it be wise of me to do that?"

"No, no, my boy, b'tshwr, it wouldn't.  I am a foolish old man, and
must not keep my boy back when he is getting on so grand.  Och fi!  Och
fi!" and he sighed deeply.

"Och fi!" laughed Ann and Will together.

"One would think 'twas the downward path Will was going," said the
former.

"No, no!" replied the old man, "'tis the path of life I was thinking
of, my children.  You don't know it yet, but when you come to my age
perhaps you will understand it," and he sighed again wearily.

He had altered much of late, a continual sadness seemed to have fallen
on his spirit, the old pucker on his forehead was seldom absent now, he
was irritable and ready to take offence, and if not spoken to, would
remain silently brooding in the chimney corner.

On the contrary, Ann's whole nature seemed to have expanded.  Her happy
married life drew out the brightness and cheerfulness which perhaps had
been a little lacking in her early girlhood.

Gwilym Morris was an ideal husband; tender and affectionate as a woman,
but withal firm and steady as steel; a strong support in worldly as
well as spiritual affairs.  Latterly the extreme narrowness of the
Calvinistic doctrines, which had made his sermons so unlike his daily
practice, had given place to broader views, and a more elevating
realisation of the Creator's love.  Many hours he spent with Sara in
her herb garden, on the moor, or sitting by the crackling fire,
conversing on things of spiritual import; and the well-read scholar
confessed that he had learnt much from the simple woman, the keen
perception of whose sensitive soul, had in a great measure separated
her from her kind, and had made her to be avoided as something uncanny
or "hyspis."

And what of Morva?  To her, too, time had brought its changes.  She was
now two years older, and certainly more than two years wiser, for upon
her clear mind had dawned in unmistakeable characters of light, the
truth, that her relations with Will were wrong.  She knew now that she
did not love him--she knew now it would be sinful to marry him, and she
sought only for a way in which she could with the least pain to him,
sever the connection between them.  She saw plainly, that Will had
ceased to love her, and she rejoiced at the idea that it would not be
difficult therefore to persuade him to release her from her promise.
When one day she met him on the path to the moor, and he tried as of
old to draw her nearer and imprint a kiss on her lips she started from
him.

"No, Will," she said, "that must not be.  You must let me go now.  Do
you think I do not see you have changed, that you have ceased to love
me?"

Will noticed at once the dropping of the familiar "thee" and "thou";
and in his strange nature, where good and bad were for ever struggling
with each other, a fierce anger awoke.  That she--Morva! a shepherdess!
a milkmaid! should dare to oppose the wishes of the man who had once
ruled her heart, and at whose beck and call she would have come as
obediently as Tudor--that she should now set her will in opposition to
his, and dare to ruffle the existence which had met with nothing but
favour and success, was unbearable.

"What dost mean by these words, lodes?[1] how have I ever shown that I
have forgotten thee?  Dost expect me, who have my studies to employ me,
and my future to consider--dost expect me to come philandering here on
the cliffs after a shepherdess?"

"No," said Morva, trying to curb her hot Welsh temper, which rushed
through her veins, "no!  I only ask you to free me from my promise.  I
have sworn that I would keep it, but if you do not wish it, He will not
expect me to keep my vow.  I see that plainly.  It would be a sin--so
let me go, Will," and her voice changed to plaintive entreaty; "I will
be the same loving sister to you as ever--set me free!"

"Never," said Will, the old cruel obstinacy taking possession of him, a
vindictive anger rising within him against the man whom he suspected
had taken his place in the girl's heart.  Gethin--the wild and roving
sailor!  No! he should never have her.

"Thou canst break thy promises," he said, turning on his heel, "and
marry another man if thou wilt, but remember _I_ have never set thee
free.  I have never agreed to give thee up;" and without another word
he passed round the broom bushes, leaving Morva alone gazing out over
the blue bay.

As he returned to the farm he was filled with indignation and anger.
The obstinacy which was so strong a trait in his character was the real
cause of his refusal to give Morva her freedom, for the old love for
her was fast giving place to his new-born passion for Gwenda Vaughan,
which had grown steadily ever since he had first met her.

[1] Girl.

CHAPTER XVI

ISDERI

Three miles above Llaniago, the river On, which had flowed peaceably
and calmly for some miles through fair meadows and under the spanning
arches of many a bridge, seemed to grow weary of its staid behaviour
and suddenly to return to the playful manners of its youth.  In its
wild exuberance it was scarcely recognisable as the placid river which,
further in its course, flowed through Llaniago and Castell On.  With
fret and fume and babbling murmurs it made its way through its rocky
channel, filling the air with the sound of its turmoil.  Both sides of
its precipitous banks down to the water's edge were hidden in woods of
stunted oak, through whose branches the sound of its flow made
continual music, music which this evening reached the ears of a
solitary man, who sat at the open window of a large house standing near
the top of the ravine, its well-kept grounds and velvet lawn reaching
down to the very edge of the oak wood, and even stretching into its
depths in many a green glade and avenue.  There was no division or
boundary between the wood and the lawn, so that the timid hares and
pheasants would often leave their leafy haunts to disport themselves
upon its soft turf.  It was Dr. Owen who, contrary to his usual careful
habits, sat at that open window in the gathering twilight, dreaming
dreams which were borne to him on the sound of the rushing waters,
which lulled his senses, and brought before him the scenes of his past
life.  The twilight darkened into gloom, and still he sat on in
brooding thought, letting the voice of the river bear to him on its
wings sweet memories or sad retrospect as it chose.  The early days of
his childhood came back to him, when with a light heart he had roamed
over moor and sandy beach, or over the grassy slopes of Garthowen.  The
river still sang on, and before him rose the vision of a man of homely
and rustic appearance, who urged and encouraged his youthful ardour in
the pursuit of knowledge, who rejoiced at his successes, and supplied
his wants, who laid his hand upon his young head with a dying blessing.
How vividly the scene returned to him!  The dismay of the household
when that rugged figure disappeared from the scene, the difficulties
which had crowded his path in the further pursuance of his education,
the arduous steps up the ladder of learning, the perseverance crowned
with success!  Still the rushing river filled his ears and brought
before him its phantom memories--his successful career in the
Church--his prosperous marriage, the calm domestic life which
followed--the wealth--the honour--the prestige--what had they led
to?--an empty home, a solitary hearth, no heir to inherit his riches,
no young voices to fill the house with music and laughter--no--it had
all turned to dust and ashes--there was no one to whom he could confide
his joys or his sorrows--he was alone in the world, but need it always
be so? and again he listened, deep in thought, to the spirit voices
which the roar of the river seemed to carry into his soul.  What a
change would Will's presence bring into his life.  How much ruddier
would be the glow of the fire! how much more cosy the lonely hearth!
How pleasant it would be to see him always seated at the well-appointed
table! how the silver and glass would sparkle! how they would wake the
echoes of the old house with happy talk and merry laughter! and the old
man became quite enamoured of the picture which his imagination had
conjured up.

"Yes," he said aloud, for there was no one to hear him, "I will no
longer live alone; I will adopt Will as my son and heir.  I think he is
all I could wish him to be, and I believe he will reflect credit on my
choice."

And when he closed the window and turned to his book and reading-lamp
it was with a pleased smile of content, and a determination to carry
out his plans without delay.  Will should be fully informed of his
intentions.

"It will give him confidence," thought the old man, and the feeling of
kinship which had so long slept within him began to awake and to fill
his heart with a warm glow which he had missed so long, though perhaps
unconsciously.

In the following week Will came for a two days' visit, and Dr. Owen
looked forward to their evening smoke with eager impatience.  When at
last they were seated in the smoking-room and Will had, with thoughtful
care, pushed the footstool towards him and placed the lamp in his
favourite position on the table at his back, he no longer delayed the
hour of communication.

"Thank you, my boy, I quite miss you when you are away; you seem to
fall into your place here so naturally I almost wish your college life
was over so that I might see more of you."

"It would be strange if I did not feel at home here, you are so
indulgent to me, uncle.  If I were your own son I don't think you could
be kinder."

"Well, Will, that is what I want you to become--my own son, the comfort
of my declining years, and the heir to my property when I die.  Does
that agree with your own plans for the future, or does it clash with
your inclination?"

"Sir!  Uncle!" exclaimed Will, in delighted astonishment, "how can I
answer such a question?  Such a change in my prospects takes my breath
away.  What can I say to you?  I had never thought of such a thing,"
and he rose, with a heightened colour and an air of excited surprise,
which left Dr. Owen no doubt as to the reality of his feelings.  They
were not, however, altogether real, for Will had latterly begun to
suspect the true meaning of his uncle's kindness to him.

"There is only one thing to be said, sir.  Did it clash with my own
plans there would be no sacrifice too great for me to make in return
for your kindness.  But you must know, uncle, that not only the ties of
gratitude compel me, but the bonds of relationship and affection (may I
say love) are strong upon me, and I can only answer once more that I
accept your generosity with the deepest gratitude.  I little thought a
year ago that I should ever feel towards you as I do now.  I felt a
foolish, boyish resentment at the enstrangement between you and my
father, but now I am wiser, I see the reason of it.  I know how
impossible it would be to combine the social duties of a man in your
position with continued intimate relations with your old home.  The
impossibility of it even now hampers me, uncle, and I feel that it will
be well for me to break away from the old surroundings if I am ever to
make my way up the ladder of life.  Your generous intentions towards me
smooth this difficulty, and I can only thank you again, uncle, from my
heart.  I hope my conduct through life may be such that you will never
regret the step you have taken, certainly I shall endeavour to make it
so."

"Agreed, my boy!" said the Dr., holding out his hand, which Will
grasped warmly, "we understand each other, from this time forward you
are my adopted son; the matter is settled, let us say no more about
it," and for a few moments the two men followed the train of their own
thoughts in silence.

"How plainly we hear the On to-night," said Will, "it seems to fill the
air.  Shall I close the window?"

"Yes," said Dr. Owen, "if you like, Will; I have never heard it so
plainly before.  There is something solemn at all times in the sound;
but to you it can bring no sad memories from the days gone bye, you
have so lately left that wonderful past, which, as we grow older,
becomes ever more and more bathed in the golden tints of imagination,
'that light which never was on sea or land.'  You owe something to
those rushing waters, Will, for while I sat here alone one evening,
they flooded my soul with old and tender memories, and bore in upon me
the advisability of the offer which I have just made you, and to which
you have agreed."

Not a word was said as to the possibility of Ebben Owens objecting to
the arrangement, in fact, neither of them thought of the old man, who
even now was sitting in the chimney corner at Garthowen, building
castles in the air, and dreaming dreams in which Will ever played the
part of hero.

Later on, when the latter lay wakeful in the silent hours of night, the
distant roar of the river carried home to his heart too, the memory of
the old homestead, of many a scene of his careless and happy boyhood,
and of the old man, the warmth of whose affection for him he was
beginning to find rather irksome and embarrassing.

On the following day Dr. Owen called all his servants together, and in
a few words but with a very decided manner, made them acquainted with
the important step which he had taken with regard to Will, and bade
them bear in mind, that for the future, his nephew would hold, next to
himself, the highest place in the household.  Will had been careful to
ingratiate himself as much as possible with the old servants, whose
opinions he thought might weigh somewhat in their master's decisions,
the younger ones he treated with a somewhat haughty bearing.

"You will be coming again next week," said the Dr., as they both sat at
dinner together; "the Trevors are coming, you know, to spend a few days
with me, a long promised visit.  We shall have a day with the otter
hounds.  Colonel Vaughan and Miss Gwenda are coming too, did I tell
you?"

"No," said Will, "I did not know that.  Do they often stay with you?"

"No, they have never been here before.  They were dining at the
Trevors.  I included them in the invitation, and they promised to come.
Miss Gwenda is a great favourite of mine, and of yours, Will, eh?  Am I
right?"

Will's handsome face flushed as he answered with some embarrassment,
for he was not at all sure that his uncle would approve of the
entanglement of a love affair.

"I--I.  Well, sir, no one can be acquainted with Miss Vaughan without
being impressed by her charms both of mind and person, but further than
that, it would--I have no right to--in fact, uncle, it would be madness
for a young man in my station, I mean--of my obscure birth, to think of
a young lady like Miss Vaughan."

"Oh, that you can leave out of your calculations henceforth, I imagine.
I know the world better than you do, Will, and I shall be much
surprised if the advantages of being my adopted son and my heir will
not far outweigh the fact of your rustic birth.  Money is the lever
which moves the world now-a-days.  That has been my experience, and, if
you act up to the position which I offer you, your old home will not
stand in your way much.  Of course I need not tell a young man of your
sense and shrewdness that it will not be necessary for you to allude to
it.  Let the past die a natural death."

This was exactly what Will meant to do, but, expressed in his uncle's
cold, business-like tones, its callousness jarred upon him, and he felt
some twinges of conscience, and a regretful sympathy with his old
father rose in his heart, which brought a lump in his throat and an
unwonted moisture in his eyes.  But he mastered the feeling, and
assumed an air of pleased compliance which for the moment he did not
feel.

"As for Gwenda Vaughan," continued his uncle, "you could never make a
choice that would please me better; and, if she is at all inclined
towards you, I fancy you will find your stay together here will mark a
new era in your acquaintance."

"I do not think she dislikes me," said Will; "but more than that it
would be presumption on my part to expect."

"H'm.  Faint heart never won fair lady," laughed the Dr.

Will left Isderi much elated by his good fortune.  Fortunately for him,
he was possessed of a full share of common sense which came to his aid
at this dangerous crisis of his life and prevented his head being
completely turned by the bright hopes and golden prospects which his
uncle's conversation suggested to him.  It had been settled between
them that it would be advisable not to make Ebben Owens at once
acquainted with their plans, but to let the fact dawn upon him
gradually.

"He will like it, my dear boy," said his uncle, when Will a little
demurred to the necessity of keeping his father in the dark; "he will
be proud of it when he sees the real and tangible advantages which you
will gain by the arrangement.  You will go and see him sometimes as
before, and it need make no difference in your manner towards him,
which, I have no doubt, has always been that of a dutiful son."

