," I said. But I think that you should be open and frank with me. Tell me, why are the police looking for you ?" "No—no, by heaven. Phil," he, cried, "I can't tell you tlv^t- Don't ask me. Ah, old chap, you don't know the torture I'm suffering -you don't know- And he broke off suddenly. I saw by the un- certain light of the street lamp that his clean- shaven face bore a haunted look. Eis eyes were sot and staring, as though he foresaw ruin and disgrace before him. Ah no he went on, .in t&e same hoarse. JL • — hmjw m tone. "For myself what do I care, even though the police find me. But I care for little Gertie -and for Myra, my beloved. She must never know this, Phil. Promise me to keep it from her-if the worst happens." The worst ? .What do you mean ?" Bah you know. I'm not afraid to die. 'm no coward." I know that, Granny," I said, as quietly as I I could. I knew to -what he referred. He in tended to die by his own hand, rather than suffer the indignity of arrest. That guilt was upon him was only too apparent. And yet the dead woman was certainly not Lydia Popescu. Again I urged him to make a clean breast -of the whole affair, saying, You can surely trust me, old fellow. 1 am your friend/' I know, Phil, my future is in your hands entirely. You could deliver me over to this constable coming along if you so wished. I .admit that, but yet I must refuse to tell you anything," he said. Take pity upon me, and refrain from asking any questions. I am suffer- ing enough." I saw the appealing look in my friend's eyes as we left the Parade and crossed the road into that silent and eminently respectable thorough- fare Sydenham Hill, where all the houses are large, and all stand in their own grounds. You have promised to remain my friend, Phil," he added. And T know you will remain so until—until my death.' You are too gloomy," I declared. Cheer up and let's put our wits together to get you safely away somewhere. The police, by this time, have probably received from the post- office a copy of the telegram bearing my name. If they have there are detectives down in this neighbourhood." How can I escape when I've no money ?" he asked. I've two and threepence and an eighteen shilling watch," he laughed, some of his old humour returning to him. I recollected that," I said, I've brought you fifty pounds. Here they are," and I placed five ten pound notes in his hand. For a few moments he said nothing. He was overcome with emotion. Phil," he managed to exclaim at last, "you're a real friend," and he gripped my hand warmly. That's all right," I said. "But the question is how are you going to get away ?' You know this place better than I do. Where had I better go ?" I compartment to inme. I You mustn't attempt to get away abroad or you'll be certainly taken," I said., '4 My ewn opinion is that if you went down to some quiet spot in the country it would be safest. To return to London would be fatal." I've left all my kit at the Cecil, he saidl Abandon iti That's the only course." I owe them a bill," he-declared, for all his liabilities lie was always moat- ea-retui to dis- charge, even though be might be an adven- turer. You can send it to them by post," I sug- gested. Have you seen or heard anything more of Garshbre ?" No," he snapped quickly. IT don't want to see or hear of that thief again. He doesn't in- terest me any more. Or Lydia Popescu 1" He was silent, and I watched furtively the strange expression that overspread his fea- tures. Phil," he said at last in a low whisper, please never mention that cursed woman's name again to me. Promise me, will you ?" he asked earnestly. If jrou wish, my dear fellow, I said, readily. Then as we walked down Sydenham Hill, where there was not a single footfall in the darkness save those of ourserved, he asked me to describe tn dfetail the stranger who h&d fol- lowed me to Worthing, and what had occurred between us. This I did,when after hearing me in silence he asked :— And did not this man give you his real name ?" He told me to tell you that Tom Winch was here, in Jin gland, to betray you." Tom Winch," he cried. Are you sure you've made no mistake ?" Quite. Why ?" Tom Winch would never betray me. He's a friend to me-as you are. There's some mis- take." No, there's not, because Winch was the man who previously, gave me his name as, Grinfield." The nan you met." The same. I am sure it [was he who sent you the wire this morning. He gave you warning although be is supposed to be assist- ing the police to identify you." Then, by Jove he's a real brick cried Granny, and he handed me a cigar and took one himself. You did him a good turn once, and he re- members it." Oh, that was nothing. He was in trouble in Vienna, and I got him out of it by a bit of sharp practice. That's long ago. I thought he'd forgotten it." Then he's a crook—eh ?" Of course," laughed my friend: Used to work the boats between Liverpool and New York till the game grew too warm. After that he took to handling sparklers, and he and his friends handled them to the tune of a good many thousands. They got the Duchess of Montalto's jewels from the villa at Beaulieu about eighteen months ago. You recollect the fuss. Old Jacobsen in the Kerk Straat in Am- sterdam, had them, and their late owner Wouldn't know them now-you bet. Six of them divided up twenty-two thousand pounds over that little affair. They have a flat in the Rue Lafayette in Paris—or at least they had six months ago. I've stayed there when I've been hard up. The men are all Englishmen. One of them is Jalland, who came out of Portland two years ago, after doing a stretch for the Castleton forgery." A nice litile company, I should fancy." Yes. A pretty tough crowd—all of them linguists, and all experts in their particular departments. Then why is Winch over here to identify you 7" I That's the confounded I mystery of it. Looks as though he'd turned nark,' but yet I know him far too well for that. He's still a friend, or he wouldn't have sent that wire. I cleared out at once, of course, not knowing what had happened." And you must clear out still further afield. Granny—and to night." I'm entirely in youf hands," he said, but I beg of you to do me one favour. When we part now we—well, we might not meet again. you know. If not, promise me you will never let little Gertie know the truth, nor Myra either. I'll die game, and I'll die honourably if you will not give me away." I shall never do that, Granny," I said, and again his hand sought mine and gripped it in grateful acknowledgment as a lump arose in his throat. We had arrived near the bottom of Sydenham Hill, where the light of Lordship Lane Station showed below us, and were deep in discussion as to whether he should go into hiding. He wished to be near London, and in touch with myself, but I dissented. I urged him to go into the heart of the country, wear gold-rimmed spectacles, and lead a quiet, studious life, which would put people'off the scent. It would be a rest from the strenuous existence he led. Suddenly, as we were in earnest conversa- tion, my ear caught the sound of a footstep behind us, and I turned sharply, to catch sight of a rather tall man in a thin dark overcoat and bowler hat, passing beneath the street lamp. In an instant I recognised him. He had travelled from Ludgate Hill in the next com- part to mine. My heart fell. That man had been following us ever since?* we met! (To be Continued.)

