the head of the table, her smooth brown hair parted over her madonna-like brows, her brown eyes full of laughter. Opposite to her, at the bottom of the table, sat Gwilym Morris, preacher at the Calvinistic Methodist chapel, down in the valley by the shore. He had lived at Garthowen for many years as one of the family, being the son of an old friend of Ebben Owens. Having a small—very small—income of his own, he was able to devote his services to the chapel in the valley, expecting and receiving nothing in return but a pittance, for which no other minister would have been willing to work. He was a dark, pale man, of earnest and studious appearance, of quiet manners, and rather silent, but often seeking the liquid brown eyes which lighted up Ann's gentle face.
"Tis the only time father is cross when he has lost his 'bacco box," said Ann, laughing; "but then he is as cross as two sticks."
"Lol! lol!" said the old man snappishly, "give me a cup of tea; but I can't think where my 'bacco box is. I swear I left it here on the table."
Gwilym Morris hunted about in the most unlikely places, as men generally do—on the tea tray, between the leaves of some newspapers which stood on the deep window-sill. He was about to open Ann's work-bag in search of it, when Morva entered panting, and placed the shining box and ball of red wool on the table.
"Good, my daughter," said Ebben Owens, pocketing his new-found treasure, and regaining his good temper at once.
"I saw it was empty, so I took it with me to Jos Hughes's shop," she said.
Soon afterwards, seated on her milking stool, she was singing to the rhythm of the milk as it streamed into the frothing pail, for Daisy refused to yield her milk without a musical accompaniment. Very soft and low was the girl's singing, but clear and sweet as that of the thrush on the thorn bush behind her.
"Give me my little milking pail,
For under the hawthorn in the vale
The cows are gathering one by one,
They know the time by the westering sun.
Troodi, Troodi! come down from the mountain,
Troodi, Troodi! come up from the dale;
Moelen, and Corwen, and Blodwen, and Trodwen!
I'll meet you all with my milking pail."
So sang the girl, and the lilting tune caught the ears of a youth who was just entering the farmyard. He knew it at once. It was a snatch of Morva's simple milking song. He stopped to pat Daisy's broad forehead, and Morva looked up with a smile.
"Make haste," she said, "or tea will be finished. Where have you been so late?"
"Thou'll be surprised when I tell thee," said the young man; but before he had time for further conversation, Ann's voice called him from the kitchen window, and he hurried away unceremoniously.
Morva continued her song, for Daisy wanted nothing new, but was contented with the old stave which she had known from calfhood.
Will Owens, arriving in the farm kitchen, had evidently been eagerly awaited. Both Ann and Gwilym Morris came forward to meet him, and Ebben Owens rubbed his hands nervously over his corduroy knees.
"Well?" said all three together.
"Well!" echoed Will, flinging his hat across to the window-sill. "It's all right. I met Price the vicar coming down the street, so I touched my hat to him, and he saw at once that I wanted to speak to him, and there's kind he was. 'How's your father?' he said, 'and Miss Ann, is she well? I must come up and see them soon.'"
"Look you there now," said his father.
"'They will be very glad to see you sir,' I said, but I didn't know how to tell him what I wanted.
"'I am very glad to hear how well you get on with your books,' he said; 'but 'tisn't every young man has Gwilym Morris to help him and to teach him.' And then, you see, when he made a beginning, 'twas easier for me to explain."
The preacher's pale face lighted up with a smile of pleasure, and Ann flushed with gratified pride as Will continued.
"'He is a man in a hundred,' said Mr. Price, 'and 'tis a pity that his talents are wasted on a Methodist Chapel. I wish I could persuade him to enter the Church.'
"'Well, you'll never do that,' I said. 'You might as well try to turn the course of the On. He won't come himself, but he is sending a very poor substitute to you, sir.'
"'And who is that? You?' said Mr. Price.
"'Well, sir, that is what I wanted to see you about. You know that although we are Methodists bred and born, both my grandfather and my great-grandfather had a son in the Church,' and with that he took hold of my two hands.
"'And your father is going to follow their good example? I am glad!' and he shook my hands so warmly."
"There for you now!" said Ebben Owens.
"'I will do all I can for you,' Mr. Price said, 'and I'm sure your uncle will help you.'
"'Oh!' said I, 'if my father will send me to the Church, sir, it will be without pressing upon anyone else for money,' for I wasn't going to let him think we couldn't afford it."
"Right, my boy," said Ebben Owens, standing up in his excitement; "and what then?"
"Oh! then he asked me when did I think of entering college; and I said,
'Next term, sir, if I can pass.'
"'No fear of that,' he said again, 'with Gwilym Morris at your elbow.' But I'm choking, Ann; give me a cup of tea, da chi.[2] I'll finish afterwards."
"That's all, I should think," said the preacher; "you've got on pretty far for a first interview."
"I got a little further, though," said Will. "What do you think, father, he has asked me to do?"
"What?" said the old man breathlessly.
"He asked would I read the lessons in church next Sunday week.
''Twould be a good beginning,' he said; 'and tell your father and Miss
Ann they must come and hear you.'
"'Well,' I said, 'my father hasn't been inside a church for years, and
I don't know whether he will come.'"
"Well, of course," said the old man eagerly, "I will come to hear you, my boy, and Ann—"
"Not I, indeed," said Ann, with a toss of her head, "there will be a sermon in my own chapel."
"But it will be over before eleven, Ann, and I don't see why you shouldn't go if you wish to," said Gwilym Morris.
"I don't wish to," she answered, turning to the tea-table, and pouring out her brother's tea.
She was a typical Welsh woman, of highly-strung nervous temperament, though placid in outward appearance and manners, unselfish even to self-effacement where her kindred were concerned, but wary and suspicious beyond the pale of relationship or love; a zealous religionist, but narrow and bigoted in the extreme. In his heart of hearts Ebben Owens also hated the Church. Dissent had been the atmosphere in which his ancestors had lived and breathed, but in his case pride had struggled with prejudice, and had conquered. For three generations a son had gone forth from Garthowen to the enemy's Church, and had won there distinction and riches. True, their career had withdrawn them entirely from the old simple home circle, but this did not deter Ebben Owens from desiring strongly to emulate his ancestors. Why should not Will, the clever one of the family, his favourite son—who had "topped" all the boys at the village school, and had taken so many prizes in the grammar school at Caer-Madoc—why should not he gain distinction and preferment in the Church, and shed fresh lustre on the fading name of "Owens of Garthowen," for the name had lost its ancient prestige in the countryside? In early time theirs had been a family of importance, as witness the old deeds in the tin box on the attic rafters, but for two hundred years they had been simple farmers. They had never been a thrifty race, and the broad lands which tradition said once belonged to them had been sold