One day in the following week, Will returned to Isderi; and it was with
a delightful feeling of prospective proprietorship that he slipped into
the high dog-cart which his uncle sent for him.  He took the reins,
naturally, into his own hands, and the servant seemed to sink naturally
into his place beside him; and if, as he drove with a firm hand the
high-stepping, well-groomed horse along the high-road, he felt his
heart swell with pride and self congratulation, can it be wondered at?

On reaching the drive, which wound through the park-like grounds, he
overtook his uncle and Colonel Vaughan.  Alighting, he joined them; and
Dr. Owen introduced him to his visitor.

"Ah! yes, yes, your nephew of course--we have met before," said the old
man awkwardly, and he shook hands with Will in a bewildered manner.
"Of course, of course; I remember your pluck when you tackled that
bull.  Pommy word I think Gwenda owes her life to you.  I shall never
forget that, you know."

"Well, you must give me a fuller account of that affair some day," said
Dr. Owen.  "You are come just in time, Will.  Colonel Vaughan suggests
that a break in those woods, so as to show the river, would be an
improvement, and I think I agree with him.  What do you say to the
idea?"

"I think Colonel Vaughan is quite right, uncle; the same thing had
already struck me."

"That's right; then that settles the matter," said Dr. Owen, who had
determined to leave no doubt in his guest's mind of his nephew's
importance in his estimation, and of his generous intentions towards
him.

Gwenda was sitting alone in the drawing-room when Will entered, and it
was a great relief to him that this was the case, for he was not yet so
completely accustomed to the small convenances of society as to feel no
awkwardness or nervousness upon some occasions.  Free from the
restraint of Mrs. Trevor's presence, however, he made no attempt to
hide the pleasure which his meeting with Gwenda aroused in him.  She
was looking very beautiful in a dress of some soft white material, and
as she held out her hand to Will a strange feeling came over him, a
feeling that that sweet face would for ever be his lodestar, and that
firm little white hand would help him on the path of life.  He scarcely
dared to believe that the blush and the drooping eyes were caused by
his arrival, but it was not long before he had conquered his
diffidence, and remembering his golden prospects had recovered his
self-confidence sufficiently to talk naturally and unrestrainedly.

"Never saw such a thing," said the old colonel, later on in the day, to
his niece, sitting down beside her for a moment's talk, under cover of
a song which Mrs. Trevor was singing.  "Dr. Owen seems wrapped up in
his nephew, and the fellow seems to take it all as naturally as a duck
takes to the water.  Pommy word, he's a lucky young dog."

And naturally and quietly Will did take his place in the household,
never pleasing his uncle more than when he sometimes unconsciously gave
an order to the servants, and so took upon himself the duties which
would have devolved upon him had he been his son instead of his nephew.

Gradually, too, Colonel Vaughan became accustomed to the change in the
"young fellow's" circumstances, and accepted the situation with
equanimity.  Will left no stone unturned to ingratiate himself with the
old man, and was very successful in his attempts.  So much so, that
when he and Gwenda would sometimes step out of the French window
together, and roam through the garden and under the oak trees side by
side, her uncle noticed it no more than he would have had Will been one
of the average young men of On-side society.

Meanwhile, for the two young people, the summer roses had a deeper
glow, the river a sweeter murmur, and the sky a brighter tint than they
had ever had before; and while Gwenda sat under the shade of the
gnarled oaks, with head bent over some bit of work, Will lying on the
green sward beside her in a dream of happiness, Mrs. Trevor watched
them from her seat in the drawing-room with a smile full of meaning,
and Dr. Owen with a look of pleased content.

"You must find it a very pleasant change from hard study to come out
here sometimes," said Gwenda, drawing her needle out slowly.

"Yes, very," said Will; "I never bring a book with me, and I try to
banish my studies from my mind while I am here."

"Do you find that possible?  I am afraid I have a very ill-regulated
mind, as an interesting subject will occupy my thoughts whether I like
it or not."

"Well, of course," said Will, plucking at the grass, "there are some
subjects which never can be banished.  There is one, at all events,
which permeates my whole life; which gilds every scene with beauty, and
which tinges even my dreams.  Need I tell you what that is, Miss
Vaughan?"

Gwenda's head bent lower, and there was a vivid glow on her cheek as
she answered:

"Your life here must be so full of brightness, the scenes around you
are so lovely, it is no wonder if they follow you into your dreams.
But--but, Mr. Owen, I will not pretend to misunderstand you."

"You understand me, and yet you are not angry with me?  Only tell me
that, Miss Vaughan, and I shall be satisfied; and yet not quite
satisfied, for I crave your love, and can never be happy without it."

There was no answer on Gwenda's lips, but the eyes, which were bent on
her work, grew humid with feeling.

"I love you, but dare I have the presumption to hope that you return my
love?  You know me here as my uncle's nephew, but it is not in that
character that I would wish you to think of me now."

What was it in the girl's pure and honest face which seemed to bring
out Will's better nature?

"I am only William Owens" (he even added the plebeian "s" to his name)
"the son of the old farmer Ebben Owens of Garthowen; 'tis true my uncle
calls me his son, and promises that I shall inherit his wealth, but
there is no legal certainty of that.  He might die to-morrow, and I
should only be William Owens, the poor student of Llaniago College, and
yet I venture to tell you of my love.  I think I must be mad!  I seek
in vain for any possible reason why you should accept my love, and I
can find none."

"Only the best of all reasons," said Gwenda, almost in a whisper.

"Gwenda! what is that?" said Will, rising to his feet, an action which
the girl followed before she answered.

"Only because I love you too."

"Gwenda!" said Will again.

They had been resting on the velvet lawn that reached down to the oak
wood, and now they turned towards its shady glades, and Mrs. Trevor,
who had been watching them with deep interest, was obliged to control
her curiosity until, when an hour later, they entered the house
together, Will looking flushed and triumphant, and Gwenda with a glow
of happiness which told its own tale to her observant friend.

"It's all right, my love, I see it is!  I needn't ask any questions, he
who runs may read!  You have accepted him?"

"I don't know what my uncle will say, it all depends upon that."

"Never mind what he says, my dear.  You and I together will manage him,
we'll make him say just what we please, so _that's_ settled!"

In fact, Will's wooing seemed to belie the usual course of true love.
Upon it as upon everything else connected with him, the fates seemed to
smile, and Colonel Vaughan was soon won over by Gwenda's persuasions.

"Well! pommy word, you know, Gwenda, I like the young fellow myself.
Somehow or other he has taken us by storm.  Of course, I should have
been better pleased if he were Dr. Owen's son instead of his nephew."

"Well, he is next thing to it, uncle," said the girl coaxingly.  "He is
his adopted son, and will inherit all his wealth, and you know how
necessary it is for me to marry a rich man, as I haven't a penny
myself.  Of course I will never marry him without your consent, uncle
dear, but then I am going to get it," and she sat on his knee and drew
her soft hands over his bald head, turning his face up like a cherub's,
and pressing her full red lips on his wiry moustache.

"Not a penny yourself!  Well! well! we'll see about that.  Be good,
girl, and love your old uncle, and I daresay he won't leave you
penniless.  But, pommy word! look here, child, we must ask him here to
stay a few days.  He won't be bringing old Owens Garthowen here, I
hope; couldn't bear that, you know."

"I am afraid he doesn't see much of his old father and sister," she
said pensively.

"Afraid!  I should think you would be delighted."

"No, I should prefer his being manly enough to stick to his own people,
and brave the opinion of the world.  _I_ should not be ashamed of the
old man; but, of course, I would never thrust him upon my relations."

"Well! well! you are an odd little puss, and know how to get over your
old uncle, whatever!"

And so all went smoothly for Will.  At the end of two years he took his
degree, and another year saw him well through his college course;
complimented by his fellow students, praised and flattered by his
uncle, and loved by as sweet a girl as ever sprang from a Welsh stock.

Before entering upon the curacy which his uncle procured for him with
as little delay as possible, he spent a few days at Garthowen, during
which time he was made the idol of his family.  Full of new hopes and
ambitions, he scarcely thought of Morva, who kept out of his way as
much as possible, dreading only the usual request that she would meet
him by the broom bushes; but no such request came, and, if the truth be
told, he never remembered to seek an interview with her, so filled was
his mind with thoughts of Gwenda.

He had been studiously reticent with regard to his engagement to her,
at her special request.  She knew how much gossip the news would
occasion, and felt that the less it was talked about beforehand the
less likelihood there would be of her relations being irritated and
annoyed by ill-natured remarks.  She was happier than she had ever
hoped to be, and if she sometimes saw in her lover a trait of character
which did not entirely meet the approbation of her honest nature, she
laid the flattering unction to her soul, "When we are married I will
try to make him perfect."

CHAPTER XVII

GWENDA AT GARTHOWEN

On the slope of the moor, where the autumn sun was burnishing the furze
and purpling the heather, Morva sat knitting, her nimble fingers outrun
by her busy thoughts.

She was sitting half way up the moor, an old cloak wrapped round her
and its hood drawn over her head, for the wind was keen, blowing fresh
from the bright blue bay, which stretched before her to the hazy
horizon.  Her eyes gazed absently over its azure surface, flecked with
white, as though with scattered snowflakes, and dotted here and there
with the grey sails of the boats which the herring fishery called out
from their moorings under the cliffs.  She sat at the edge of a
rush-bordered pool in the peaty bog, occasionally bending over it to
look at her own image reflected on its glassy surface.  Between the
folds of the old cloak glistened the necklace of shells which Gethin
had given her.  It was her twentieth birthday, so she seized the excuse
for wearing the precious ornament which generally lay locked in its
painted casket on the shelf at her bed head.  It was not at herself she
gazed, but the ever-changing gleam of the shells was irresistible.  How
well she remembered that evening when in the moonlight under the elder
tree at Garthowen, Gethin had held them out to her, with a dawning love
in his eyes, and her heart had bounded towards him with that strong
impulse, which alas! she now knew was love!--love that permeated her
whole being, that drew her thoughts away on the wings of the wind, over
the restless sea, away, away, to distant lands and foreign ports.
Where did he roam?  What foreign shores did his footsteps tread?  In
what strange lands was he wandering? far from his home, far from the
hearts that loved him and longed for his return!  The swallows flew in
fluttering companies over the moor, beginning to congregate for their
departure across the seas.  Oh! that she could borrow their wings, and
fly with them across that sad dividing ocean, and, finding Gethin,
could flutter down to him and shelter on his breast, and twitter to him
such a song of love and home that he should understand and turn his
steps once more towards the old country!

Will never troubled her now, never asked her to meet him behind the
broom bushes.  He had ceased to love her, she knew, and although he had
never freed her from her promise, Morva had too much common sense to
feel bound for ever to a man who had so evidently forgotten her.  If
sometimes the meanness and selfishness of his conduct dawned upon her
mind, the feeling was instantly repressed, and as far as possible
banished, in obedience to the instinct of loyalty to Garthowen, which
was so strong a trait in her character.

She turned again to look at her necklace in the pool, and caught sight
of a speck of vivid scarlet on the brow of the hill--another and
another.  They were the huntsmen returning from their unsuccessful run,
for she had seen the breathless panting fox an hour before when he
crossed the moor and made for his covert on the rocky sides of the
cliffs.  Once there, the hunters knew the chase was over.  And there
were the tired hounds for a moment appearing at the bare hill-top.  In
a few moments they had passed from sight, leaving the moor to its usual
solitude and silence.  But surely no!  Here was one stray figure who
turned towards the cliffs, and, alighting, led her horse down the
devious paths between the furze and heather.  Such an uncommon sight
roused Morva from her dreams.

"Can I come down this way?" said a clear, girlish voice, as Gwenda
Vaughan drew near.  She spoke in very broken Welsh, but Morva
understood her.  "Does it lead anywhere?"

"It leads nowhere," said Morva, "but to the cliffs; but round there
beyond the Cribserth," and she pointed to the rugged ridge of rocks,
"is Garthowen; up there to the right is nothing but moorland for two
miles."

"Oh, then I will turn this way," said Gwenda.  "Will they let me rest
at the farm a while, do you think?  I am very tired and hungry."

"Oh, of course," said Morva, her hospitable instincts awaking at once.
"Come into mother's cottage," and she pointed to the thatched roof and
chimney, which alone were visible above the heathery knoll.

"Is that a cottage?"

"Yes--will you come?"

"Yes, just for a moment, and then perhaps you will show me the way to
the farm.  That Cribserth looks a formidable rampart.  Are you sure
there is a way round it?"

"Oh, yes; I will come and show you," said Morva.  "Here is mother," and
Sara approached from her herb garden with round, astonished eyes.

"Well, indeed!" she said; "this is a pleasant sight--a lady coming to
see us, and on Morva's birthday, too!  Come in, 'merch i, and sit down
and rest.  The horse will be safe tied there to the gate."

And Gwenda passed into the cottage with a strange feeling of happiness.

"Now, what shall I give you?" said Sara.  "A cup of milk, or a cup of
tea? or, I have some meth here in the corner.  My bees are busy on the
wild thyme and furze, you see, so we have plenty of honey for our meth."

"I would like a cup of meth," said Gwenda; and as she drank the
delicious sparkling beverage, Sara gazed at her with such evident
interest that she was constrained to ask:

"Why do you look at me so?"

"Because I think I have seen you before," said the old woman.

"Not likely," replied Gwenda, "unless in the streets at Castell On."

"I have not been there for twenty years," said Sara.  "It must be in my
dreams, then."

"Perhaps!  What delicious meth!  Who would think there was room for
house and garden scooped out on the moor here; and such a dear
sheltered hollow."

Sara smiled.

"Yes; we are safe and peaceful here."

Morva had taken the opportunity of doffing her necklace and placing it
in the box.

"I am going to show the young lady the way to Garthowen, mother."

