CHAPTER XXI.
NATURE'S MELODRAMA.
What, then, had become of Elsley?
And whence had he written the fatal letter?
He had hurried up the high road for half an hour and more, till the valley on the left sloped upward more rapidly, in dark dreary bogs, the moonlight shining on their runnels; while the mountain on his right sloped downwards more rapidly in dark dreary down, strewn with rocks which stood out black against the sky.

He was nearing the head of the watershed; soon he saw slate roofs glittering in the moonlight, and found himself at the little inn of Pen-y-gwryd, at the meeting of the three great valleys, the central heart of the mountains.
And a genial, jovial little heart it is, and an honest, kindly little heart too, with warm life-blood within.

So it looked that night, with every window red with comfortable light, and a long stream of glare pouring across the road from the open door, gilding the fir-tree tops in front: but its geniality only made him shudder.

He had been there more than once, and knew the place and the people; and knew, too, that of all people in the world, they were the least like him.

He hurried past the doorway, and caught one glimpse of the bright kitchen.