IV

_Bryn Tirion sees a Lighted Candle of the Dead and a Contest_

"The doctor from Tremadoc has been called in," remarked Betty.

"Has he so!" replied Griffiths, toasting his feet before the fire and

eyeing the smiling cats benevolently. "He's a clever young man."

"Aye, but it won't save Jane Jones nor Jane Wynne."

"No?"

"The Joneses is havin' him come every other day, so the Wynneses is

doin' the same. They're both failin' rapidly. When the family asks about

Jane Jones, all he'll say is, 'She's no worse.' An' when the Wynneses

ask about Jane Wynne he says, 'She's no better.' Olwyn Evans says it's

her opinion he don't know which is worse; doctors, she thinks, has to

keep quiet, they're always so uncertain what the Lord is plannin'. It'll

be hard on Robert if they both die the same day an' he has to bury them

simultaneous. Virginia says he's poorly now from havin' to make so many

visits each day on the Joneses, to say nothin' of the neighbours

flockin' in to ask him questions after each visit. It's hard on Robert."

"Aye, it is," assented Griffiths peacefully.

In the thirtieth year of the contest Griffith Griffiths had won his

election; by the gift of the hearse he put Bryn Tirion under a final

obligation. Politics paled before the generations of dead who would be

indebted to this benefactor. That a man should be a Conservative or a

Radical mattered not to the dead, and the living must discharge for the

dead their debt of gratitude. But the outcome of this contest was

quickly lost sight of in the uncertainty of a new strife. Would Jane

Jones or Jane Wynne be buried first in the new hearse? While Griffiths

and Betty were still discussing this question the door-knocker clapped

rapidly.

"I do believe it's Olwyn Evans come with news," exclaimed Betty.

"Good-evening," said Olwyn, disposing of her greeting. "She's seen it!"

"Seen it?"

"Aye, Gwen Williams. She was walkin' there by the old hedge over the

Glaslyn this evening, an' first she thought it was a light in the old

mill, for it looked large just like a lamp-flame. Then she saw it was

movin' and it was comin' toward her."

"It was the Candle of the Dead she saw?" asked Griffiths.

"Aye, it was; the nearer it came the smaller grew the flame till it was

no bigger than a thimble. Gwen was frightened so she couldn't move from

the wall; she let it pass close by her, and it was a woman carryin' the

light."

"A woman!"

"Aye, a woman, an' she moved on to the doorsill of Jane Jones's house

an' stopped there."

"Jane Jones's?"

"Aye, an' then she went over to Jane Wynne's door an' stopped there."

"She did?"

"Aye, she did, an' then she went over to the graveyard an' waved her

candle over the gate, an' it went out. Gwen says there weren't no more

thickness to her than to the candle-flame,--ye could thrust your finger

straight through her."

"Which door did she go to first--Jane Jones's?"

"Aye, it was Jane Jones's, but Gwen says she stood nearer the Wynne's

plot in the graveyard."

Griffith's eyes sought the cats, and he pulled his side-whiskers

thoughtfully. "Ye cannot tell which it'll be, now can ye?"

"No, you cannot, but I've my opinion it'll be Jane Jones, she's more

gone in the face. I must be goin'; Betty, will you be comin' with me; I

promised Gwen I'd step in for a neighbourly look at the Joneses, an'

perhaps I can help her decide which it'll be."

First they went to Jane Wynne's; they found her propped up in bed

surrounded with a circle of interested neighbours. The doctor had just

gone and the minister was on his way in. Old Marslie Powell curtsied

gravely to the minister as he entered. "Dear love, she'll not last the

night."

"Aye, aye," chorused the circle of neighbours, "her breath's failin'

now."

But in Jane Wynne's eye there was a live coal of intelligence; she

beckoned imperiously with her scrawny old hand to the young minister.

"If I do, ye'll put it on the stone?" she whispered eagerly.

"Yes, Jane, Hugh will have it done."

"She's not long," said Olwyn to Betty; "let us be goin' to Jane

Jones's."

They walked across the street.

"Poor dear," said Ellen Roberts to them as they entered, "she'll not

last till morn. Her heart's beatin' slower a'ready."

"Aye, aye, she's failin'," assented the neighbours.

"It would be a credit, somethin' to be proud on," whispered old Annie

Dalben.

"Aye, a credit," agreed the neighbours.