"Yes; it is easy from there to Castell On," said Sara; "the farm lane
will lead you into the high road.  But 'tis many, many years since I
have been that way."

The chat fell into quite a friendly and familiar groove, for Sara and
Morva knew nothing of the restraints of class and conventionality.

"I am so glad I came; but I must go now," said Gwenda, rising at last.
"My name is Gwenda Vaughan," she added, turning to Morva.  "What is
yours?"

"Mine is Morva Lloyd; but I am generally called Morva of the Moor, I
think.  Mother's is Sara."

"Good-bye, and thank you very much," said Gwenda, and Sara held her
hand a moment between her own soft palms, while she looked into the
girl's face.

"You have a sweet, good face," she said.  "Thank you for coming, 'merch
i; in some way you will bring us good."

And again that strangely happy feeling came over Gwenda.  Rounding the
Cribserth, the two girls soon reached Garthowen.  It was afternoon, and
drawing near tea-time.  Ebben Owens was already sitting on the settle
in the best kitchen, waiting for it, when the sound of voices without
attracted his attention.

"Caton pawb!" he said, "a lady, and Morva is bringing her."

Ann hastened to the front door, and Morva led the horse away, knowing
well that she was leaving the visitor in hospitable hands.

"I am Miss Vaughan of Nantmyny!  I have been out hunting today, and on
the top of the hill I felt so tired that I made up my mind to call here
and ask if you would let me rest awhile."

"Oh, certainly!  Come in," said Ann, holding out her hand, which Gwenda
took warmly.

"Miss Owen, I suppose?"

"I was Ann Owens," she said, blushing.  "I am Mrs. Gwilym Morris now
these three years.  This is my little boy," she added, as a chubby,
curly-headed child toddled towards her.  She had already opened the
door of the best kitchen.  "There is no fire in the parlour," she
apologised, "or I would take you there."

"Oh, no; please let me come to your usual sitting-room.  Is this your
father?"

And she held out her hand again.  There was something in her face that
always ensured its own welcome.

"Yes, I am Ebben Owens," said the old man, "and very glad to see you,
though I not know who you are."

"I am Gwenda Vaughan of Nantmyny, come to ask if you will let me rest
awhile.  I have been out with the fox-hounds; we have had a long run,
and I am so tired."

She had no other excuse to give for her inroad upon their hearth; but
in Wales no excuse is required for a call.

"Well, indeed," said the old man, rubbing his knees with pleasure,
"there's a good thing now, you come just in time for tea.  I think I
have heard your name, but I not know where.  Oh, yes.  I remember now;
'twas you the bull was running after in the market, and my boy Will
stop it; 'twas good thing, indeed, you may be kill very well!"

Gwenda stopped to pat Tudor to hide the blush that rose to her cheek as
she answered:

"Yes, indeed, and of course we were very grateful to him!"

"Oh, yes; he's very good fellow.  Will you take off your hat?  'Tis not
often we're having visitors here, so we are very glad when anybody is
come."

"I was afraid, perhaps, I was taking rather a liberty," said Gwenda,
laying her hat and gloves aside, "but you are all so kind, you make me
feel quite at home."

"That's right," said the old man; "there's a pity now, my son-in-law,
Gwilym Morris, is not at home.  He was go to Castell On to-day to some
meeting there.  What was it?  Let me see--some hard English word."

"I can speak Welsh," said Gwenda, turning to that language.

"Oh! wel din!" said the old man, relieved, and continuing in Welsh,
"'tisn't every lady can speak her native language nowadays."

"No.  I am ashamed of my countrywomen, though I speak it very badly
myself," said Gwenda.

"There's my son Will now, indeed I'm afraid he will soon forget his
Welsh, he is speaking English so easy and smooth.  Come here, Ann," the
old man called, as his daughter passed busily backwards and forwards
spreading the snowy cloth and laying the tea-table.  "The lady can
speak Welsh!"

"Oh! well indeed, I am glad," said Ann; "Will is the only one of us who
speaks English quite easily."

"Oh! there's Gwilym," said her father.

"Yes, Gwilym speaks it quite correctly," said Ann, with pride, "but he
has a Welsh accent, which Will has not--from a little boy he studied
the English, and to speak it like the English."

"Will is evidently their centre of interest," thought Gwenda, "and how
little he seems to think of them!"

Here the little curly pate came nestling against her knee.

"Hello! rascal!" said the old man, "don't pull the lady's skirts like
that."

But Gwenda took the child on her lap.

"He is a lovely boy," she said, thus securing Ann's good opinion at
once.

The little arms wound round her neck, and before tea was over she had
won her way into all their hearts.

"I am sorry my sons are not here," said the old man; "they are good
boys, both of them, and would like to speak to such a beautiful young
lady."

"Have you two sons, then?" asked Gwenda.

"Yes, yes.  Will, my second son, is a clergyman.  He is curate of
Llansidan, 'tis about forty miles from here; but Gethin, my eldest son,
is a sailor; indeed, I don't know where he is now, but I am longing for
him to come home, whatever; and Will does not come often to see me.  He
is too busy, I suppose, and 'tis very far."

And Gwenda, sensitive and tender, heard a tremble in the old man's
voice, and detected the pain and bitterness of his speech.

"Young men," she said, "are so often taken up with their work at first,
that they forget their old home, but they generally come back to it,
and draw towards it as they grow older; for after all, there is nothing
like the old home, and I should think this must have been a nest of
comfort indeed."

"Well, I don't know.  My two sons are gone over the nest, whatever; but
Ann is stopping with me, She is the home-bird."

Gwenda thought she had never enjoyed such a tea.  The tea cakes so
light, the brown bread so delicious; and Ann, with her quiet manners,
made a perfect hostess; so that, when she rose to go, she was as
reluctant to leave the old farmhouse as her entertainers were to lose
her.

"Indeed, there's sorry I am you must go," said Ebben Owens.  "Will you
come again some day?"

"I will," said Gwenda, waving them a last good-bye; and as she rode
down the dark lane beyond the farmyard she said to herself, "And I
_will_ some day, please God!"

Reaching the high road, she hurried down the hill to the valley below,
where Castell On lay nestled in the bend of the river.  It was scarcely
visible in the darkening twilight, except here and there where a light
glimmered faintly.  The course of the river was marked by a soft white
mist, and above it all, in the clear evening sky, hung the crescent
moon.  The beauty of the scene before her reached Gwenda's heart, and
helped to fill her cup of happiness.  Her visit to the farm had
strengthened her determination to turn her lover's heart back to his
old home.  It was all plain before her now; she had a work to do, an
aim in life, not only to make her future husband happy, but to lead him
back into the path of duty, from which she clearly saw he had been
tempted to stray.  There was no danger that she would take too harsh a
view of his fault, for her love for Will was strong and abiding.  There
was little doubt that in that wonderful weaving of life's pattern,
which some people call "Fate" and some "Providence," Gwenda and Will
had been meant for each other.

When she reached home she found a letter awaiting her--a letter in the
square clear writing which she had learned to look for with happy
longing.  She hastened to her room to read it.  It bore good
tidings--first, that Will had acceded to Mr. Price's request to preach
at Castell On the following Sunday; secondly and chiefly, that the
living of Llanisderi had been offered him, and had been accepted.

"The church is close to my uncle's property, and as he has always
wished me to make my home at Isderi, he now proposes that we should be
married at once, and take his house off his hands, only letting him
live on with us, which I think neither you nor I will object to.  There
is no regular vicarage, so this arrangement seems all that could be
desired.  Does my darling agree?" etc., etc.

Of course "his darling" agreed, stipulating only that their marriage
should take place in London, for she thought this plan would obviate
the necessity for inviting her husband's relations to her wedding, and
still cause them no pain.

Will was delighted with the suggestion, for he had not been without
some secret twinges of compunction at the idea of being married at
Castell On, and still having none of his people at the wedding.  That,
of course, in his own and his uncle's opinion was quite out of the
question; and so the matter was settled.

One day there was great excitement at Garthowen.

"Well, Bendigedig!" [1] said Magw under her breath, as crossing the
farmyard she met Mr. Price the vicar making his way through the stubble
to the house-door, "well, Bendigedig! there's grand we are getting.
Day before yesterday a lady on horseback, to-day Price the vicare
coming to see the mishteer!  Well, well!  Oh, yes, sare," she said
aloud, in answer to the vicar's inquiry, "he's there somewhere, or he
was there when I was there just now, but if he is not there he must be
somewhere else.  Ann will find him."

And she jerked her thumb towards the house as Mr. Price continued his
way laughing.

"I am come again," said the genial vicar, shaking hands with Ebben
Owens, whom he found deeply studying the almanac, "I am come to
congratulate you on your son's good fortune.  I hear he has been given
the living of Llanisderi, and I think he will fill it very well.  You
are a fortunate man to have so promising a son and such an influential
brother, and I expect you will be still better pleased with the rest of
my news.  He is going to preach at Castell On next Sunday."

Ebben Owens gasped for breath.

"Will!" he said, "my son Will?  Oh! yes, he is a good boy, indeed, and
is he going to preach here on Sunday?  Well, well, 'twill be a grand
day for me!"

"Yes," said Mr. Price, "I hear he is a splendid preacher, and I thought
'twas a pity his old friends in this neighbourhood should not hear him,
so I asked him, and he has agreed to come.  You must all come in and
hear him--you too, Mrs. Morris, and your husband."

"My husband," said Ann, drawing herself up a little, "will have his own
services to attend to; but on such an occasion I will be there
certainly."

"Well, you must all dine with me," said the hospitable vicar.

"No, no, sir," said Ebben Owens, "I'll take the car, and we'll bring
Will back here to dinner.  We'll have a goose, Ann, and a leg of mutton
and tongue."

"Yes," said Ann, smiling, "Magw will see to them while we are at
church."

Mr. Price stayed to tea this time, and satisfied the old man's heart by
his praises of his son.  On his departure Ebben Owens sat down at once
to indite a letter to Will, informing him of the great happiness it had
given him to hear of his intention to preach at Castell On.

"Of course, my boy," he went on to say in his homely, rugged Welsh, "we
will be there to hear you, and I will drive you home in the car, and we
will have the fattest goose for dinner, and the best bedroom will be
ready for you.  These few lines from

"Your delighted and loving father,

  "EBBEN OWENS,

    "Garthowen."

Will crushed the letter with a sigh when he had read it, and threw it
into the fire, and the old Garthowen pucker on his forehead was only
chased away by the perusal of a letter from Gwenda, whose contents we
will not dare to pry into.

Never were there such preparations for attending a service, as were
made at Garthowen before the next Sunday morning.  Never had Bowler's
harness received such a polish, every buckle shone like burnished gold.
Ebben Owens had brushed his greatcoat a dozen times, and laid it on the
parlour table in readiness, and had drawn his sleeve every day over the
chimney-pot hat which he had bought for the occasion.

When the auspicious morning arrived Ann arrayed herself in her black
silk, with a bonnet and cape of town fashion; and in the sunny frosty
morning they set off to Castell On, full of gratified pride and
pleasant anticipations.

Leaving the car at a small inn near the church, they entered and took
their places modestly in the background.  No one but he who reads the
secrets of all hearts knew what a tumult of feelings surged through the
breast of that rugged, bent figure as Will passed up the aisle, looking
handsomer than ever in his clerical garb.  Thankfulness, pride, love, a
longing for closer communion with his son, were all in that throbbing
heart, but underneath and permeating all was the mysterious gnawing
pain that had lately cast its shadow over the old man's life.

During the service both he and Ann were much perplexed by the
difficulty of finding their places in the prayer-book, and they were
greatly relieved when at last it was over and the sermon commenced.

Mr. Price had not been misinformed.  Will was certainly an eloquent
preacher, if not a born orator, and possessed that peculiar gift known
in Wales as "hwyl"--a sudden ecstatic inspiration, which carries the
speaker away on its wings, supplying him with burning words of
eloquence, which in his calmer and normal state he could never have
chosen for himself.  Will controlled this feeling, not allowing it to
carry him to that degree of excitement to which some Welsh preachers
abandon themselves; on the contrary, when he felt most, he lowered his
voice, and kept a firm rein upon his eloquence.  His command of
English, too, surprised his hearers, and Dr. Owen, himself a popular
preacher, confessed he had never possessed such an easy flow of that
language.  As for Ebben Owens himself, as the sermon proceeded,
although he understood but little English, not a word, nor a phrase,
nor an inflection of the beloved voice escaped his attention; and as he
bent his head at the benediction tears of thankfulness, pride, and joy
filled his eyes.  But he dried them hastily with his bran new silk
handkerchief, and followed Ann out of the church with the first of the
congregation.

"We'll wait with the car," he said, "at the top of the lane.  We won't
push ourselves on to him at the church door when all the gentry are
speaking to him."

And Ann sat in the car with the reins in her hand, while the
congregation filed past, many of them turning aside to congratulate
warmly the father and sister of such a preacher.  One by one the people
passed on, two or three carriages rolled by, and still Will had not
appeared.

"Here he is, I think," said Ebben Owens, as two gentlemen walked slowly
up the lane, and watching them, he scarcely caught sight of a carriage
that drove quickly by.  But a glance was enough as it turned round the
corner into the street.  In it sat Will, accompanied by Dr. Owen,
Colonel Vaughan, and his niece.

"Was that Will?" said Ann, looking round.

"Yes," said her father faintly, looking about him in a dazed, confused
manner.  He put his hand to his head and turned very pale.

Ann was out of the car in a moment, flinging the reins to the stable
boy who stood at Bowler's head.

"Come, father anwl!" she said, supporting the old man's tottering
steps, for he would have fallen had she not passed her strong arm round
him.  "Come, we'll go home.  You will be better once we are out of the
town," and with great difficulty she got him into the car.  "Cheer up,
father bâch," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, though her own
voice trembled, and her eyes were full of tears.  "No doubt he meant to
come, or he would have written, but I'm thinking they pressed him so
much that he couldn't refuse."