Y GOLOFN GYMREIG Dymunfr j'n gohebwyr Cymreig gyfeirio eu gohebiaethau, llyfrau i'w hadolygu, etc., fel y canlyn:—" Ifano, Cii Hedd, Berthwin- street, Cardiff."

AT Y BEtRDD. Dau englyn da yw'r eiddo J. L. Jenkins, yn neilltuol yr un i Wrid." Rhagorol, ag eithrro aw,bell, i gymal a llinell sy'n dwyn 01 yr ymdrech bur Iwyddiannus am odlau dyblon, yw'r delyaeg, "Ar Lan y M6r." Dengys rhai o'r penillion gynnydd amlwg mewn mynegiant. GaB" Talceq Slip anturio canu eto ac eto yn y srynghanedd y mae'n amlwg ei fod wedi cael y trechaf ami, er fod ganddo frwydrau eto i'W hymladd ilhicyn ei llwyr I orchfygu. Gadawyd allan ddau o'r cnglynion i'r Gath," am nad oeddynt gystal ag y dy, munid iddynt fod. Gwael fel syhwyr yw Ar gyw mae ei hklfen." Wrth gwrs, ei bryd a olygir. Esgyll yr englyn arall a'i cadwodd o'r Golofn, am fod torr mesur ynddynt—y gyntaf yn wysiU a'r ail yn seisill,- „ Try'i chefn i'r gwres i'w gynhesu, Fel arwydd o dywydd du." A llinell drosgl ydyw'r gyntaf, ar wahan i hynny. Wed'yn, mae lleddf a thalgron yn yr ail-" dyWYdd yn ateb arwydd." Amheuthyn i'r darllenwyr, yn sicr, yw emyn melodxis ac esmwyth yr efengylydd mwyn o Gaerdydd. Gyda Haw, pnid naturiol disgwyl emynnau o'r iawn ryw fel hwn o galon ac enaid fel yr eiddo ef ? Penillion gwir dda eto yw rhai Gweledydd i'r "Aelwyd." Cedwir can Cynlais Terri i'r Rhew erbyn y gaeai. Diolch am dani. Mae gwaith Dewi Aur, Teifi, Asaph Glyn Ebwy, a Chrwnfab, mewn Haw hefyd, ac yn aros eu tro. Yr wythnos hon, fe wel y beirdd ieaainc yn y Golofn y cyntaf o gyfres o ddarjiau o waith beirdd oes aur lien Cymru—y bedwaredd gan- rif ar ddeg a'r bymthegfed—a fwriedir eu cy- hoeddi o bryd i'r gilydd er eu budd, a gobeith- ir ereu bodd..

TRASERCH Y BARDD AM FORFUDD. CAN DDAFYDD AP GWILYM. Mawr yw cadr daear, mawr yw coedydd—byd, Mawr yw bod yn gelfydd; Mawr iawn yw dyfndec Mor Udd, Mwy yw f'erfyn am Forfudd. Tawaf tra tawyf tywyn gwmpas—haxA, Hael Forfudd gyweithas Ni wyr Duw i'th deuluwas Aur draw ond wylaw glaw giâs I Ni pheidiaf a Morfudd, hoff adain,—serchog, Pe's archai Pab Rhufain; Hoyw wawl ddcurudd haul ddwyrain, Oni ddel y mel i)'1' main.,

PENTECOST. Gwyl o lawnder Ner i ni,—a'i gariad Rhagorol yn to nil i; Sel yr esgyniad, rhad Rhi, I'r enaid wna'i goronL Y nysforgan. I, J. L. Jenkims.

GWRIP. Hanes calon mewn cyni—ydyw gwrid, „ Geir rr wen yn torri, Rhyw si dyner sy dani. Her i iajth ei churo hj. Ynysf organ. J. L. Jenkins.

Y GLASWELLT. Enynnol lawrlen anian,—ir a gtwjs Ydyw'r glaswellt egwan; Aelwyd y myi-dd, flodau into A drwsiedir a sida.,n.. v V Llygad T Dydd.