Jane beckoned to the doctor.

"If I do, tell Robert Roberts to make mention of it in his sermon," she

pleaded weakly.

"I will," replied the doctor.

"Well," remarked Olwyn Evans as they went out, "it'll be a credit either

way to one of the families to be carried in that smart hearse. Jane

Wynne's older, an' perhaps she'd ought to get it; but then the Joneses

has always meant more to Bryn Tirion, an' it seems as if they'd ought to

have the honour. I never saw two families more ambitious for anything.

It does seem as if Griffiths had thought of everything a man could think

of to benefit the village."

"Aye," assented Betty proudly, "he's a wonderful man for thinkin' of

other folks."

V

_Bryn Tirion sees Death Triumphant_

"I don't know," said Olwyn Evans, in a resigned voice, "I don't know but

it was best. The Wynneses always had fewer chances than the Joneses.

Hugh Wynne didn't say much, but I could see he was happy, an' the Wynne

girls was so pleased. They said as long as their mother had to go she

couldn't have done better, the stone'll look so pretty with it all writ

on it; an' then the hearse an' their mournin' did look so nice

together."

"There was a good many folks there?" suggested Griffiths.

"Aye, there was; I thought it was more'n pleasant for all the Joneses to

come, because they must feel disappointed with Jane Jones still livin'."

"Is she the same?" asked Griffiths.

"Aye, no worse."

"There was people at the funeral from Tremadoc," added Betty.

"From Tremadoc and from Rhyd Dhu, too. Some haven't ever seen a real

hearse before. A cart to draw the coffin in is all the Rhyd Dhu folks

know," concluded Olwyn.

"They say the plate on the coffin was more'n filled with money," added

Betty.

"Aye, it was," said Olwyn; "there was more'n enough to pay both the

doctor an' the minister. It does the town good to have a lot of folks

here. They wasn't all interested in Jane Wynne, but they was interested

in seein' which'd die first, an' in the hearse. I suppose they wanted to

come an' make sure she really was dead. Well, you never did better by

Bryn Tirion, Griffith."

"Aye," said Griffith, tapping his finger-tips together and smiling

contentedly at the row of big-eyed, whiskered cats, "aye, it's an

assistance."

_Dreams in Jeopardy_

Pedr Evans dived into the contents of a box of picture post-cards; from

the shop counter all that could be seen of him was the back of broad

shoulders, two inches of sturdy neck, well-shaped ears, and a thatch of

brown hair. The box, which was large and placed on a shelf behind the

counter, gave evidences to the person who could peek over the counter

and around Pedr of being in an alarming state of disorder. Apparently

the man fumbling among the cards intended to rearrange them; at least

some line of the figure suggested that this was the impression he wished

to convey. But it was as if he were running his hands through sand, for

the post-cards slipped from his fingers and fell in even greater

confusion. A woman who had entered the shop-door looked at his back a

second--she had caught a rim of the face as it had turned quickly

away--smiled, lifted her eyebrows, and stuck her tongue into one heavily

tinted cheek.

"'Ts, 'ts," she hissed, behind her teeth.

Pedr wheeled about; in turning he caught the corner of his box of

post-cards, and over they went upon the floor.

"Well, indeed, Catrin Griffiths," he said, with an attempt at composure.

"Aye, it's me," she answered airily. "Ffi! Playin' cards, Pedr Evans?

Um-m, what would Nelw Parry be sayin'?"

Pedr coloured and shifted his weight.

"No, puttin' the stock in order," he objected.

"Yes? Well, an' playin' you didn't see me? Yes?"

Catrin patted the puffs of yellow hair that projected from under her

pink hat, and, placing a finger on her lips, smiled insinuatingly at

Pedr. It was evident as she stood before him that she considered herself

alluring, a charming embodiment of the world and the flesh and the

devil. Of that world, it was rumoured, Pedr Evans knew something; at

least he had made excursions into it; he had been to Liverpool, nay, he

had been even farther, for he had been to London. London! The word

chimed as merrily in Catrin's ears as coronation bells. London! Pedr

Evans had been to London, and the magic word had been in more mouths

than Catrin's. There was never a question asked in Conway, climbing by

degrees to the wise men of the village and still failing an answer, but

people would say, "Aye, well, indeed, _we_ dunno, but Pedr Evans he's

been to London, an' he'll know, whatever."