"Yes, yes," said the old man in a weak voice; "no doubt, no doubt!
_'tis all right_, Ann; 'tis the hand of God."

Ann thought he was wandering a little, and tried to turn his thoughts
by speaking of the sermon.

"'Twas a beautiful sermon, father, I have never heard a better, not
even from Jones Bryn y groes."

"Yes, I should think 'twas a good sermon, though I couldn't understand
the English well; only the text 'twas coming in very often 'Lord, try
me and see if there be any wicked way in me,'" and he repeated several
times as he drove home "'any wicked way in me.'  Yes, yes, 'tis all
right!"

When they reached home without Will, Gwilym Morris seemed to understand
at once what had happened, and he helped the old man out of the car
with a pat on his back and a cheery greeting.

"Well, there now! didn't I tell you how it would be?  Will had so many
invitations he could not come back with you.  There was Captain Lewis
Bryneiron said, 'You must come and dine with me!' and Colonel Vaughan
Nantmyny said, 'He must come with me!' and be bound Sir John Hughes
wanted him to go to Plâsdû; so, poor fellow, he _had_ to go, and we've
got to eat our splendid dinner ourselves!  Come along; such a goose you
never saw!"

Ebben Owens said nothing, as he walked into the house, stooping more
than usual, and looking ten years older.

There was dire disappointment in the kitchen, too, when the dinner came
out scarcely tasted.

It is not to be supposed that by such observant eyes as Gwenda's, the
Garthowen car, with the waiting Ann and the old man hovering about, had
escaped unnoticed.  Nay!  To her quick perception the whole event
revealed itself in a flash of intuition.  They were waiting there for
Will.  He had disappointed and wounded his old father, but at the same
moment she saw that the slight had been unintentional; for as the
carriage dashed by the waiting car, she saw in Will's face a look of
surprise and distress, a hurried search in his pocket, and an unwelcome
discovery of a letter addressed and stamped--but, alas! unposted.  The
pathetic incident troubled her not a little.  An English girl would
probably have spoken out at once with the splendid honesty
characteristic of her nation, but Gwenda, being a thorough Welshwoman,
acted differently.  With what detractors of the Celtic character would
probably call "craftiness," but what we prefer to call "tact and
tenderness," she determined not to ruffle the existing happy state of
affairs by risking a misunderstanding with her lover, but would rather
wait until, as a wife, she could bring the whole influence of her own
honest nature to bear upon this weak trait in his character.

A few days later the announcement of his approaching marriage reached
Garthowen, in a letter from Will himself, enclosing the unposted
missive, which he had discovered in his pocket as he drove to Nantmyny
on the previous Sunday.

It pacified the old man somewhat, but nothing availed to lift the cloud
which had fallen upon his life; and the intimation of the near approach
of his son's marriage with "a lady" coming upon him as it did
unexpectedly, was the climax of his depression of spirits.  He sat in
the chimney-corner and brooded, repeating to himself occasionally in a
low voice:

"Gone! gone!  Both my boys gone from me for ever!"

Ann and Gwilym's arguments were quite unheeded.  Morva's sympathy alone
seemed to have any consoling effect upon him.  She would kneel beside
him with her elbows on his knees, looking up into his face, and with
make-believe cheerfulness would reason with a woman's inconsequence,
fearlessly deducing results from causes which had no existence.

"'Tis as plain as the sun in the sky, 'n'wncwl Ebben bâch!  Gethin is
only gone on another voyage, and so will certainly be back here before
long.  Well, you see he _must_ come, because he wouldn't like to see
his old father breaking his heart--not he!  We know him too well.  And
then there's his best clothes in the box upstairs!  And there's the
corn growing so fast, he will surely be here for the harvest."

She knew herself it was all nonsense, realising it sometimes with a
sudden sad wistfulness; but she quickly returned to her argument again.

"Look at me now, 'n'wncwl Ebben!--Morva Lloyd, whom you saved from the
waves!  Would I tell you anything that was not true?  Of course, I
wouldn't indeed! indeed! and I'm sure he'll come soon.  You may take my
word for it they will both come back very soon.  I feel it in my heart,
and mother says so too."

"Does she?" said the old man, with a little show of interest.  "Does
Sara say so?"

"Yes," said Morva; "she says she is sure of it."

"Perhaps indeed!  I hope she is right, whatever!"  And he would lay his
hands on Morva's and Tudor's heads, both of whom leant upon his knees
and looked lovingly into his face.

[1] "Blessed be!"

CHAPTER XVIII

SARA

For Gwenda and Will, from this time forward, all went "merry as a
marriage bell."  Early in the spring their wedding took place in
London, and when one morning Morva brought from Pont-y-fro post office
a packet for Ebben Owens containing a wedge of wedding cake and cards,
he evinced some show of interest.  On the box was written in Gwenda's
pretty firm writing,

"With love to Garthowen, from William and Gwenda Owen."

Ebben rubbed his knees with satisfaction.

"There now," he said, "in her own handwriting, too!  Well, indeed!  I
thought she was a nice young lady that day she came here, but, caton
pawb!  I never thought she would marry our Will."

A second piece of cake was enclosed and addressed.  "To my friends Sara
and Morva of the Moor," and Morva carried it home with mingled feelings
of pride and pleasure, but paramount was the joy of knowing that she
was completely released from the promise which had become so galling to
her.

"I knew," said Sara, "that that face would bring us a blessing," and
she looked with loving inquiry into Morva's face, which was full of
varying expressions.

At first, there was the pleasurable excitement of unfolding and tasting
the wedding cake, but it quickly gave way to a look of pensive sadness,
which somehow had fallen over the girl rather frequently of late; the
haunting thought of Gethin's absence, the cloud of suspicion which had
so long hung over him, (it was cleared away now, but it had left its
impress upon her life), her ignorance of his whereabouts, and above
all, a longing, hidden deep down in her heart, to meet him face to face
once more, to tell him that she was free, that no longer behind the
broom bushes need she turn away from him, or wrest her hands from his
warm clasp.  All this weighed upon her mind, and cast a shadow over her
path, which she could not entirely banish.

Sara saw the reflection of the sorrowful thought in the girl's
tell-tale eyes, and her tender heart was troubled within her.

"A wedding cake is a beautiful thing," said Morva; "how do they make
it, I wonder?  Ann said I must sleep with a bit of it under my pillow
to-night, and I would dream of my sweetheart, but that is nonsense."

"Yes, 'tis nonsense," said Sara, "but 'tis an old-time fable; thee
canst try it, child," she added, smiling, and trying to chase away the
girl's look of sadness.

"'Twould be folly indeed, for there is no sweetheart for me any more,
mother, now that Will is married.  Oh! indeed, I hope that sweet young
lady will be happy, and Will too."

"He will be happy, child; but for thee I am grieving.  Thou art hiding
something from me; surely Will's marriage brings thee no bitterness?"

"No, no," said the girl, "I am glad, mother, so thankful to be free; I
could sing with the birds for joy, and yet there is some shadow in my
heart.  'Tis for Garthowen, I think, 'n'wncwl Ebben is so sad--Gethin
has never come home, and that money, mother! who stole it and put it
back again?  We used to be so happy, but now it seems like the
threatening of a stormy day."

"Sometimes those stormy days are the end of rough weather, lass.
Through wind and cloud and lightning, God clears up the sky.  Thee must
not lose patience, 'merch i; by and by it will be bright weather again."

"Do you think, mother?"

"Yes, I think--I am sure."

"Well, indeed," said Morva, "you are always right; but oh! I am
forgetting my cheese, I set the rennet before I came out.  I must run."

And away she went, and in a short time had reached the dairy, where the
curdled milk was ready for her.  First she went to the spring in the
yard to cool her hands and arms, and then with shining wooden saucer,
she broke up the creamy curds, gradually compressing them into a solid
mass, while the delicious whey was poured into a quaint brown earthen
pitcher.

The clumsy door stood wide open, and the sunshine streamed in, and
glistened on the bright brass pan in which Morva was crumbling her
curds, her sleeves tucked up above her elbows, showing her dimpled
arms.  With her spotless white apron, her neatly shod feet, and her
crown of golden hair, she looked like the presiding goddess of this
temple of cleanliness and purity.

Round the walls stood shelves of the blue slaty stone of the
neighbourhood, upon which were ranged the pans of golden cream, above
them hanging the various dairy utensils of wood, polished black with
long use and rubbing.

Morva's good spirits had returned, for she hummed as she rubbed her
curds:

  "Troodi!  Troodi! come down from the mountain,
  Troodi! Troodi! up from the dale!
  Moelen and Trodwen, and Beauty and Blodwen,
  I'll meet you all with my milking pail."

Meanwhile at home in the thatched cottage on the moor Sara seemed to
have caught the mantle of sadness which had fallen from the girl's
shoulders.  She went about her household duties singing softly it is
true, but there was a look of disquiet in her eyes not habitual to
them, an air of restlessness very unlike her usual placid demeanour.
For sixteen years her life and Morva's had been serene and uneventful,
the limited circle which bound the plane of their existence had been
complete and undisturbed by outward influences; but latterly unrest and
anxiety had entered into their quiet lives, there was a veiling of the
sun, there was a shadow on the path, a mysterious wind was ruffling the
surface of the sea of life.  No trouble had touched Sara personally,
but what mattered that to one so sympathetic?  She lived in the lives
of those she loved; and as she moved about in the subdued light of the
cottage, or in the broad sunshine of the garden, a thread of
disquietude ran through the pattern of her thoughts.  The cause of
Morva's sadness she guessed at, but how to remove it, or how to bring
back the peace and happiness that seemed to have deserted the old
Garthowen homestead, she saw not yet.

Suddenly she started, and standing still crossed her hands on her bosom
with a look of pleased expectancy; her lips moved as if in prayer, she
passed out into the garden, and gathering a bunch of rue, tied it
together and hung it to the frame of the doorway so that no one could
enter the house without noticing it.  Then returning to the quiet
chimney corner, she sat down in the round-backed oak chair, and
clasping her hands on her lap, waited, while over her came the curious
trance-like sleep to which she had been subject at intervals all her
life.  She was accustomed to these trances, and even welcomed their
coming for the sake of the clear insight and even the clairvoyance
which followed them.  They were seasons of refreshing to this strange
woman's soul--seasons during which the connecting thread between spirit
and body was strained to the utmost, when a rude awakening might easily
sever that attenuated thread, when Morva knew that tender handling and
shielding care were required of her.  In the evening when she returned
from the farm she came singing into the little court, where the gilly
flowers and daffodils were once more swaying in the wind, and the much
treasured ribes was hanging out its scented pink tassels.  She stopped
to gather a spray, and then turning to the door, was confronted by the
bunch of rue, at sight of which she instantly ceased her singing and a
look of seriousness almost of solemnity came over her face, for the
herb had long been a pre-concerted signal between Sara and herself.

She gently pulled the string which lifted the latch, and entered the
cottage, treading softly as one does where death has already entered.
The stillness was profound, for it was a calm day and the sea was
silent, the fire only crackling on the hearth.  The old cat slept on
the spinning bench, and Sara lay there unconscious and dead to all
outward surroundings.  Morva approached her softly, and pressed a kiss
on the marble forehead; she felt her hands, they were supple though
cold; the eyes were closed and the breathing was scarcely perceptible,
but Morva had no fear for Sara's safety.  She gently raised her feet
upon the rush stool, and rested her head more comfortably; then bolting
the door and making up the fire, she took her supper and prepared for a
long night's vigil.

And now came one of those seasons of contemplation and of wondering awe
which Sara's trances brought into Morva's simple life, which made her
somewhat different from the other girls of the neighbourhood, yet in no
way detracted from the brightness and cheerfulness of her character.
Magw, the house servant, was often out under the stars, but she paid
more attention to the stubble in the farmyard than to the glittering
spangled sky above her.  Dyc "pigstye" often passed over the cliffs and
up the moor, but his own whistle, the bleat of the sheep, the lowing of
the herds, were more to him than the whispers of the sea or the singing
of the larks.  Ebben Owens was out from morning to night, in the
brilliant sunshine, and under the mellow moon, but they taught no tale
to him, and brought no messages to his soul, save of crops, of work, of
harvests.  But to Morva, every tint of broom or heather, every shade of
sea or sky, every flower that unfolded in the sunshine spoke and
stirred within her sentiments of love and wonder which she had no words
to express, but which left their impress upon her spirit.

Sitting by the fire on her low stool, she kept a careful watch over the
still figure on the other side of the hearth.  The night wind sighed in
the chimney, the owls hooted, and the sea whispered its mysterious
secrets on the shore below.  The candle burnt low in its socket, and
Morva replaced it with another, for she would not be left in the dark
with this silent unconscious being, much as she loved her.

Sometimes she ventured upon a gentle appeal, "Mother fâch!" but no
answer came from the closed lips, and again she waited while the night
hours passed on.

"Where is her spirit wandering, I wonder?" thought the girl, setting
her untaught and inexperienced mind to work upon the fathomless
mystery.  "Perhaps in the land which we roam in our dreams.  'Tis pity
she cannot remember; 'tis pity she cannot tell me about it, for, oh, I
would like to know."

But to-night, at all events, it seemed there was to be no elucidation
of this enigma of life.  The night hours dragged on slowly, and still
Sara slept on, until in the pale dawn Morva gently opened the door and
looked out towards the east, where a rosy light was beginning to flush
the clear blue of a cloudless sky.  Already the sun was rising over the
grey slopes, the cottage walls caught the rosy tints, and the ribes
tree, which alone was tall enough to catch his beams over the high turf
wall of the court, glowed under his morning kiss.  Morva looked round
the fair scene with eyes and heart that took in all its beauty.  A cool
sea breeze, brine-laden, swept over the moor, refreshing and
invigorating her, and she turned again to the cottage with renewed
longing for Sara's awakening.