Y GATH. Y gatb enwog, ddi-ddiogi-llygod Hyll, hagar wna'i hofni: A'r llefnwisg lân sy am dani Dry'n arw gleg pany gwelo gi. Un od, hynod, ei hanesi—un eto o natur y deigres, A'i man ddannedd,—rjrfedd r&s,— Yn angert llygod-fyiiges. Un flewog, fraf, ga'i dyrehatu,—enwog Ag anwyl mewn teulu; o flaen y tan mae'n canu; Un heb ei bath yw'r gath gu. Un bedeirtro'd hynod heini'—yw'r gath, A'r gall yn mawr hofli Pob llygoden, a ï helfen hi, 0 natur, yw neidto ati. ( TakebSl^.

B YD15 MI. (Emyn.) i Tydi a geisiaf, 0 fy Nuw, Yn nerth i fyw bob a.wr Ar hydy da.ith, trwy'r anial maitti, I fyny ac i lawr. Na ad fi pan f'wyf yn y glyn, Nac ar y bryn ychwaith: Mae'th eisieu i fyny fel i lawr, Ar bob rhyw a.wr o'm taith. Pan ar y bryn, fy mherygl fydd Rhyw dynnu'n rhydd o'th law, Gan f»n'd yn benrhydd yn y gwynt, A cliael oer hynt rhagllaw. Ac yn y glyn, ar gyfyng awr, Y perygl mawr i mi Fydtl colli'r dydd trwy wendid ffydd Os nå. chai'th wyneb Di. 0 bydd gerllaw, a chedwir draw Bob briw a brawo'm bron, A'th wasanaethu gaf bob pryd Yn byfryd ac yn Hon. (Y Parch.) Charles Davies. Y Tabernacl, Caerdydd.

YR AELWYD. (Buddugol ym Mhenyparc, Mai 1,1907.) Aelwyd hoft! mae swyn ei henw Yn enynnu'r mwynaf dant Sydd yn nhelyn fach a chroew Calon gynnEs,un o'i phlant'; Gysegredig orsedd cartref, Lie teyrnasa serch a hedd, Gyda'i deiliaid oil mewn tangnef Yn mwynhau ei breiniol wiedd. Gardd y teulu ydyw'r aelwyd, o dan driniaethcari.a.d pur; Tyf rhosynnau dan ei chronglwyd, A lmau. fer pob cur: Ond nid ydyw Eden cariad Heb feiltithiol chwyn a drain;: Ao ar lwybrau ei datblygiad Gwelir Abel," gwelir "Cain". Semi athrofa'r doetti rieni Ydyw'r aelwyd yn y byd, v.. I oleuo a hyfforddi Y mhob rhin a moes D hyd; Pen v ffordd yw hon i'r bywyd Sydd yn arwaiin dyn trwy'i oes; ■ Ac mae adfyd, ing, a gwynfyd, A'u hysgwyddau dan ei chroes. Ffrwythlawn aelwyd Etifeddiaeth Cysur a Uawenydd yw; Gwasanaethferch y ddynollaeth, Egyr ddeffroadau byw; Gwrando swn curiadau'i chalon Mae pob cenedl dan y nen, Gwisga hithau brydferth goron Hedd ac undeb ar ei phen. Abercraf. Clweiedydd.

AR LAN Y MOR. Pur lawenydd leinw'r galon Nawnddydd mwYtJ. ac lan ymôr; Fry pob gofid a threialon, Cilia dwvsder pob gofalon, Yn y swyn sydd ger ei ddor. O! mor iachas yw'r a,welon Chwyth yn lion dros felyn draeth; Swynol edrych j'r gorwelion, A dvehmygu gwel'd angelion Ar y ddin ymhell, heb aeth. Daw yr eneth ]âi1, garedig, Heb un dig, gan syllu'n brudd; Mae'i gwefusau yn gloedig, Tlws yw'r deigryn bach siomedig Wna ei drig ar dyner rudd. Cwrdd a rhywun hi ddisgwyiiodd, Pan o'i.fodd yn my»d o'r wlad, Llawer nawnddydd wedyn gwyliodd, Llawer nos heb hun noswyliodd, Trodd ef iddi'n llawn o frad. Difyr chwaren sy'n nOdweddq Pawb yn si y tormau gwyn. Canu, canu. gorfoleddu, Am yr heddweh sydd i*^ feddu, » Gwraaido rhu y mor yh syn. —■ "1 J Diflin chwilio mewn boddineb Mae grudd wleb ajn iechyd gwell, Gyrrir ymaith bob casineb, Gwaradwyddir pob glythineb; Gwthir cwyn yn awr ymhell. Cyll y galon ei Hawenydd Nawnddydd rhydd ar lan y Clywyd storm, a chaed carennydd Ar y draethell ddi-obennydd: Heno 'i hancs rydd i'r Iôr. Cynnwrf tolinau sy'n gostegu Wedi'r nos dymhestlog hir-; Gydag amlen ddu anrhegu Rhiaint cu wneir, a mynegu Newydd chwerw—newydd gwir 1 Mwyn y can yr eneth dyner Ar y, fron heb ofni lli', Ond daw siomiant dwys anbyner, Pan y distaw ymofyner— Cariad hon a ddygodd Rhi. Ni cheir llonder heb ofldiau Nawnddydd haf at Ian y m6r j Daw y wyian a'i chwyndidau, Gyda'i sibrwd am eriidiau Stormydd eraill wrth y ddor. Si y don sy'n dwe/d am tawnder Heb un trai ger gorsedd lor, Traeth yw'r byd He ca'i diriawnder Wisgo'r ffvddiog A. chyfiawnder. Erbyn dydd pan na fydd ino'r. t) 'r dedwyddwch, O 'r hudoledd, Yma sydd i'r trist a'r claf Ond didranc yw'r myg orfoledd, A difefl yw'r anfarwoledd, Yn y wlad sy'n fythol haf. Ynysf organ. J. L. Jenkins.

