I found that Nan knew all about the eye-well, and had a very strong
belief in its curative powers; she was only too anxious and willing to
accompany us, and accordingly at five o'clock next morning, Gwen, little
David, and I met her, and set off to our destination with a delightful
sense of secrecy and mystery.
I look back on that day now, when, light-hearted, happy, not having yet
met with any real sorrow, I stood and laughed at the baby's shouts of
glee, when Gwen dipped his head under the cold water. I remember the
reproving look of dear old Gwen's anxious face, and the expectant
half-fearful, half-wondering gaze of Nan. I see again the water of the
old well, trembling on the dark lashes of two sightless eyes, a little
voice shouts manfully, a white brow is radiant, dimples play on rosy
cheeks, golden brown curls are wet and drip great drops on the hard,
worn hand of Gwen. Nan, excited and trembling, falls on her knees and
prays for a blessing. Gwen prays also. I take David's little lad into
my own arms, he clasps me firmly, shouts and laughs anew. I too, in a
voiceless prayer, ask God to bless the noble boy. We are standing under
a great tree, whose sheltering branches protect the old well, the bright
sun shines in flickering light through the early spring leaves, on the
boughs the birds sing, from the hedge a white rabbit peeps. Yes, I see
it all, but I see it now with a precipice beyond. I see now where the
sun went down and the dark night came on. I see where the storm began
to beat, that took our treasure away.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was the evening before the third visit to the eye-well; I heard Gwen
in the room fitted up for a temporary nursery, singing little David to
sleep.
Hush-a-by, little dear,
Hush-a-by, lovely child.
It was the old Welsh lullaby song. Soft, soft, softer went her voice to
the queer old measure, the quaint old words--
Hush-a-by, lovely child,
Hush--hush--hush--hush!
Profound stillness, no one could keep awake after that last hush of
Gwen's; I felt my own eyes closing. The next moment I found myself
starting up to see the singer standing before me.
"David's asleep, my dear, and, Gwladys, you need not come with me in the
morning."
In a very sleepy tone, induced by my early rising and the lullaby song,
"Oh! yes, Gwen, I don't--mind--I'd better."
"No, no, my dear lamb, David and me'll go alone to-morrow; little Nan
ain't coming neither."
"Very well, Gwen," I said, just asleep.