When she entered, she found that the rays of the rising sun shone full
upon the quiet face, on the placid brow, and the closed eyes, imparting
to them a look of unearthly spirituality.  Moved by the sight, and by
the events of the night, the girl knelt down, and, leaning her face on
her foster-mother's lap, said her prayers, with the same simple faith
as she had in the days of childhood.  The sunlight pouring in through
the little window bathed her in a stream of rosy light, and rested on
her bent head like a blessing.  As she rose from her knees a quiver
passed over Sara's eyelids, a smile came on her lips, and opening her
eyes she looked long at Morva before she spoke, as though recalling her
surroundings.

"Mother," said the girl, kissing her cheek, which was beginning to show
again the hue of health.  "Mother fâch, you've come back to me again."

"Yes," said Sara, "I am come back again, child," and she attempted to
rise, but Morva pushed her gently back.

"Breakfast first, mother fâch."

And quickly and deftly she set the little brown teapot on the embers,
and spread her mother's breakfast before her.

"Now, mother, a new-laid egg and some brown bread and butter."

And Sara smilingly complied with the girl's wishes, and partook of the
simple fare.

"Mother, try and remember where you have been.  Oh, I want to know so
much."

"I cannot, 'merch i, already it is slipping away from me as usual; but
never mind, it will all come back by and by, and I hope I will be a
wiser and a better woman after my long sleep.  It is always so, I
think, Morva."

"Yes," said the girl, "you are always wiser, and better, and kinder
after your long sleeps, if that is possible, mother fâch."

Sara's ordinary cheerful and placid manner had already returned to her,
and in an hour or two she was quite herself again, and moving about her
cottage as if nothing had happened; and when Morva left her for the
morning milking she felt no uneasiness about her.

"She's in the angels' keeping, I know, and God is over all," she
murmured, as she ran over the cliffs to Garthowen.

She said nothing at the farm of the events of the past night, knowing
how reticent Sara was upon the subject herself.  Moreover, it was one
of too sacred a character in the eyes of these two lonely women to be
discussed with the outside and unbelieving world.

In the evening, when Morva returned from the farm, a little earlier
than usual, she was full of tender inquiries.

"Are you well, mother fâch?  I have been uneasy about you."

"Quite well, child, and very happy.  'Twill all be right soon, Morva.
Canst take my word for it?  For I cannot explain how I know, but I tell
thee thy trouble will soon be over.  How are they at Garthowen
to-night?"

"Oh, well," said the girl; "only 'n'wncwl Ebben is always very sad.
Not even Will's marriage will make him happy.  'Tis breaking his heart
he is for the old close companionship.  Will ought to come and see him
oftener.  Poor 'n'wncwl Ebben!  'Tis sad to lose his two sons."

"Gethin will come home," said Sara; "and Ebben Owens will be happy
again."

Morva made no answer, but watched the sparks from the crackling furze,
as they flew up the chimney, and thought of the night when she had
stamped them out with her wooden shoe, and had dared the uncertainties
of the future.  She was wiser now, and knew that life had its shadows
as well as its glowing sunshine.  She had experienced the former, but
the sunshine was returning to her heart to-night in a full tide of joy,
for she had implicit confidence in her foster-mother's keen intuitions.

"Mother, what did you see, what did you hear, in that long trance?  I
would like to know so much.  Your body was here, but where was your
spirit?"

"I cannot tell, 'merch i.  To me it was a dreamless sleep, but now that
I am awake I seem to know a great many things which were dark to me
before.  You know it is always so with me when I have had my long
sleeps.  They seem to brighten me up, and it appears quite natural to
me when the things that have been dark become plain."

She felt no surprise as the scenes and events of the recent past were
unfolded to her.  She understood now why Gethin had gone away so
suddenly and mysteriously.  Morva's love for him she saw with clear
insight, and, above all, the cause of Ebben Owens's increasing gloom.
How simple all was now, and how happy was she in the prospect of
helping them all.

"Mother," asked Morva again one evening, as they walked in the garden
together, "there is one question I would like to ask you again, but
somehow I am afraid.  Who stole the money at Garthowen?"

"Don't ask me that question, 'merch i.  Time will unfold it all.  'Tis
very plain who took it, and I wonder we didn't see it before; but leave
it now, child.  I don't know how, but soon it will be cleared up, and
the sun will shine again.  Ask me no more questions, Morva, and every
day will bring its own revealment."

"I will ask nothing more, mother.  Let us go in and boil the bwdran for
supper."

At the early milking next morning Ebben Owens himself came into the
farmyard.  He stooped a good deal, and, when Morva rallied him on his
sober looks, sighed heavily, as he stood watching the frothing milk in
her pail.

"See what a pailful of milk Daisy has, 'n'wncwl Ebben!  Yesterday
Roberts the drover from Castell On passed through the yard when I was
milking, and oh, there's praising her he was!  'Would Ebben Owens sell
her, d'ye think?' he asked, and he patted her side; but Daisy didn't
like it, and she nearly kicked my pail over.  'Sell her!' I said.
'What for would 'n'wncwl Ebben sell the best cow in his herd?  No, no,'
said I.  'Show us one as good as her, and 'tis buying he'll be, and not
selling.'"

"Lol! lol!" said the old man; "thee mustn't be too sure, girl.  I am
getting old and not fit to manage the farm.  I wouldn't care much if I
sold everything and went to live in a cottage."

"'Twt, twt," said Morva, "you will never leave old Garthowen, and
'twill be long before Roberts the drover takes Daisy away.  Go and see
mother, 'n'wncwl Ebben; she is full of good news for you.  She says
there is brightness coming for you, and indeed, indeed _she knows_."

"Yes, she knows a good deal, but she doesn't know everything, Morva.
No, no," he said, turning away, "she doesn't know everything."

CHAPTER XIX

THE "SCIET"

"Art going to chapel to-night, Morva?" said Ebben Owens on the
following Sunday afternoon, as he sat smoking in the chimney-corner,
Tudor beside him gazing rather mournfully into the fire.  He was
looking ill and worn, and spoke in a low, husky voice.  He had sat
there lost in thought ever since he had pushed away his almost untasted
dinner.

"Yes," said Morva, "I am going; but mother is not coming to-night; she
doesn't like the Sciet, you know."

"She is an odd woman," said Ann.  "Not like the Sciet indeed!  If I
didn't love her so much I would be very angry with her."

Morva flushed.

"She is very different to other people, I know; but she is a good woman
whatever."

"Yes, yes, yes," said Ebben Owens emphatically; "but why doesn't she
like the Sciet?"

"Oh! that's what she is saying," answered the girl, "that she doesn't
see the use of people standing up to confess half their sins and
keeping back the other and the worst half.  She has been talking to
Gwilym Morris about it, and he is agreeing with her."

"Och fi!" sighed the old man, relapsing into his moody silence, from
which not even little Gwyl's chatter was able to rouse him.

At last when the cheerful sound of the tea-things, and Ann's
oft-repeated summons, recalled him to outward surroundings, he rose as
if wearily, and drew his chair to the table, where, stooping more and
more over his tea, Ann detected a tear furtively wiped away.

"You won't take little Gwyl to chapel to-night, will you? 'tis rather
damp," he said, though it was really a clear twilight.

"No, no," said Ann, "Magw will take care of him at home."

Gwilym helped the old man to change his coat.

"Where are his gloves, Ann, and his best hat?  There's grand he'll be!"

But there was no answering smile on his father-in-law's face.

"Twt, twt," he said, "there is no need of gloves for me, and I won't
wear my best hat, give me my old one."

He sighed heavily as with bent head, and hands buried deep in his coat
pockets, he followed Ann and her husband down the stony road to the
valley where Penmorien Chapel lay.  It was one of the unlovely square
buildings so much affected by the Welsh Dissenters, its walls of grey
stone differing little in appearance and colour from the rocky bed of
the hill which had been quarried out for its site.

As the Garthowen family entered, led by the preacher hat in hand, there
was a little movement of interest in the thronging congregation, and a
settling down to their prospective enjoyment, for an eloquent sermon
possesses for the Welsh the intense charm of a good drama.  The
familiar pictures of every-day life with which the sermon is frequently
illustrated, the vivid word-painting, the tender but firm touch which
plays upon the chords of their strongest emotions, all combine to
awaken within them those feelings of pleasurable excitement, denied to
them through the medium of the forbidden theatre.

Gwilym Morris was heart and soul a preacher, full of burning zeal for
his mission, and, moreover, at this period of his ministry he was
passing through a crisis in his spiritual life--a crisis which left him
with a broader field of vision, and more enlightened views of God's
Providence than he had hitherto dared to adopt.  As he passed up the
pulpit stairs and saw the thronging mass of eager faces upraised to
his, a subtle influence reached him, a fervour of spirit which he knew
was the answer to the expectancy depicted on his people's faces.  It
was as though that waiting throng had formed itself into one collective
being, for whose soul he bore a message, and to whom he must unburden
himself, and there was a depth of meaning in his voice as he gave out
the words of an old familiar hymn which fixed his hearers' attention at
once.  Ebben Owens had always led the hymns, but latterly he had
dropped that custom, and to-night he stood silent with eyes fixed upon
the evening sky, visible through the long chapel window.  The hymn was
sung with fervour, and in that volume of sound his voice was not
missed.  The old grey walls reverberated to the rich tones, which
filled the chapel, and pouring out through the open doors, flooded the
narrow valley with harmony.  It was followed by a prayer, and another
hymn, after which the candles were lighted, one on each iron pillar
supporting the crowded gallery, one on each side of the "big seat"
under the pulpit, and one on each side of the preacher, who, leaning
his arms on the open Bible before him, began in low impressive tones to
deliver himself of the message which he bore to his people.  Only the
old familiar words, "Come unto Me all ye that are weary and heavy laden
and I will give you rest."  Only the message of a greater Preacher than
he--only the theme of a love unchanging and unfathomable, but told in
such vivid though simple language, that the sensitive Celtic hearts of
his audience, were enthralled and subdued, and there were few in that
large crowd who did not gaze at the preacher through eyes blurred with
tears.  Sometimes his voice rose in indignant protest, and sometimes
fell in tender appeal, and when at last the sermon was over and the
last hymn had been sung, there was an evident feeling of regret and a
furtive drying of eyes.

In curious almost ludicrous contrast to the preacher's mellow tones,
Jos Hughes's cracked voice broke the solemn silence, with the
information that there would be an "experience" meeting after the
service.  One third of the congregation therefore, remained seated
while the rest poured out through the narrow doorways into the stony
road, up which the sea wind was blowing.  Then the doors were closed
and the preacher came down and sat among the deacons in the "big seat."
Ebben Owens was asked for his usual opening prayer, but he declined the
request with a shake of his head.  Jos Hughes gladly took his place,
and after a long-winded prayer from him, a hymn was sung again, and
then the business of the meeting commenced.

From a dark corner pew a weak voice broke the silence, and every eye
turned to the speaker, a little shrivelled woman who was a frequent
confessor of sins, and was correspondingly respected.

"I wish to say," said the quavering voice, "that I am daily and hourly
becoming less sure of my salvation, my past sins weigh heavily upon me,
and neither prayer nor reading bring a gleam of comfort into my heart.
I should be glad to see the preacher or one of the deacons if they will
trouble to come to Ffoshelig."

"I will certainly," said the preacher; and again there was a pause,
till Jos Hughes stood up, and with great unction delivered his soul of
its burden.

"My dear brethren," he said, with eyes upturned to the ceiling, his
stubby fingers interlaced over his waistcoat of fawn kerseymere, "I am
much perplexed and disheartened!  I have been deacon of this chapel for
thirty years, and I am not aware that I have ever failed in my duty as
a member of this 'body.'  I neglect no opportunity of prayer, or hymn
singing, or warning my neighbour.  I teach in the Sunday School, and I
fulfil every duty as far as I am able--and yet, my friends, for two
whole days in the week that is past, I was as dry as--a paper bag!  I
felt no fervour of spirit, no uplifting of soul; in fact, dear people,
it was low tide with me, the rocks were bare, the sands were dry, and I
was almost despairing.  But thank the Lord! the tide turned, grace and
praise and joy flowed in upon me once more; I have received the
'Invoice' of good things to come, and I am filled with the peace and
content I generally enjoy."

A few words of congratulation and sympathy were spoken by another
grey-headed deacon, after which a silence fell upon the meeting, the
preacher making no comment upon what he had heard.  The tick of the
clock on the gallery, the distant swish of the waves, and the soft
sighing of the evening breeze alone were audible.

At length another voice broke the silence.  It was Ebben Owens, who was
standing up, and for a moment looking round at the old familiar faces
of his fellow worshippers.

It had been a frequent custom of his to relate his religious
experiences at the "Sciets," so neither Ann nor her husband were
surprised; but Morva detected something unusual in the old man's
manner.  At many a meeting he had confessed to the frailties of human
nature, with platitudes, and expressions of repentance, which had lost
all reality from constant repetition.  But he had satisfied the
meeting, and at the end of it he had taken up his hat, smoothed his
hair down over his forehead, and walked out of the chapel in the odour
of sanctity.  To-night it was a very different man who stood there.  At
first his voice was low and trembling, but as he proceeded it gathered
strength, so that his words were audible even in the corner pew, whose
little shrivelled occupant was eagerly listening, in the hopes that
another person's experience--and he a good man--might throw some light
upon her own difficulties.

"Good people all!" said the old man, "will you bear with me for a few
moments, while I unburden my mind of a weight that is pressing sore
upon me? and God grant that none of you may suffer what I have suffered
lately! but justly--remember justly am I punished.

"You think you know me well, my dear friends.  'There is Ebben Owens
Garthowen,' you say, 'our deacon,' and perhaps you say 'an upright man
and honest!'  But I am here to-night to tell you what I am in truth.  I
have stood before you dozens of times, and told you of want of
faith--of cold prayers--and lack of interest in holy things.  I have
asked for your prayers many times, and have gone home and forgotten to
pray myself!  Yes, I have been your deacon for thirty years, and all
that time I have deceived you, and deceived myself.  I never told you
about my real sins, but you shall know to-night what Ebben Owens is.  I
have been weak and yielding in money matters--have lent and given my
money, not out of real charity, but because it brought me the praise of
man.  I have lied and cheated in the market, and still my soul was
asleep, and you all thought well of me.  I have pretended to be a
temperate man, but I have often drunk until my brain was dull, and my
eyes were heavy, and have flung myself down on my bed in a drunken
sleep, without thought and without prayer."