0 u When Men Believed. By MARJORIE BOWEN, Author of The Viper of Milan," The Glen o' Weeping," &c., &c. To the right lay St. Jean-du-Doigt, a finger of land stretched into the sea and bearing, like- a ringstone, a cluster of cottages to the left lay the sweep of land called Lok-Nek, house- less, treeless and uncultivated, a new length of earth scattered with rocks, dreary but swept with clean winds, and suggestive of forests and a lovely world in the veiled horizon. These to the right and left, and in the middle, the con- vent, standing solitary on a sloping hill with every window of the straight front facing full on the sea. Below, at the base of the hill, a wide river cut, struggling through torn rocks to its outlet into the sea some half-mile up the shore. The convent had a garden that covered the flat top of the hill', and the wall of it was so low that from the right side one could lean over and see the river, and the rocks with St. Jean-de-Doigt beyond, from the left the whole sweep of grey land, and from the front, stand- ing with your back to the convent and your elbows resting on the wall, you looked straight at a half circle of sea that on a clear day showed a glitter of white and gold on the hori- zon—the faint trace of that opposite Britain, that the ever-widening sea was ever drawing faI,ther away. This in the front—this and a great arc of sky where the sea-birds rose and tumbled, and the fine clouds would hang for days together immovable, or fly past as swiftly as the birds themselves, changing shape and colour with every moment. And at the back was a narrow strip of garden, below which the hill fell away suddenly into a slope that led into a wood. To-day, a cold bright day in March, a monk satin this little garden and looked down at the wood. Across his knee rested a spade a bag of roots and seeds was beside him, and brown earth, freshly uptunred, showed that it was fatigue, not idleness, that kept him sit- ting silent. And in truth he had worked many good hours, though the pale sun cast a faint shadow across the dial on the convent wall that showed it was yet early. The monk was an oldish man with a face and hands of the pure quality of ivory, eyes clear and pale, a slender, bent ¡ figure, and a smile that seemed to be cut on his thin lips, so faintly sweet and unchanging it was. His profile as it was thrown out against his brown hood and the sharp delicacy of a relief on a coin his hands,/ despite his rough work, were finely formed he gave the impres- sion of great pallor, like a man whose blood had been frozen by mbnotony and and prayer. It was drawing near the eighth hour, the convent bell began to quiver in its belfry I before the first clang had cut the air the monk had risen with the instinct born of long habit and turned towards the house it did not need ¡ the bell to bring him to matins, the custom of twenty years guided him more surely than any j .signal.. ,¡ The quiet within was as great as the quiet' without the gi'ev stone of the walls and floors was unrelieved, the blunt heavy arches of win- dows and doors unornamented in the chapel, the crucifixes were of rough wood and the vessels of simple silver. Serving the Lord in the humility of spirit, living the lives of saints, these men had no need of pomp to prove their devotion to God. Christ had not been dead nine hundred years, and in their fervent eyes the blood of His sacrifice was still wet; the shaddw of the cross fell strong oh them across the centuries, and their faith was as strong as the faith of the apostles. As the old monk entered the chapel the bell ceased, his brethren were already assembled, their voices beginning to rise in the cadence of the prayers. There were fifty monks, all of the same type, the lean, dark Breton, refined and pale through holy lives, expressionless because passionless, thin, grave, colourless men as monotonous as the walls that surrounded them, as holy as the vessels they handled. A stranger, looking at the fifty as they were gathered here, would have been struck with the sameness in them, his eye would have travelled over these dark or white haired priests, then been arrested with a shock by the face and figure of one who stood at the back among the younger men. He would have been noticeable anywhere, he was trebly noticeable here, as conspicuous as a lose go wing among grey herbs. His age coqld not haVe been more thatf teighteen. but he was; & beailsh!>aldei9,t^9. ^and his limbs were of the make of a young giant. In complete contrast to the others his face was .broad and fair, his blue eyes far apart under level brows, his nose short and broad, his mouth wide and curved, his chin rounded and too full for beauty, though making the face notable by reason of its strength. His hair, cropped close round his head, was of a hot gold colour, and there was that golden tinge over his face and neck that is given by the sun to young flesh, making it fresh and sweet as ripening fruit. His face held colour in it as yellow flowers hold sunshine, his eyes were intense in their vivid blue, his cheeks flushed with perfect health, but the heavy lines of the face made for sullenness, an expression that was deepened by the massive chin. He was as feriient, as unconscious as any there, praying with wrapt eyes and folded hands, and they, as he, seemed unaware that be Was different from them. When matins were over and they filed out, he who had come in from the garden lingered behind and as the blond monk passed him, laid his hand on his arm. I want you to come with me, Malo," he said. The young man responded instantly with a smile that cleared all sullenness from his face, and followed him into the garden. A high wind was blowing round the hill-top, bending the frail spring flowers it quickened the youth's blood and sent a deeper colour into his cheeks.. You had something to say to