The London Welshman

marked No. 1, No. 2, and No. 3. He then took the envelopes to the curate in the kitchen. Ah, there they are exclaimed the curate, laughing. The modern edition of the Sibylline leaves I'll take the precious things to Mr. Jones." "As you like, sir," said Twmi, "but you must promise to say nothing about this to any one except Mr. Jones." Certainly," said the curate, "until of course I can convince you and everybody of your fool- ishness. And now, Twmi bach, I must be off." And with a wave of the hand he turned from the portly little publican, and with the jaunty step of the athlete, strode out of the house. For three months--until the end of Sep- tember-there was no death in the little parish. Then Gwen Evans, the daughter of Ty Coch, who had long been suffering from consumption, peacefully breathed her last. The Rev. John Williams went the following day to see Mr. Jones, the schoolmaster, in whose hands he had deposited Twmi's envelopes. The first envelope was opened, and within it they found, in Twmi's unclerkly writing, the name of Gwen Evans, Ty Coch. Mr. Jones was startled, and even the Rev. John was shaken for a moment. He soon recovered himself. "A very good guess," he said, "but not a hard one for a man who has always lived here and knows everyone's hanes/ Poor Gwen, the doctor tells me, has been doomed for months, and she herself knew it was only a question of time." "Still, it was a curious guess," said the schoolmaster, uneasily. "There are plenty of old and ailing people in the parish." "Yes," conceded the curate, I admit it is a good guess. But I was afraid something like this might happen, and so I insisted on having three names." Another three months went by, and then came a great shock to the whole parish. A few days before Christmas Mr. Pugh, the vicar, was walking somewhat hurriedly to catch a train. When he was 200 or 300 yards from the station the train came into sight. The vicar hastened his pace. One or two bystanders shouted out to him that he had only just time to catch the train. He started to run, but he had barely gone ten yards when he staggered and fell. The bystanders rushed to him, only to find that he had ceased to breathe. After the funeral the Rev. John Williams went to the schoolmaster to open the second envelope. The fingers of the schoolmaster were somewhat tremulous as he broke it open. In dead silence he pulled out the slip of paper. With blanched face he stared at Twmi's uneven scrawl. The name was that of the Rev. Thomas Pugh, the Vicarage. The two men looked at each other in awe and dismay. Let's have no more to do with this cursed thing," at last the schoolmaster said, hoarsely. "The whole thing is too uncanny. We are treading on matters beyond the ken of man. Let's burn the other envelope." No," said the curate, musingly. If this is something more than a coincidence I should like to know. I, at all events, must abide by the test I imposed on Twmi Price." Well," replied the schoolmaster, I'll have no more to do with it, you must find someone else." But," said the curate, it is only another week or so before the end of the year. Wait till then at all events." Not a day, not an hour longer exclaimed the schoolmaster, firmly. I should be afraid to look anyone in the face, or to laugh with my friends at Christmas, with the knowledge that I am carrying somebody's death-sentence in my pocket all the time. It may be a friend's—or my own-or yours ——— He shuddered and stopped short. Yes said the curate. I can quite under- stand how you feel. I think we did wrong not to open the envelopes before and warn Gwen and the vicar of their approaching death. When my turn comes, I hope I shall have a few hours to prepare to meet my God, merciful though He be. I think it's our duty to open the last envelope now." "No, no," said the schoolmaster, "let's have no more to do with it one way or another. Better let such things be as they are." No!" exclaimed Mr. Williams with sudden decision. "I must and will open the third envelope, so that I may warn the doomed man and help to prepare him for his day of trial. I can't disbelieve any longer. However the gift has come to Twmi, and whatever it means, I would be an unfaithful servant if I did not warn a fellow-sinner of the eternity into which he will so soon enter. Let me have the envelope." The schoolmaster reluctantly gave it him. I feel it is yours more than mine he said and so I return it to you who gave it me." The curate was quite calm. His fingers did not tremble as he opened the envelope and took out the paper. After glancing at the writing, he handed it silently to the school- master, who read with startled eyes the name of the Rev. John Williams Goodbye," said the curate, with a suspicion of moisture in his eye, and God bless you." God bless you," replied the schoolmaster, brokenly. The curate, young, vigorous, the picture of rude health and strength, strode like a giant into the cold winter's gloom. I thank Thee he said aloud, glancing up to heaven, that Thou hast given me time to prepare." That night he was taken ill with an obscure malady, in three days he was dead, and on New Year's Eve he was laid to rest in the little green churchyard in the Vale of Aeron by the side of his fathers who had gone before him. Next Week will appear No. 2 of the Series- BOBBY JONES'S FIRST DEFENCE."