He paused a moment, and the sea wind, coming in at the window, blew a
stray lock of his grey hair over his forehead.  His tongue seemed
parched and dry, his voice husky and uncertain, but with a fresh effort
he continued:

"Are you beginning to know me, my friends?  Not yet, not yet, listen!
God gave me two brave boys, and how did I take his gift?  I made an
idol of one, and was unjust, and often harsh, to the other.  As the
years went on I continued in that sinful path, and in my old age the
Lord is punishing me.  The boy I idolised and loved--God knows with a
love that effaced the image of the Almighty from my heart--has deserted
me, has grown ashamed of me, and my punishment is just and righteous.
The other--whom I treated harshly and thrust from me--has also deserted
me in my old age; this, too, is just and righteous.  The sting of it is
sharp and hard to bear, for God has made me love that boy, and long for
his presence; and this, too, is just and righteous.  Let no one pity
me, or think I am punished more than I deserve.  And now, do you think
you know me?  Not yet, my friends, for listen, your deacon, Ebben Owens
of Garthowen, is a thief!  Do you hear it, all of you?  A thief!" and
he looked round the chapel inquiringly.

The men looked at him with flushed, excited faces, the women stooped
forward to hide theirs, some of them crying silently, but all moved as
by a sudden storm.  Ann had bent lower and lower in her pew, and was
weeping bitter tears of shame, clasping Morva's hand, who stood looking
in frightened amazement from one to another.

"A thief!" continued the old man, "and a cowardly thief!  One who
sacrificed honour and truth and common honesty that he might gratify
his foolish pride.  But to come nearer, my friends, hear what I have
done.  By careless spendthrift ways I had wasted my money so that I had
not sufficient to send my son to college.  This galled my pride, and I
stole from my son-in-law's drawer the sum of 40 pounds which I knew he
had placed there.  I was too proud to borrow from a Methodist preacher
the money I required to get my son into the Church.  When the theft was
discovered," and the old man held up his finger to enforce his
words--"are you listening?--when the theft was discovered I tried at
first to throw the blame upon a member of this congregation, whom, of
course, I knew to be innocent; later on, when circumstances seemed to
point more directly to my dear eldest son, I gladly let the suspicion
rest upon him, and I did everything in my power to give colour to the
idea of his guilt.  There I am, dear friends.  That is Ebben Owens.
You know him now as what he is--a liar--a sot--a thief!  You will turn
me out of your 'Sciet.'  You are right; I am not worthy to be a member
of it.  I don't want anyone's pity, I only want you to know me as I am,
and may God forgive me."

And he sat down amidst breathless silence, his hands sunk deep into his
pockets, his chin resting on his chest.  Shame, repentance, and sorrow
filled his heart, and it required all the strength of his manhood to
keep back the tears which would well up into his eyes.  It was all so
still in the chapel, not a word of sympathy; even a word of reproach
would have been acceptable to the miserable man, who could not read
beneath the surface, the tumult of varied feelings which were surging
through the hearts of the congregation.

Suddenly two heavy paws were resting on his knee, and Tudor's warm
breath was on his face as he tried to lick the old man's bare forehead.
The touch of sympathy was more than he could bear, he rose hastily to
his feet, and, followed by the dog, passed out of the chapel, leaving
Gwilym Morris, with a tremble in his voice, to bring the meeting to a
close.

Although he had sometimes strayed into the chapel Tudor had never
before been known to invade the sanctity of the "big seat," and what
brought him there on this particular evening was one of those mysteries
which enshroud the possibilities of animal instinct.  Perhaps he had
been struck by the dejected attitude of his master, as he followed his
daughter and son-in-law through the farmyard; at all events the loving
and loyal heart had felt that over that bent head and stooping figure a
cloud of trouble hung low, and as he followed his master through the
silent congregation he hung his head and drooped his tail as though he
himself were the delinquent.

"Come, Ann, let us follow him," whispered Morva.

"No," answered Ann, withdrawing her hand from Morva's warm clasp, "I
cannot.  Go thou and comfort him.  I will wait for Gwilym."

And Morva did not hesitate, though it required some courage to make her
way through that shocked and scandalised throng.

Gaining the door, where the fresh night air met her with refreshing
coolness, she saw the tall, stooping figure moving slowly up the stony
road, followed by the dejected Tudor, and in a moment was at his side.
Taking his hard, rough hand in both her warm palms she lifted it to her
cheek and pressed it to her neck.

"'N'wncwl Ebben dear, and dear, and very dear! my heart is breaking for
you!  To think that while we knew nothing about it you were bearing all
the burden of your repentance alone.  But there is plenty of love in
all our hearts to sink every sin you ever committed in its depths, for
the sake of all the good you have done and all the kindness you have
shown to me and to every one who came near you, and you know God's
forgiveness is waiting for every sinner who repents."

The old man said nothing for some time, but trudged heavily beside her.

"_Thou_ art tender and forgiving, whatever," he said at last; "but Ann,
where is she?  Will she ever forgive me?"

"She is waiting for Gwilym," answered Morva.

"She is right; but come thou with me, lass; thou must help me to-night,
for I have only done half my task," and as they passed under the elder
tree at the back door he hurried before her into the house.

"Now, 'merch i, bring me pen and ink and some paper."

Now was the time, he felt, when he must make a clean breast of all his
guilt, and drink his bitter draught of expiation to the dregs.  He
seized the pen eagerly and with trembling hands began to write, "My
beloved son."  The letter was to Will, of course.  A clergyman! a
gentleman! with a lady to wife!  What would he say when he heard that
his father was a thief?

He made a full and ample confession, adding no extenuating
circumstances and making no excuses.  He wrote slowly and laboriously,
Morva meanwhile rifling Ann's work-box for a seal.

"There's beautiful writing for an old man," she said at last, as Ebben
Owens toiled through the address, his tongue following every movement
of the pen.  "Now, here's the seal, and I will put the letter in the
post at once, and then your mind will be easy."

"Easy!" he said, leaning his head on his folded arms; "'tis my son,
girl, my beloved son, whose love and respect I am cutting off from me
for ever.  Tell thy mother, too; let them all know what I am.  Here
come Ann and Gwilym; perhaps they will be as hard upon me as I deserve."

Here Tudor again laid his soft head on the table beside his master's,
and the old man passed his arm round the dog's neck.

"Yes--yes, 'machgen i, I know I have thee still.  Go, Morva, post my
letter at Pont-y-fro, though 'tis Sunday night.  Good-night, girl, thou
hast an old man's blessing.  For what it is worth," he added, under his
breath, as the girl passed out of one door, while Gwilym and Ann
entered at the other.

On their way home through the clear starlight, Gwilym had endeavoured
to soothe Ann's distress, to point out to her how real a proof of
repentance was her father's confession.  He reminded her of the joy
amongst the angelic host over one sinner that repenteth! but his words
failed to make their usual impression upon her.  Shame, and contempt
for her father's weakness were uppermost in her heart, and expressed
upon her countenance, when she entered the kitchen.  One glance,
however, at the bowed grey head and the dejected attitude, banished
every feeling of anger to the winds; with a bound she was at her
father's side, her arms round his neck, her head leaning with his on
the table, Tudor laying his own beside them.

Ebben Owens's departure from the chapel had been followed by a few
moments of breathless silence.  No more experiences were told, no hymn
was sung, but a short and fervid prayer from the preacher alone
preceded the dismissal which sent the astonished and deeply-moved
congregation pouring out into the roadway.

Jos Hughes had trembled with fright when Ebben Owens had alluded to his
want of money at the time of Will's entering college, and had expected
nothing less than an exposure of his oft broken promises and the long
delayed payment of his debt; but as the old man proceeded without
allusion to his shortcomings, he had regained his courage, and his
usual smug appearance of righteous peace and content.

"Well!" he said to his fellow-deacons, as they followed the rough road
to Pont-y-fro, "did you ever think we had such a fool for a deacon?"

"'Ts--'ts! never indeed," said John Jones of the "Blue Bell."

"Well, indeed," said old Thomas Morgan, the weaver, "I didn't know we
had such a sinner amongst us; but fool! perhaps it would be better if
we were all such fools."

But no one took any notice of his remark, for he was never considered
to have been endowed with his full complement of sense, though his pure
and unblemished life had caused him to be chosen deacon.

"Well," said Jos again, as he reached his own shop door, "I always knew
Garthowen's pride would come down some day; but I never, never thought
he was such a fool!"

CHAPTER XX

LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE

It was nearly midnight, and still Sara and Morva sat over the fire in
earnest conversation.  The March wind roared in the chimney, the sound
of the sea came up the valley.  Outside, under the night sky, the furze
and broom bushes waved and bowed to each other, and in the sheltered
cwrt the daffodils under the hedge nodded and swayed in the wind; but
the two women inside the cottage were too much engrossed in their
conversation, and with their thoughts, to notice the wildness of the
night.  Often they sat in silence, broken by occasional words of sorrow.

"Oh, poor 'n'wncwl Ebben!  No wonder he was sitting thinking and
thinking in the chimney-corner!"

"No, no wonder indeed, och i! och i!  But now he has done the best
thing for his own peace of mind."

"Peace of mind!" said Morva.  "I am afraid he will never have that,
mother.  He said when we were walking home together that he wished he
could die; and I'm afraid he will before long.  He is breaking his
heart for his two sons."

Sara did not answer; she was gazing at the glowing fire, whose flames
and sparks chased each other up the chimney.  At last she straightened
herself.

"Garthowen shall not die while I can help him, Morva," she said.  "I
have seen all this coming, 'merch i, and I know now what my dreams have
meant lately.  _They_ are calling me, Morva; _they_ have been calling
me since the turn of the year, and I have closed my ears.  But
now"--and she stood up, though still leaning on her stick--"but now I
must go."

Morva looked at her in astonishment, for the aged form seemed to grow
young again with the strength of purpose within it.  The gentle face
appeared to lose the wrinkles of age.  In the fitful light of the fire,
it took again the lines of beauty and youth which had once belonged to
it.

"Thou must not be surprised, child," she added, "if some evening when
thou com'st home from the farm thou shalt find the house empty.  The
key will be on the lintel, and thou must come in and wait in patience
till I return.  I thought there was nothing more for me to do, but I
see it now," and with her stick she pointed into the dark corner where
the spinning-wheel stood, and the red earthen pitcher which went so
often to the well.  "I see it, 'merch i; 'tis a journey for me.  I
don't see quite where it ends, but I will be safe, Morva, for God is
everywhere.  _They_ are calling me, and they will bring me safe home
again.  Let me go, child; 'tis to fetch a blessing for Garthowen and
for thee, so don't thee fret, lass.  Then my work will be done; there
will be only one more journey for me--the last! and from that thou wilt
not see me return.  But I will be with thee, and thee must not sorrow
for me."

"Oh, mother," said the girl, burying her face in her apron, "are you
going to die?  How can I live in this world without you?"  And swaying
backwards and forwards, she cried bitterly.

"Not yet, my child, not yet; I have work to do and there are happy days
in store for us both; but some day, Morva, it must come, and when it
comes thou must not grieve for me.  Come, 'merch i, 'tis late; let us
go to bed."

And the girl, somewhat comforted, dried her eyes and closed the rickety
door.  She slept heavily after her late watching, so heavily that she
did not hear when Sara rose in the grey of the dawn.  At her usual time
Morva rose too, and immediately missed her mother.  A wild fear
throbbed through her heart as she searched in and out of the cottage.

"Mother!" she called up the step ladder which led to the loft, out in
the cwrt and in the garden.  "Mother fâch! where are you?"  But there
was no answer, and she realised that Sara had gone, and that she was
alone!

After the first pang of fright, a calmness and even happiness entered
her heart; she had learnt to put implicit trust in her strange
foster-mother, and a feeling of complete reassurance and content began
to take possession of her mind.

It would be well with Sara, for whatever she attempted she never failed
to accomplish, and it would be well with Garthowen too!  "Her ways are
blessed," said the girl, clasping her hands, and returning to her
solitary breakfast.  "The spirits have her in their keeping, that I
know, and she will come back and bring us joy and happiness!"

Whether in the depths of her heart it was dawning upon her what
blessing she expected from Sara's pilgrimage is difficult to know;
perhaps unconsciously she already nourished the hope which was to grow
with every day of her mother's absence, until it gilded her whole life
with a rapturous expectancy; at all events, it was a very blithe and
joyous maiden who brushed the dew off the sheep path to Garthowen in
time for the milking that morning.  She would have sung one of Sara's
old Nature songs, had not the remembrance of the sorrow at the farm
kept her silent.  The March wind blew keen and crisp around her, the
air was filled with the quivering songs of the larks, the furze was
bursting into bloom, even the bare blackthorn put on its speckled
mantle of white; what wonder was it in a world so fair, that Morva's
heart sang for joy?  But as she turned round the Cribserth, a sudden
shadow came upon her, for here was Ebben Owens coming towards her, with
bent head and slow dragging step.  She hurried forward to meet him.

"I thought thee wouldst turn back, lass, or make an excuse to pass me
by," he said.

"But no! no! no!" said the girl, linking her arm into the old man's,
and turning back with him, "'tis closer and closer we must cling
together, 'n'wncwl Ebben, dear, the further we go on the path of life.
Did you think that Morva could pass you by?  Ach y fi! no indeed!  But
where are you going so early?"

"To see Sara," said the old man--"to see if she will still be my friend
when she knows how bad I am."

"She knows it all," said Morva; "I told her last night, and her heart
was torn with sorrow and love for you; and now turn back with me to
Garthowen, for Sara is gone; the cottage is empty!"