me, .Father Antonn ?" "Yea." said the monk, with, his habitual gravity. Oh, surely, yes He took up his spade, gazing thoughtfully down at the earth, while the other watched him with an eager doglike submission and de- votion pitiful in one so strong. "You have taste in the garden," pursued Father Antonn. Would you put camomile under the south wall ?" This question (that he had been brought out on "purpos,eto answer) appeared to bring a shade of disappointment oyer the young man's face—not that anything more monotonous was ever discussed between them, only the lift in the wind had touched his young blood into excitement, put the feeling had died before he answered very humbly— The herbs grow best in the shade, father. Should we not keep the sunny side for the fruitt" The soft Breton came as awkwardly from his lips as the monk's robe hung on his limbs, though he spoke with perfect ease. Father Antonn looked up at him very lovingly—an expression that changed and softened his face marvellously. It may be that you are right, Malo, but I would have the camomile grow well—there is a great asking for it in the village and, whilel remember me, Brother Yves is in need of some leaves for copying in the missal he paints. Will you get them 1—over there by the hedge there should be some." Malo turned away meekly, and the old man, resting on his spade, watched him with what his conscience told him was sinful affection. I It waa sixteen years ago that Father Antonn and some other of the monks had, on the night of a wild storm, gone down to the shore wit.h a handful of the boldest peasants. A great ship had been wrecked, they had seen it go down before theireyes a short space from the shore, its great sides cracked on the rocks like eggshell. There were no survivors save one, Malo, whom the monks found clasped in the arms of a dead woman, lashed to a spar, and tossed up on the shore among the broken wreckage. A mere baby, hardly able to stand, not abje to speak, they hadtanght him their ways, their life, their language, brought him up on prayers. fasting, a. round of little duties and self deni- als and they never doubted that their way was God's way, and the foundling thrice blessed in being led so early to the holy path. And now long usage had blinded their eyes, they did not. see that a child of a different breed was growing up in their midst, that in every fibre he was different, and ha, patient as a driven'ox, was as unconscious; there were no mirrors in the convent of St..Tean, he may even have been unaware of his yellow hair and blue eyes. He was docile, gentle, and, because the stifled life in him must have outlet in some emotion, fervently zealous in his religion. So Were the monks well content with him,and he, knowing nothing else, with them if, at times, something stirred and struggled within him for utterance he crushed it as a prompting of the devil, and atoned for it by earnest prayers on the floor of his cell. Some day he will be the abbot," mused Father Antonm. For he is moat righteous of soul. And he watched the tail figure by the hedge with infinite satisfaction. In a little while Malo came back, his hands full of green leaves, his wind-kissed face smil- ing. Take them in to Brother Yves," 1ald the father, and he obeyed with his utfual quiet meekness. For a little longer old Antonn sat on, grow- ing drowsy in the sun, his thoughts slipping into dreams, a little dull after the unbroken quiet of twenty years. Then the sudden clang of a door hurriedly shut roused him, a quick step sounded on the earth, and one of the brothers was standing before him white and shaking. In the name of the Lord," he cried, sttrely they are upon us." He was wrinlZinghis hands' with a womanish gesture, but Father Antonn rose with eyes that i gleamed a little and whispered a name under his breath. The pale monk nodded, pointing a shaking finger towards the sea. Father Antonn caught hold of his shoulder and drew him after him to the front of th.. convent. As they entered the garden they saw some four or five monks huddled in an anxious group, looking out to sea. And as Father Antonn appeared,from all the pale }ips.a muttered cry went up The Vikings." Three ships rested at the mouth of the river, ominous evil ships, carrying the terror of more than death to all who knew them forwhat they were. Long and narrow, the keels were bordered with bright colours, prows sharp and ending in the head of a lion, two white sails spread from a slender mast on the top of which was a great ea-hird, continually blown round with the wind. God help the people who saw these ships an- chored in their river. Pirates, sea-kings, living on blood and plun- der, respecting nothing, sparing nothing, their sharp, swift invasions smote the living into the dead desolation was in their tracic they were the scourge of God and most terrible. The monks broke into whispering prayers, their eyes large with horror, then Father An- tonn turned into the convent,where the others, as yet unsuspecting, were gathered in the re- fectorv, "Down on your knees," he commanded shrilly, and pray the Lord to protect this house." Without a word they fell to their knees and Malo's golden head was bent lower than any. The evil ones are upon us," cried the old monk. Pray that God's wrath may be I arrested." There was a silence broken only by mutter- ings and quick catchings of the breath the cold sunlight falJingfromhigh windows showed a huddled gr up with clasped hands and eager eyes, when one of the watchers without rushed in with the news that the ships had landed their crews. They are coming ?