Catrin Griffiths had seen him mount the London coach, and she had seen

him return. And, by a method of reasoning wholly her own, she had

concluded that he would appreciate her, for she, Catrin Griffiths, had

seen something of that world, too; she had seen highly-coloured prints

of Piccadilly, the 'busses with gay people atop and fine ladies in their

carriages clad in cloaks and furs and furbelows, throats and wrists

bejewelled in a marvellous fashion, and such fine gentlemen driving the

carriages; and, what is more, she had spelled painfully through the

English, in which her tongue was stiff, of a beautiful romance, "Lady

Nain's Escape." Catrin considered her worldly schooling of coloured

pictures, a novel, and advertisements, the best, and with an occasional

shilling sent to Liverpool she had literally applied this tuition to her

face and figure. She realised, however, that there were still worlds for

her to conquer, and a far enchanted land called Drawing Room into which

she had not as yet had even a lithographic peep. Because she longed for

greater nearness to this kingdom, therefore she longed for Pedr. As she

stood before him, her pink hat on her yellow hair, her painted face

thick with chalk, her lips a glossy carmine, her throat embedded in

fluffs of cheap tulle, her figure stuffed into an ancient dress of white

serge, she was wondering how it would be possible for any man to resist

her.

But the man whom she ogled blushed; he looked furtively towards the

windows, and at the door at the back of the shop, and it was plain to be

seen that he felt himself caught in a trap between his counter and the

shelf. He seemed ashamed, ashamed to look at her.

"Well, Catrin," he said, without lifting his eyes, "what can I do for

you to-day?"

"Dear _anwyl_, it's most slipped my mind--um-m--well, I'll be havin'

sixpence worth of writin' paper."

"Aye, smooth, I suppose?" he asked, taking it from the shelf.

"No, I think I'll take it rough, for that's the style now, whatever."

"Oh! very well."

"Been takin' photographs lately, Pedr?"

"Not many."

"I'm thinkin' you'll be goin' down Caerhun way some day soon," she

continued, her pink face wrinkling with mingled mirth and devilry;

"it's very pretty there, good for an artist like you."

Pedr folded in the ends of the parcel and said nothing.

"Aye," she went on, "an' there's an old church there, with a bell-tower

that looks over the wall like an eye. It don't wink, Pedr, but I'm

thinkin', indeed, it could tell a good deal, if it had a mind to. It's

next to the church the Parrys used to live."

Pedr, tying the parcel and snapping the string, maintained his silence.

"It's there old Parry used to be drunk as a faucet; aye, an', Pedr," she

whispered, "I could be tellin' you somethin' else. Nelw Parry----"

"Tut!" said Pedr angrily; "here's your parcel, Catrin Griffiths. You'll

have to be excusin' me this morning, for I'm busy."

"Pooh, busy!" and Catrin laughed shrilly; "you're always busy when

there's a mention of Nelw Parry. Well, ask Nelw herself what it is she

can tell you that you don't know. Perhaps you'll be _wantin'_ to know

before you marry her."

And with a flounce Catrin Griffiths betook herself out of the shop.

Pedr with his back to the counter was the same as Pedr with his face to

the shop-door; however, he did not seem the same. The back suggested

middle age, but the face was the face of a boy in its expression, with

something perennially young about it: it may have been innocence or

untouched pride or something that looked from his eyes as if they had

been those of a mere girl. Indeed, except for a conscious awkwardness of

hand and a certain steadfast, almost impassive look about the mouth, he

might have recited an _awdl_ or been a bard. Howbeit, he could neither

play a harp nor recite an ode. And because he kept only a stationer's

shop, which contained a fine medley of inferior post-cards scattered

everywhere, piles of newspapers, books, shelves of letter-paper,

trinkets of rustic and plebeian sort, it would not be safe to conclude

that he was no more than a thoroughly commonplace man. Because he spent

his leisure from the shop in taking pictures of the country he loved, it

would not be wise to decide that he was therefore a poor, mediocre thing

who had not brains enough to make even a very wretched artist; who was,

in short, a mere factotum to higher ability.