"Gone!" said the old man, with a gasp, "Sara gone!"

"Yes--gone!  'Garthowen shall not die of grief while I can help him,'
she said; 'I am going a long journey, child, and ye must not grieve for
me; I will come back and bring joy and comfort with me.'  That's what
she said," and Morva nodded her head emphatically.  "Oh, she will come,
she will come, as she has promised, and bring you comfort; what it will
be I cannot tell," and leaning her head coaxingly on the old man's arm
she asked, in a playful tone of mystery, "now what can it be, this
great blessing she is going to bring you?"

"I don't know," said the old man, taking scant interest in her
surmises; he was thinking how he would bear this fresh loss!

"But what do you think?"

"A Bible, perhaps."

"A Bible!" said Morva impatiently, "no--no, not a Bible; Sara knows you
have plenty of them at Garthowen, and she has too much sense to bring
you another--no! 'tisn't that! but oh, what will it be, I wonder?"

And day after day this was the question that ran through her thoughts,
"What will it be, I wonder?"

Sitting down to her milking she sang with full voice once more the old
song which Daisy loved.  Of late her voice had been very low, and the
song scarcely reached beyond Daisy's sleek sides, but to-day it came
back, and the farmyard was filled with happy melody.

Everything went on as usual in the farm.  Ann tried to let no
difference be seen in her manner to her father, unless indeed she was a
little more tender and loving.  The farm servants, who, if they had not
been at the Sciet, had yet heard the tale of disgrace, were unanimous
in their endeavours to comfort the old mishteer whom they loved with so
much loyalty.

"Pwr fellow bâch!" they said to each other, "'twas for his son after
all, and if he had kept it to himself nobody would have known anything
about it!"

He alone was altered, going about with a saddened mien and gentler
voice than of old, and apparently finding his chief solace in the
company of his little grandson, who followed him about as closely and
untiringly as Tudor did.

"Ah, we are brave companions, aren't we, Gwil?" he would sometimes ask
with a tremble in his voice.

"Odin (Yes, we are)," said the child.

"And thou lov'st thine old grandfather with all thine heart, eh?"

"Odw (Yes, I do!)," said the child, impatient to be gone.

They were sitting under the elder tree in the farmyard.

"Stop a minute," said the old man, in a husky, anxious voice, "if da-cu
(grandfather) had done anything wrong, wouldst love him still the same?"

"Oh, more!" said the boy, "because then we'd be two naughty boys!"

And while they sat under the elder tree, and Morva helped Ann with her
churning, five miles away, on the wind-swept high road, a bent figure
was trudging along, with slow but steady footsteps, with the thought of
them all in her mind, and the sweet memory of home in her heart, but
with an earnest purpose in her eyes; to bring happiness and hope to her
old friend, to the man who in the days gone by had jilted her, and torn
her heart strings, who had won her love, but had married another woman,
and regretted it ever after.

It was Sara, who had risen with the first streak of dawn, and snatching
a hurried breakfast had left her foster-daughter asleep.  She had
lifted the lid of the coffer and had taken out the best half of her
scarlet mantle, leaving the worn and faded half hanging Over the
spinning wheel.  "Morva would understand," she thought, "and would wash
it and lay it away in the coffer until her return."  A gown too she
wore, instead of her peasant dress, a gown of red and black homespun,
which had been her best when she was first married.  On her head a
black felt hat, with low crown, and slouching brim over her full
bordered cap of frilled muslin.  Strong shoes with bows on the instep,
her crutch stick in her hand, and a little bundle of clothes tied up in
a cotton handkerchief completed her outfit, and thus equipped she stole
silently to the bedside where Morva lay, flushed with the heavy sleep
of youth and health.

"My little daughter!" was all she said, but her eyes were full of tears
as she passed through the cwrt and took the sheep path which led to the
top of the moor.  Reaching the brow of the hill she turned into a
narrow lane, over which the thorn bushes, just showing signs of their
budding greenery, almost met together.  Under their branches she made
her way, to where the lane opened out to a grassy square, on which
stood a tiny whitewashed cottage.  The thatch reached low over the
door, and its one window no bigger than a child's slate.  There were no
signs of life, but Sara did not hesitate to raise the wooden latch and
open the door, which she found unbolted.

In the murky gloom of the cottage it was difficult at first to see
where the bed lay, but as space was circumscribed she had not far to
look; in fact, one curtained side of the bed made the wall of the
passage, and she had but to turn round this to see an old and wrinkled
face asleep on the pillow.

"I must wake her, pwr thing," said Sara, and she began to call softly,
"Nani, Nani fâch!"

The sleep of age is easily put to flight, and Nani opened her eyes.

"Sara ''spridion'!" she said, in astonishment.  "Sara Lloyd, I mean,
but I was dreaming, Sara dear.  What is it?" and she sat up not a
little disturbed, for Sara's name alone sufficed to arouse the latent
fear of the "hysbis" or occult, always lurking in the Celtic mind.

Sara only smiled as the word "'spridion" escaped the frightened woman's
lips.

"Is it time to get up?" she said, beginning to rub her eyes.

"No, no," said Sara, taking a seat by the bedside, and leaning upon her
stick.  "Lie still, Nani fâch, and forgive me for awaking you, but I am
going a journey, and a journey that won't wait."

"Oh, dear!" said Nani, "are you going by the old trên, then?  As for
me, I'm too frightened of it to go and see my own daughter.  She's
asked me many times, and I would have good living there, but I wouldn't
venture in the trên for the whole world!"

"I'm not afraid of it," said Sara, "but I have never seen it.  'Twould
be strange to me, and the shipping comes more natural, so I'm going to
Caer-Madoc, for I know the steamer sails from there to Cardiff every
Tuesday.  I hope I will be there in time; but tell me, Nani, about
Kitty your daughter."

"She is married again, and such a good husband she has.  John Parry
nearly killed her, pwr thing, and then he died, and she married this
man--his name is Jones."

"But I want to know," said Sara, "did she say anything about Gethin
Owens when she was here?"

"She said she was never seeing him, and she didn't know why he was
keeping away from her, and the sailors were often seeing him about the
docks, but she didn't know where he was lodging now.  There's glad I
was to see her; but indeed, Sara fâch, it cost me a lot of money, 'cos
she's got a good appetite, whatever.  'Tis a great waste to come all
that long way by the trên.  She wants to come again, and if it wasn't
for the money--"

Sara, who had no sympathy with the parsimony of many of her class, rose
to go.

"Well, I won't stop longer, Nani fâch; good-bye and thank you."

When she saw her visitor was really going, Nani was profuse in her
offers of hospitality.

"Going!  Caton pawb! not without breakfast?"

But Sara was gone, and already making her way to the high road which
led along the brow of the hill to Caer-Madoc.  It was twenty years
since she had last been in the town, and even in this remote place
twenty years had brought changes--the busy streets, the shops, the
cries of the vendors of herrings and cockles, would have bewildered and
puzzled her had she not been possessed by a strong purpose and
sustained by that faith which can move mountains.  Aided by old
memories she found her way to the quay and to the small steamer with
the long English name, which plied twice a week between the ports of
Caer-Madoc and Cardiff.

"Are you going to Cardiff?" she asked the master, who stood on the quay.

"Why, yes, of course this is the day, and we are starting in a quarter
of an hour.  Who are you?" he said, looking with amused curiosity at
the quaint figure with her crutch stick and black bundle.

"I am Sara Lloyd of Garthowen Moor, and I want to go with you to
Cardiff.  Will you take me?"

"Of course, little woman, if you can pay."

"Oh, yes," said Sara, undoing the corner of her pocket-handkerchief,
"how much is it?" and she held out a half-sovereign.

"Eight shillings--you pay in there," and he pointed to a red painted
shed, "but look you here, little woman, that big pocket doesn't suit
such a place as Cardiff, 'tis too easily got at; tie your money up
tight and put it inside the breast of your gown."

"Yes," said Sara, obeying, "and thank you."

"Look alive, then, and I will take you on board."

Sara found a seat near the prow of the ship.

"We'll have to tie a few weights to you by and by, I'm thinking, or
you'll be blown away," said the captain, as he kindly arranged some
boxes and baskets so as to shelter her a little from the strong March
wind.

"Am I the only passenger?"

"Yes.  'Tis mostly goods we carry, but sometimes we have a stray
passenger.  And where would you be going now so far from Garthowen Moor
in your old age?"

Welsh curiosity is a quantity that has to be taken into account.

"I am going to Cardiff."

"Yes, yes; but when you get there?"

"I don't know for sure."

The captain looked grave.

"You have a daughter, perhaps, or a son at Cardiff?"

"No, neither," said Sara.  "'Tis the oldest son of Garthowen I am
seeking for--Gethin Owens, have you ever seen him?"

"Gethin Owens!" said the captain, in a tone of surprise.  "What? the
dark brown chap with the white teeth and the bright eyes like a
starling's?"--Sara nodded--"and gold rings in his ears?"

"That's him," said Sara.  "Do you know him?"

"Caton pawb! as well as if he was my own son.  He's mate of the
_Gwenllian_, trading to Monte Video and other foreign parts.  The
_Gwenllian_ sailed about four months ago and would be back about now.
Is that what you are expecting?"

"Yes," said Sara, "Ebben Owens Garthowen is wearing his heart away
longing for his son, and I think if I can see him I have news for him
that will bring him to the old home."

"Well, well," said the captain, "little did I think the mate of the
_Gwenllian_ was the son of my old friend Ebben Owens Garthowen!  Why!
long ago I have been stopping with him, when he was a young man and I
the same.  I remember he was courting a handsome girl there, the finest
lass you ever set your eyes upon, straight she was, and tall, with
brown hair and dark blue eyes, like the night sky with the stars in it;
oh! she was a fine lass, and she carried her pail on her head as
straight as a willow wand," and the old captain clasped his own waist
above the hips, and strutted about with an imaginary pail on his head.
"Well, I heard afterwards that Ebben Owens treated her shocking bad,
and married another girl, with money, but they say he never cared for
her, and was never happy with her; and serve him right, say I.  Dear!
dear! how the time slips by!"

"Yes," said Sara, "he is an old man now, and in sore trouble.  I live
on his land, and I want to bring happiness back to Garthowen."

"Of course, of course!" said the captain, "but indeed; little woman,
I'm afraid you'll have hard work, for there's something strange about
that lad lately; he's keeping with the English sailors when he's in
port and avoiding all his old companions.  I have heard my son tell of
him too, and how altered he is, and how angry the Welsh sailors are
with him, but I believe he is stiddy and upright."

"Well," said Sara, "if I can only have a word with him 'twill be all
right."

"Jâr-i! you have pluck, little woman, and 'tis well to have a friend
like you.  Well, I'll do my best for you.  I'll find you a night's
lodging and somebody to show you the way about next day.  Mrs. Jones,
Bryn Street, would take you in; it's where I go myself when I do spend
a night ashore."

"A hundred thanks.  That's where I'd like to go because I know her and
her mother."

When the captain left her she fell into a reverie, her sweet, patient
face, with its delicate complexion, lighted up by the images of
retrospection; the dark blue eyes, which held so much insight and
purpose in their depths, were still beautiful under their arched
eyebrows, the soft, straight fringe of hair combed down over her
forehead like a little child's showed the iron-grey of age, and the
mouth, a little sunken, told the same tale, but the spirit of love and
peace within preserved to Sara a beauty that was not dependent upon
outward form.  It was felt by all who came in contact with her, and
perhaps was the cause of the curious feeling of awe with which her
neighbours regarded her.

As the little puffing steamer ploughed her way through the clear, green
water, the ever-changing sky of a March day overhead, the snow-white
wreaths of spray, the clear white line of the horizon, the soft grey,
receding shore, all unheeded by the captain and his three subordinates,
aroused in Sara's mind the intense pleasure that only a heart at peace
with itself and with Nature can feel, and as she leant her soft veined
hands on her crutched stick, resting her chin upon them, a little
picturesque figure on the commonplace, modern steamer, the romance of
life which we are apt to associate only with the young, added its charm
to the thoughts of the woman of many years.  The beauty of the world,
the joy of it, the great hopes of it, all filled her soul to
overflowing, for she believed her journey would bring light and
happiness to Ebben Owens.  This had been the desire of her young life,
and would now be granted to her in her old age.  Yes!  Sara's heart was
full of joy and gratitude, for she knew neither doubt nor fear.

CHAPTER XXI

THE MATE OF THE "GWENLLIAN"

"There!" said Mrs. Jones next morning, as she gave Sara's toilet a
finishing touch, consisting of sundry tugs of adjustment to the red
mantle and an encouraging pat on the shoulders; "there! go 'long with
you now and find your precious Gethin, and give him a good scolding
from me.  Tell him he is the last man in the world I would expect to
desert an old friend as he has done lately.  There! the sight of such a
tidy, fresh-looking little country woman will do our pale-faced town
people good.  Oh, anwl!  I wish my Tom was alive; he'd have piloted you
straight to the _Gwenllian_.  He knew every ship that came into the
docks.  His heart was with the shipping though he could do nothing but
look at them, poor boy!" and drying her eyes with her apron she
dismissed Sara, who started with a brave heart.

Up the grimy, uninteresting Bryn Street, which the bright morning
sunlight scarcely improved, and soon into a wide, busy thoroughfare
where hurrying footsteps and jostling crowds somewhat disconcerted her.

The gay shops, especially the fruit shops, interested her greatly, as
well as the vehicles of every description, from the humble
costermonger's to the handsome broughams bearing their wealthy owners
to their offices for the day; the prettily-dressed children who toddled
beside their busy mothers to their early shopping; and, above all, the
strains of a brass band which was enlivening the morning hours with its
familiar _repertoire_.  Each and all were a revelation of delight to
the simple peasant.  Straight from the gorse and heather, a woman
exceptionally endowed with the instincts of a refined nature, one whose
only glimpses of the world had been gathered from the street of a small
provincial town, was it to be wondered at that to her the varied sights
and sounds around her seemed like the pageantry of a dream?