—here 1" Ah, yes God help us Jesu, help lis We are in the hands of God, but since we have neither gold nor silver," said Father An- tonn, we shall pay toll with our lives—it best befits we should die defending God's altar—to tbo chapel." They rose as one man, and Malo went up to Father Antonn and took his hand in a grip that made the old man flush with pleasure. My son," he said," remember they who die to-day will sleep to-night in Paradise." His voice shook; he was trembling, jarred to the soul by this rough awakening from years of peace, but his religious enthusiasm supplied him with a nervous courage. Malo hurrying behind him down the narrow passage heard the air full of quickbreaths andhastening foot- falls, but louder than these felt and heard his own heart. And it frightened him never in his life had his heart beat last enough for him to hear it— in a second the atmosphere round him had changed from the dulness he knew so well to an excitement both new and bewildering no- thing had happened, but he felt on the edge of a whirlpool, the eve of a great discovery. The (first rush of alarm was stifled in a feeling of strength; he realised all at once how he towered over the others, how they were old and he was young he looked down at his hands and sud- denly smiled. Father," he said impulsively, "let me defend the altar; surely it is the Lord's will, for most wondrously He has strengthened me." The brethren crowded into the chapel; a press of white faces in the grey, a clamour of clasped hands towards the altar—when in front of it Malo.his face brilliant with excited colour, turned in an ecstasy to the vast wooden cruci- fix. The abbot, a feeble old man, wandered fearfully through weak prayers, the others joined and swayed in the submission of their helplessness, but Malo broke into strong words. Oh, God,"he cried,his hands clasped round I the feet of the crucifix. "Oh, God, who art stronger than the dreadful sea or all the might of the sons of sin, help us now. For Thy name's sake spare Thy faithful servants. The clear young voice ceased with a little catch of excitement; a hush followed, and Malo crept closer to the cross, clasping it fer- vently. Then— A horn sounded; deep full notes rising higher, stronger, appealing, commanding, dy- ing again to return again sharply brilliant, stirring the dust of the old convent into dan- cing notes, echoing through its open doors like a sob. • The hem Qt the Viking," whispered the old ,.11<t!8i. „ It stopped, and a perfect silence fell. Malo had FÍsen; his back was to the crucifix, his eyes were brilliant as stars, his monk's robe was heaving over his heart, the great hands by his side were clenched. The expression of his face frightened Father Antonn. My son," he whispered. It spoke to me," said Malo, and he stared over the monk's head towards the door. Father Antonn rose and took the young man's hot hand. Pray—" he implored. Pray to God for us, Malo." But the youth was irresponsive to his touch, regardless of his words. The one standing figure among the kneeling ones,the one flushed youthful face among them all, Father Antonn stared and grew afraid of his sparkling eyes. He drew back with a vague horror that this being he had loved all his life was beyond his grasp, something he did not know. Malo," he whispered feebly. But the blood had rushed to Malo's head it beat in his ears in great surges, half blinded his eyes, giving him a vision of heaving grey pillars and a confusion of white faces a sensa- tion as of powerful perfume was in his nos- trils., to his finger-tips he quivered and tingled, every fibre on the strain, every muscle on the alert. There was a gather of noise outside, a thin wail of prayer from, the monks, the abbot wept copiously, sobbing forth broken Latin. "Ah, my well beloved!" cried Father An- tonn ,¡ You are a child of God-turn to Him— turn to Him." Malo lifted his head slowly, and on his lips was a terrible smile. It called to me," he said again. It was the call of the world, the Devil," said the old monk eagerly. The cry of the children of blood and sin, and you are one of us." The words died unfinished. Malo was gazing at the door where stood a most splendid figure. A man Whose fair face and yellow hair was crowned by a huge helmet bearing spread wings,it mall whose massive limbs were clothed in skin and rough links of metal; on his great arm hung a leather shield rimmed with steel, in his hand he held a double-bladed sword and a cloak of a most extraordinary rich purple hung behind him. As the monks turned and faced him he spoke in voluble but imperfect Breton. Out with the keys of the treasury, old man—many times we have proved your^God defenceless to .protect His gold and silver." Silence, blasphemer," cried Father An- tonn, shrilly. The Church's curse is on thee and thine. Get thee gone, Viking, from the Lord's house." The Viking stepped into the chapel, and his entrance was like the coming of a great wind he never glanced at the monks, but looked straight past Father Antonn to where Malo stood erect before the crucifix. And in the suspension of their terror the monks glanced from the terrible Viking be Male, and saw the two brilliant faces were the same in every line. There was a moment's silence while the two gazed at each other fascinated, then the Viking smiled and lifted his sword and spoke In the name of Thor and Odin,come to me, son of the sea." With a terrible cry Malo flung back his head and was swinging forward, when Antonn, exalted with despair, flung himself before him. My son, remember God." Malo turned on him with mad eyes. I am a Viking. Let me pass." But the old monk clung to him with all the strength of his love. "Christ calls to you—you are His." Out of my way," sliouted Malo. He had flung aside the habits and teaching of sixteen y^ai's &s 'a flower its old sheath he saw nothing but the sight that made a madness in his own blood, the smiling face that was a reflex of his own he seized the crucifix, his God of a moment ago, the thing he had been praying to in a fcrvency of abasement and wrenched it from the wall.