Pedr's shop, which lay on a steep winding cobblestone street next to the

Cambrian Pill Depôt, five doors down from Plas Mawr and twenty doors up

from the Castle Gate, was tenanted by dreams as fair and holy in

service, although they never found their way into the world except by

means of sensitised paper or by an occasional expression in Pedr's eye

or tremble of his impassive lips--this shop was tenanted by dreams as

fair as any which had ever waited upon accepted painter or poet. They

had a habit of tiptoeing about unseen, so that the usual customer who

entered Pedr's door would not have felt their presence. Nelw Parry had

come to know them well, but before Catrin Griffiths they vanished away.

The lovely colour of dawn itself was not gobbled up faster by the smoke

of trade than these entities disappeared at the sound of Catrin

Griffiths' heels upon the street. In fact the tiny beings were troubled

by the presence of even post-cards, for, dream-like, they wished to give

all they had, if need be, to the hearts which could be seen beating

through the hands that held them, and these cards lying upon the floor,

these flaunting things of many colours, were commerce; things, they

thought, which were to steal something from men. Over the counter, from

which a few minutes ago he had recoiled, Pedr Evans had often leaned,

many invisible eyes smiling upon him, taking from some old folio

pictures which had caught the very lustre of the sky; or the mingled

shadow and iridescence of a hillside, mysteriously suggestive of the

sea; or some flow and subsidence of light itself. Like any other mortal,

poor Pedr had to live, and that is why he was obliged to keep a shop

next to the Cambrian Pill Depôt. If he had been an artist, the world

might willingly have forgotten that he had to live at all and paid him

just nothing for his work. But it was not the necessity of existence

which made him lean upon the counter, showing a picture another man

never would have had the wit to take. To Pedr something beautiful was

always worth a plate, so he had many pictures no one bought, and he was

not often given a chance to show.

Later in the day, after his encounter with Catrin Griffiths, Pedr was

with Nelw Parry in the sitting-room of the Raven Temperance, drinking

tea. Nelw's house, from the outside, was a quaint, stuccoed building

with a quantity of chimney-pots sticking up into the sky, neat steps and

a brass sill at the front door, a painted sign "Raven Temperance," and

printed cards at the windows, one bearing a cyclist's wheel decorated

with mercurial wings, the other the gratifying word, "Refreshments."

Within the room were two people, both middle-aged, drinking tea--a

commonplace enough scene the casual observer would have said; however,

at that moment these two people, even if they were doing nothing more

romantic than talking quietly together, lifting their teacups once in a

while and looking at each other a good deal, were very much like good

children in a fairy tale. It may have been merely a trick of the light

due to the low casement windows, that the room seemed more peaceful than

most rooms in Conway; the subdued light touched the soft green walls

gently, reaching for the top of the walls as if it were some enchanted

region, to enter which it must climb. Indeed, it was an enchanted

region, for there a shining silver river ran in and out, in and out,

among alleys of green trees. In and out, in and out, it ran noiselessly,

and yet it seemed to Pedr, as to some strangers who entered the little

room for refreshments, to sing a song heard before--just when, just how,

was another question. Some visitors who had been in that room once came

again to sit, often bodily weary, while their eyes travelled to that

border of the shining river, and the mistress of the "Raven" waited upon

them tranquilly, placing the tea-service before them, and, it may be,

adjusting a wrap about a stranger's shoulders as delicately as if she

were adding to the comfort of some happy fancy, some ideal, some dream,

that a burdened touch might shatter. Grateful, there were tired

travellers glad to come and go phantom-like, putting down their silver

gently, in a room where reality seemed the greatest phantom of all.

To Pedr it was better than the best picture he had ever taken--better

than the best because the thought of taking it would have seemed like

desecration. He looked at Nelw, as he did every few seconds,

alternately, over his teacup and then without that barrier to his gaze.

Coils of dark hair made the shapely head heavy on the slender neck, as

if the weight of that abundant beauty were great. It was wonderful hair,

making in its shadowy depth a shade for the white, sensitive face, quiet

as the reverie of her eyes. In a land where comely hair blessed poor and

rich alike with its wealth, Nelw Parry's was even lovelier than that of

her neighbours. It had one peculiarity, however, which her neighbours

did not admire but which to Pedr--perhaps to something untutored in

Pedr--was dear. Around the edges of its abundance little curls escaped.

"Nelw," he said, glancing at her wistfully, "they're prettier than

ever."

She brushed the curls back and looked at him with reproach, as if

something she was thinking about, or something of which they had been

talking, had been rudely disturbed. As an actual matter of fact they had

been saying nothing for two or three minutes, indulging the

speechlessness of those who know their way even by day to another land.