"'Tis a blue and gold world," she murmured, "and I'm glad I have seen
it before I die, but I can't think why the people look so dull and
cross."

Although she was unconscious of it, she was herself an object of
interest to the hurrying passers-by.  Many of them turned round to look
at the picturesque peasant woman, with her country gown and quaint
headgear.

"A woman come down from the hills," said a lady to her companion, as
Sara passed them, for a moment raising her eyes to theirs.

"And what a sweet face, and what wonderful eyes, so dark and blue.
There is something touching in that smooth fringe of grey hair."

But Sara passed on unheeding.  She was now in a quieter street, and as
she passed under the high grey walls of the jail, the prison van
crossed her path.  The heavy iron doors opened and it passed out of her
sight; the doors closed with a soft click and a turn of the key, and
Sara went on her way with a sigh.

"There are grey and black shadows in the making of it, too," she said,
and hurried on.

Once or twice she stopped to ask her way of a passer-by.

"The docks this way?  Yes, go on, and turn to the left."

At the end of the road she came upon a crowd of boys who were playing
some street game with loud shouts and laughter, and Sara, who had
hitherto braved all dangers, shrank a little.

"Hello, mother! where are you going?  There's a penny to pay for
passing through this way," and they crowded clamorously around her.

She looked at them calmly, disregarding their begging.

"Iss one of you will show me the docks, then shall he have a penny.
You," she said, pointing to one with a round pale face, and honest
black eyes.

"Yes 'll I," said the boy, and he turned down a corner, beckoning to
her to follow.

"Go on, old witch!" cried the disappointed ones; "where's your broom?"

"Can't you speak Welsh?" she asked, as she came abreast with her guide.

"Yes, that can I," said the boy in his native tongue.

"Oh, very good, then.  'Tis the _Gwenllian_ I am wanting--Captain
Price--can you find her?"

"Oh, yes, come on," said the boy.  "I was on board of her yesterday
morning, but she was about sailing for Toulon with a cargo of coal.
Most like she's gone."

Sara's heart sank, and as they came in sight of the forests of masts,
the bales of goods, the piles of boards, of pig iron, of bricks and all
the other impedimenta of a wharf, for the first time her heart was full
of misgivings.

"Stop you there," said the boy, "and I will go and see," and he darted
away, leaving Sara somewhat forlorn amongst the rough crowd of sailors
and dockmen.

"Hullo, mother!" said a jolly-looking red-faced man who had nearly
toppled over the little frail figure; "what you doing so far from home?
They are missing you shocking in some chapel away in the hills
somewhere, I'm sure."

"Well, indeed, 'tis there I would like to go as soon as my business is
ended.  'Tis Gethin Owens I am looking for, mate of the _Gwenllian_."

"Oh, ho," said the man, "you may go back to chapel at once, little
woman; you won't find him, for he sailed yesterday for France."

At this moment the boy returned with the same information, and Sara
turned her face sorrowfully away from the shipping.

"I will give you two pennies if you will take me back to Bryn Street."

"Come on," said the boy.

He did not tell her that his home lay in that identical street, and
that he was already due there.

Once more the little red mantle passed through the busy crowd.  Not for
years had Sara felt so sad and disappointed, the heavy air of the town
probably added to her dejection.

Mrs. Jones was loud in her sympathy as Sara, faint and weary, seated
herself on the settle.

"Oh, Kitty Jones fâch!" she said, leaning on her stick and swaying
backwards and forwards.  "I am more sorry than I can say.  To go back
without comfort for Garthowen or my little Morva.  He's gone to France,
and I suppose he won't be back for a year or six months, whatever, and
I have no money to stop here all that time."

"Six months!" said Mrs. Jones; "there's ignorant you are in the
country.  Why, he'll be back in a fortnight, perhaps a week.  What's
the woman talking about?"

"Yes, indeed?" said Sara, in delighted astonishment.  "Yes, I am a very
ignorant woman, I know, but a week or a fortnight, or even three weeks,
I will stop," and the usual look of happy content once more beamed in
her eyes.

Every day little Tom Jenkins, upon whom Sara's two pennies had made a
favourable impression, went down to the docks to see if the _Gwenllian_
had arrived.  When a week, a fortnight, and nearly three weeks had
passed away, and still she was not in port, Mrs. Jones suggested that
probably she had extended her voyage to some other port, or was perhaps
waiting for repairs.

At last one sunny morning Tom Jenkins came in with a whoop.

"The _Gwenllian_ is in the docks!" he cried, and Sara prepared at once
for another expedition in that direction.

"Wait a bit," said Mrs. Jones.  "You can write, Sara?"

"Yes, in Welsh," said the old woman.

"Well, then, send a letter, and Tom will take it for you."

Sara took her advice, and, putting on her spectacles, wrote as follows:

"Sara Lloyd, Garthowen Moor, is writing to thee, Gethin Owens, to say
she is here at Mrs. Jones's, No. 2 Bryn Street, with good news for
thee.  All the way from Garthowen to fetch thee, my boy, so come as
soon as thou canst."

The writing was large and sprawly, it was addressed to "Gethin Owens,
mate of the _Gwenllian_,--Captain Price," and when Tom had departed,
with the letter safe in his jacket pocket, the two women set themselves
to wait as patiently as they could; but the hours dragged on heavily
until tea-time.

"Gethin was fond of his tea," said Mrs. Jones, "and I wouldn't wonder
if he'd be here before long."

The tea table was laid, the cakes were toasted the tea brewing was
delayed for some time.  It was Mrs. Jones's turn now to be anxious, and
even irritable; but Sara had quite regained her composure.

"He'll come," she said.  "I know he'll come.  I know my work is nearly
over."

"There's missing you I'll be," said Mrs. Jones.  "I wish my poor old
mother was as easy to live with as you, Sara; but 'tis being alone so
long has made her cranky.  And the money--oh, she loves it dearly.
Indeed, if I can get Davy to agree, we will give up this house and go
home and live near her; 'tis pity the old woman should grow harder in
her old age."

"Yes," said Sara.  "'Tis riper and softer we ought to be growing in our
old age, more ready to be gathered.  I will go and see her sometimes;
oftener than I have."

Their conversation was interrupted by a shadow passing the window, and
a firm footstep in the passage.

"Hoi, hoi!" said a loud, breezy voice, "Mrs. Jones!--how is she here?"
and Gethin Owens clasped her hand with a resounding clap.

"Much you care how I am, Gethin Owens.  Never been to see me for so
long."

"Well, you look all the better for my absence, I think.  But what you
want with me?  Tom Jenkins said an old woman wanted to see me shocking,
and I gave him a clatch on his ear, to teach him not to call a young
woman like you an old woman.  Why, you look ten years younger than when
I saw you last."

"Go 'long, Gethin Owens," said Mrs. Jones.  "Didn't you have the
letter?"

"No.  Tom said the boys in the streets had torn it in a scrimmage they
had; but he gave me your message."

"Well, come in and look on the settle then."

In the shadow of the settle, Sara sat listening to the conversation,
with a look of amusement in her eyes.

Gethin looked a moment into the dark corner, and, recognising her, took
two steps in advance, with extended hands and a smiling greeting on his
lips; but suddenly the whole expression of his face changed to one of
anxiety and distrust.

"What is it," he said, "has brought you so far, Sara?  Is the old man
dead?"

"Nonsense, no!" said Sara.

"Well, you wouldn't come so far to tell me Will was married."

"Indeed I would, then," she said, rising.  "Come, thou foolish boy,
didn't I say it was good news?  Oh! but thou hasn't had my letter."

Gethin took both her hands between his own.

"Tis very kind of thee, Sara fâch, but a letter would have brought me
the news quite as safely.  Well!  I wish him joy.  'Tisn't Gethin Owens
is going to turn against his brother, because he has been a fortunate
man, while I have been unfortunate.  Yes, I wish him joy, and sweet
Morva every blessing under the sun."

"Twt, twt!" said Sara, "thee art all wrong, my boy.  'Tisn't Morva he
has married at all! and that's how I thought a letter could not explain
everything to thee as I could myself, and bring thee home to the old
country again."

Gethin shook his head.

"No, no; I have said good-bye to Garthowen, I will never go there
again."

"Well! why?" said Sara, still holding his hands, and looking into his
face with those compelling eyes of hers.

"There is no need to tell thee, Sara," said the sailor, a dogged,
defiant look coming into his eyes.  "I have said good-bye to Garthowen,
and will never darken its doors again."

"And yet thou hast been very happy there?"

"Ah! yes," said Gethin, a tender smile chasing away the angry look on
his face.  "I was very happy there indeed, when I whistled at my
plough, with the song of the larks in my ears, and the smell of the
furze filling the air.  But now--no--no!  I must never turn my face
there again."

"Wilt not, indeed?" asked Sara.  "Wait till I've told thee all, my lad.
And now I have a strange story to tell thee, 'tis of thy poor old
father, Gethin."

"My father? what's the matter with him?  Thou hast said he's alive,
what then?  Is he ill?  Not ill?  What then, Sara?" and his face took a
frightened expression; "what evil has come upon the old man?"

His voice sank very low as he clutched the old woman's hand and wrung
it unconsciously.

"What is it? not shame, Sara--say, woman, 'tis not shame that has come
upon him in his old age!"

Sara was embarrassed for the first time.

"Shame," she said, "in the eyes of men, is sometimes honour in the eyes
of God!  Listen, Gethin--Dost remember the night of thy going from
Garthowen?"

He nodded with a serious look in his eyes.

"That night I had a dream; only, I was awake when I saw it.  I was at
Garthowen in my dream, and I saw a dark figure entering Gwilym Morris's
room; he stooped down and opened a drawer, and took something out of
it.  I could not see the man's face, but it was not _thee_, Gethin,
though thy sudden disappearance made them think at first, that thou
wert the thief; only Morva and I knew better.  She heard a footstep
that night, and when she went out to the passage, she saw thee coming
out of that room.  But she and I knew that it was not thou who took the
money.  What dreadful sight met thee in that room, Gethin bâch, we did
not know, but it was something that made thee reel out like a drunken
man."

"It was, it was," he answered, shuddering and covering his eyes with
his hands, as though he saw it still.

"'Twas a sight that shadowed the whole world to me, and has altered my
life ever since.  Dei anwl! 'twas a sight I would give my whole life
not to have seen."

"I know it all now, my boy, and I know what thou must have suffered.
_'Twas thy father who took Gwilym Morris's money_.  Sorrow and bitter
repentance have been his companions by day, and have sat by his pillow
at night, ever since he was tempted to commit that sin.  He has become
thin, and haggard, and old.  He confessed it all at the Sciet.  And
think how hard it must have been for him to bring himself to tell it
all before the men who had thought so highly of him.  'Twas for Will's
sake, but 'twas you that he wronged, Gethin, and that is what is
breaking his heart."

"Me!" said Gethin.  "Me?  He is not grieving for me, is he?  Poor old
man! he did me no wrong; 'twas I by going away, brought the dishonour
upon myself.  And he confessed it all!"

"Yes," said Sara, "and made it all as black as he could.  Canst forgive
him, Gethin?"

"Forgive him?  Fancy Gethin Owens _forgiving_ anyone! as if he was such
a good man himself! especially his own father!  I have nothing to
forgive; he did me no harm, poor old man.  And if all the world is
going to turn against him because his love for his son did prove
stronger than his honesty, why! it's home to Garthowen I'll go, to
cheer him and to love him, and to show the world that I for one will
stick to him, weak or strong, upright or sinful!"

"Gethin bâch! thou know'st what real love is!  Love that no folly or
weakness, or even sin, in the dear one can alter.  That is what I have
come to fetch; a son to support and comfort my old friend in his latter
days.  Gwilym Morris is good and kind to him, and Ann--thou know'st
they are married these four years?"

"Yes, Jim Brown told me, and I was very glad."

"But 'tis his own son he is longing for.  ''Tis my boy Gethin I want to
see,' he says; 'he was so kind to me.'"

"Did he say that?"

"That did he."

"Diwss anwl!  I never knew he cared a button for me."

He was longing to ask for Morva.

"Thee hasn't asked for Morva yet," said Sara.

"Is she well?"

"Oh! well--quite well, and as happy as a bird since Will is married."

"Since Will is married!  How can that be if he has deserted her and
married another woman?  I never thought Will would do that!  And who
has he married?

"A lady, Gethin!  Miss Gwenda Vaughan of Nantmyny--didst ever hear such
a thing?--and as sweet a girl as ever lived!"

"Well, well, and so Will has married a lady?  Well, that's his choice,
mine would never lie that way; a simple country lass for me, or else
none at all, and most likely 'twill be that.  Well, we may say good-bye
to Will.  I suppose we sha'n't see much more of him."

"Perhaps not."

"But 'tis Morva I'm thinking of, Sara; how does she bear it?  She is
hiding her grief from you--she loved him, I know she loved him! and for
him to turn from her and give his love to another must have been a
cruel grief to her."

"Gethin," said the old woman, "she never loved him.  She promised to
marry him when she was a child, before she knew what love meant, but
since she has grown up her heart has been refusing to keep the promise
which bound her to Will.  She has tried over and over again to get her
freedom; like those poor birds we see caught in the net sometimes, she
has fluttered and fluttered, but all in vain; and when the letter came
from Will to Garthowen telling his father of the wonderful marriage
that was coming so near, 'twas as if someone had broken the net and let
the bird go free.  And there's Morva now, happy and bright like she was
before she found out that her promise to Will was galling her sore.
'Tis only one thing she wants now, Gethin.  'Tis for Garthowen to be
happy, and that will never be till thou art home once more.  Come,
Gethin bâch, come home with me; our hearts are all set upon thee."

"Halt!" said Gethin, and he pushed his fingers through his hair until
it stood on end.  "Phew!  Mrs. Jones was never stinting with her fire;
'tis stifling hot here," and he turned away to the doorway, and stood a