* The monks called out in horror, Antonn ip agony, and strove to catch his arm. This for thy God," shonted Malo, and swinging the crucifix struck the old man down at his feet with the heavy wooden arm of it. swinging the crucifix struck the old man down at his feet with the heavy wooden arm of it. A great shriek of triumph arose, and the young Viking looked up to see the door filled with others of his breed and likeness. He did not see the blood on his feet, the shivering, moaning monks before his eyes was the flash of colour and magnificence, the glitter of the sword and the helmet, the pomp of strength and the dazzle of action broken visions of a hundred battles rose before him, he saw plunging horses and tattered standards, he heard the ^nusic of the war-cry, the shout Of the conquerors, the beat of the sea and the wind sobbing in the sails wine, gold, jewels, things he had no name for called out to him, for these things were in his blood. With a bound he leapt over the old monk, caring no more for him than the captive lion cares for his slain keeper, and, with dilated nostrils, and brilliant, wide eyes, dragging the blood-stained cross after him,hestrode through the cowering monks, triumphantly up to those who waited for him. And the foremost Viking, he who had entered first, looked at him long and hard, then caught him to his breast in a fierce embrace with a great shout to Thor. His sun-scorched hair was redolent II of the sea, his grip was strength personified, it gave Malo the sensation of riding the crest of a wave with the wind singing in his ears, he threw back his head and laughed, never noticing that he clutched the crucifix so tight that the nails in the Christ's feet had entered his hand. I A wave of glittering colour, the Vikings surged out into the convent garden, Malo L their midst, heedless and' forgetful of tht) monks and at sight of the purple-prowed ships lying at anchor he gave a great shout and flung the cross from him down the hill, nevel seeing the round hole it had left in his palm. See how their God hurtles to perdition I': he shrieked in an intoxication of delight. And the Vikings broke into laughing shout and swept him onwards towards the boats— and the sea Twenty years later, and on the night.oft terrible storm a fair ship was wrecked near St. Jean-du-Doigt a ship with a purple prow and a swirling sea-bird nailed to the mast. As the ship reeled and sank the wind blon the black clouds off the moon and showed, s man clinging to the broken mast, showed him floating with it,cast up and down on the heavv. waves, disappearing, appearing, showed him flung up at last on the beach and staggering blindly up till he fell prone among the rocks. He was a Viking his wet yellow hair )Va;' blood-stained from a wound in his head, hij" purple cloak tattered to ribbons, his sword was gone and the ivory horn by his. side smashed to powder, still he was a Viking. Utterly spent, his breath coming in great gasps, he dropped his head in his hands and dragged himself to a sitting posture in tin wind-shaken darkness. The sea thundered in mighty surges, lashing itself into dappled foam along the beach, the moon came and went among the piled up clouds and the Viking sat on in lonely desolation. There were many crimes heavy on his soul, many deeds he wished undone, and as hii strength grew less he thought of them, finding no comfort in his gods. He lifted his weary eve3 at last to see the sunrise lying white across the sea, and the heavens full of sea-birds, who flew to and frtf shrieking. But he loathed the sight of the ocean, a.nd turned his magnificent head towards the laud with a strange longing. Straight above was a line of dark cliff,and on that, clear against a grey dawn, rose a crucifix. The Viking rose to his feet and the look on his face was that of a man who sees his homa again after many years. For a moment he stood rigid, and his btue eyes were clouded with a thousand memories f then he walked through the gathering light towards the crucifix. Twenty years ago he had hurled that cruci- fix down the hill, and it had fallen as it stood- now, upright on the edge of. the cliff, watching out to sea patiently, watching in tenderness for the wanderer to return. The Viking came to the foot of it, and slipped to his knees. I have come back," he cried. "I have coms back Stained, oh, my father, and weary 1- but the false gods give me no comfort, and I have come back to die The day grew stronger, the sunlight began; to glitter on his dinted armour. Give me pardon—give me peace He wai sobbing, the tears rolling down his cheeks. For many years I have borne this curs* with me." He lifted his hand, showing a deep round scar in the palm. Take it away Father oh, my father His head sunk on his breast, and the blood dripped through the yellow hair he shivered I the day broke into brilliant ligh t. Suddenly he lifted his head there was the sound of distant singing coming very sweetly and clearly down the hill. The dying Viking smiled. It, was the monkc- > at matins. And as they sang his voice rose* with them, singing correctly words that had" not passed his lips for twenty years. Remorse and the glory of peace were in his song he laid his arms round the base of the crucifix, and his soul was uplifted. The arms of the cross seemed spread as if to embrace him, and. behind was the dim outline of a monk with an ivory white face who smiled in ecstacy. The world was receding from the Viking, the crncifix showed wrapt in a white flame he- held his right hand out again, and saw- nc* scar now. Then, as the last notes of the siuginy* > faded, his triumphant voice died into a little whisper. v- Father. I have come back." { (The End.) j Next week :— THE GIRL WHO WAS DIFFERENT By Gilbert Dayle. r '¡; i

SANITARY INSPECTORS. Sessional Meeting at Briton Ferry. A sessional meeting of the members of the South Wales and Monmouthshire Centre of the, National Sanitary Inspectors' Association, was V held at the Council Chamber, Briton Ferry, on Saturday. The council meeting of the associv tion and the members' conference were held m. private. Later the general meeting took place*, under the presidency of Mr David John, o £ Pontypridd. There was a gratifying attend- ance of members. Mr H. Alexander Clarke (surveyor to the Brion Ferry Urban District Council) read a- paper on Some Municipal Works of Ferry," ih which he showed that inajayj engineering difficulties, had. been overcome, and sucli exceJTent Ti l, that the sanitary conditions were as proved by the low death rate and the im- munity from zymotic diseases. The Council was, carrying on several flourishing undertakings to the great advantage of the ratepayers. Ms Trevor H. Hunter, clerk to the Briton Ferry Urban District Council followed, with a paper on The duties of a 'sanitary inspectoor as tc taking samples of milk." The main object of the paper was to afford instruction as to how prosecutions for selling inferior milk should be conducted, and how probable defence should be met. A vote of thanks to the readers of the papers was heartily accorded, on the motion of Mr D. R. Thomas, Gowerton, secon- ded by Mr Lambert, Swansea. Later the members and others were enter- tained to luncheon at the Royal Dock Ho be! by the chairman, members and officers of the Briton Ferry Urban District Council. The chairman of the Council (Alderman Jenkin Hill, J.P.) presided. The toast of the South Wales Sanitary Inspectors' Association War proposed by Mr Trevor Hunter. Mr D. J. Jones and Mr D. A. Thomas (Dewi Samlet) reo sponded, the first-named dwelling upon the importance of (1) improving the status of the sanitary inspector, (2) giving him securityot- tenure of office. The toast of the Briton Ferry Urban District Council was proposed by Mr J. Towy Thomas, hon. secretary of Hill Centre Sanitary Inspectors' Association. ,Suit able response was made by the Chairman (Alderman Jenkin Hill), the Vice-chairman1 (Councillor Branch), and Councillors M. G. Roberts, Thomas Gwynne, and James Thomas. The members set out for a two hours' wallt" to the Cefn Court reservoir and RItpr bed* (from which the supply of water for Briton: Ferry is obtained). By common consent thtf meeting was one of the most successful, aim. enjoyable ever held by the association.

COALFIELD CUSTOM DISPUTE Breach of Contract Cases at Bridgend David Thomas and eight others, colliea'S, were summoned at Bridgend on Saturday U* Llewellyn Bevan, a contractor at the LIynvL Colliery, Maesteg, for damages for breach at contract bv leaving their work without notice Mr Jestyn Jeffries, Neath, appeared in sup. port of the claim, and Mr Evan E. Da.vieS|. solicitor to the Maesteg district of the Miners Federation, defended. From the evidence it appeared that Mr Bevan took a contract j1.( the Llynvi Valley Colliery, which is owned bjf. Mr Oliver H. Thomas, Neath, to drive through, a fault to the vein of coal. He engaged the defendants, but no agreement was entered intO: either as to the rates of pay or the notice, They were paid fortnightly, but they were not satisfied Hvith the rates paid them on the first, pay, and left work without notice. Jf? j> Bevan contended that the men could noV, leave without giving a fortnight's notice. Defendants contended that the custom in-the- coalfield was that when working for a con*. tractor driving a hard heading the contract was from day to day. i Mr Vernon Hartshorn, miners' agent,, saitt that in the absence of a specific agreement the custom in the coalfield was that the contract was from day to day. He had nevel known a case of sinking or drifting where the men were not on day to day contracts in, Hit absence of a definite agreement. He thought it would have been wiser for the defendantt not to have started this work without at agreement. The Chairman said there would be judgtnent for the plaintiff, but as he had been v'ert slack, he would only be allowed 10s damagef against each defendant, instead of the £ f. claimed, and the costs. Defendants countcrclaimed for wages dui and retained, according to. the pay cqstOJUf, but they claimed on the higher rate to whicK they alleged they were entitled. Plaintiff ad? mitted these wages, but only at the "rate he had previously been paying, amounting alto gether to £ 15 3s 9d, and the magistrates, gave judgment for the men for this amount..1*

MR WALTER ROCH AT FISHGUARD. On Saturday evening Mr Walter Roch, p*o^ spective Liberal candidate for the counts of Pembroke, addressed a meeting a| Fishguard. Major E. D. Jones presided and introduced Mr Roch and Mr W. Jones, M.P-j Carnarvon. Mr W.L. Williams moved a reso.lu» tion heartily approving the policy of tUl present Government, and Mr Roclu jn sup* porting it, said he hoped the foreign invasiott of Tariff Reformers had not weakened tb4 cause of Liberalism in Pembrokeshire. That Liberal party had contracted for a big job, and were carrying ib out successfully. H# proceeded to review the Governmenl measures, pointing out the achievements whitA were due to that notable Welshman and Fern. brokeshire "boy," Mr D. Lloyd George. Dealing; with the Licensing Bill, he said it would restor< to the State property which ought nt-ver tG: have been taken away. The resolution wat carried amid enthusiasm. The Rev; \V. Morlais Davies moved a vote of confidence it Mr Roch, and that they would do all in the)* power to return him to Parliament. Dd Williams, Drjm. seconded, and this was carrieA The Rev. Dan Davies moved that the GoveK?? ment be asked to deal with Disestabljshme*" and Disendowment of tho Church. Mr B- v* Llewhelin seconded, and the motion waf carried. Mr D. Gwion Thomas moved- a resØt& tion in favour of Free Trade, and Mr T. Lewif seconded. Mr W. Jones supported in a trei* chant address, and the resolution was adopt*" unanimously.