But Pedr was aware what sort of answer any remark about Nelw's hair

always fetched, so he changed the subject.

"Dearie, Catrin Griffiths was in the shop this mornin'."

"What was she wantin'?"

"I dunno; she bought sixpence worth of writin' paper," replied Pedr,

regarding Nelw with the air of a man who would like to say more. He was

wondering how much she guessed of Catrin's angling.

A shadow of annoyance passed over Nelw's face.

"Dearie," he continued, encouraged by her expression, "I can't like her,

whatever; she's--she's not nice."

"Well, indeed, she's smart," answered Nelw gently.

"Tut! smart in those things she wears? She looks more than frowsy to me;

an'--an' she's always coming into my shop."

"Poor thing!" murmured Nelw, her face tender with pity.

Pedr observed her wonderingly. What prompted this compassion in Nelw?

What made her understand weakness without being disgusted or repelled by

its ugliness? Other women were not like her in this respect. And just

behind this yielding lovableness that yearned over the mistakes of

others, that reached out to Pedr as one athirst for the necessity of

life, that clung to Pedr for strength, for protection, like a child

afraid of the dark, what was this sense he had, of an obstinate

reticence which seemed the very resiliency of her mysterious nature?

Certainly she had had a bitter life. Then, like a viper into its nest,

what Catrin Griffiths had said darted into Pedr's mind. Was there

something he did not know, that he ought to know? With the acuteness of

the man who can detect the shadow of even a folded leaf, he searched

Nelw's face. Why when she needed him, when she was alone, when she was

fretted by the difficulties of her solitary life, why did she always put

off their marriage? Baffled, irritated, he spoke sharply.

"Poor thing, nothin'! It's a pound head an' a ha'penny tail with Catrin

Griffiths."

Nelw gasped.

"A pound head an' a ha'penny tail, I say," he continued roughly, "Aye,

an' the time is comin', comin' soon, when she'll get herself into

trouble, flauntin' around with those frocks on, all decked out, an' all

her false seemin', her face painted and powdered, an' her hair dyed. The

deceitful thing!"

"Och, Pedr, don't!"

But Pedr, excited beyond self-control by the workings of his

imagination, could not stop. The blanching face before him was no more

than a cipher, it expressed nothing to him.

"Tut! that I will. An' what is it Catrin Griffiths knows an' I don't?

Yes?"

There was a cry of "Pedr!" Nelw shivered, her eyes widened and stared at

him. It was so still in that room that the flutter of the draught

sucking the smoke up the chimney could be heard. Pedr sat motionless in

his chair, the reality of what he had done yet to reach him. Nelw moved,

and in an instant he was beside her.

"Dearie, dearie, what have I done?"

"Och, nothin'--nothin' at all," she answered, her face twitching

helplessly.

"But I did; och, I was beside myself; I didn't know what I was sayin'!"

Pedr paused, he looked at her longingly: "Nelw, little lamb, is it

_somethin'_ I ought to know?"

"It's nothin', nothin' at all," she replied, her eyes still staring at

him, her hands lying open upon her lap, palms up. And there she sat and

sighed and sighed, refusing to answer any of Pedr's questions; and,

every once in a while, moaning, "Not him, dear God, och! not him!"

At dusk every day, and every day in the year except Sunday, and year

after year, the servant had brought the lights into Pedr Evans's

stationery shop, and, setting them down, had gone back into the kitchen.

This evening, as she went into the room, scarcely knowing whether her

master was in or not, everything had been so noiseless, she started, for

there he sat, his head in his hands. Except for a slight disturbance

when Pedr entered his shop, which it is probable no other human ear

would have heard, there had not been a sound, until Betsan came in.

Nelw's "Nothin', nothin' at all" had been going around and around in his

mind like a turn-buckle tightening up his thoughts, till it seemed to

him they would snap. Then it would be, "What has she done? what has she

done?" He had known her, in her sensitiveness, to exaggerate; she had

confided to him some of the incidents of her childhood, which would have

been taken quietly enough by other children. But he was unable to reason

away the horror that looked out from her face to-day. And he, Pedr

Evans, had asked the question that had brought that expression! A

question suggested by a woman of whom even to think in the same moment

was to dishonour Nelw. He wondered what it was that crawled into a man's

mind and made him to do a thing like that?

Betsan had barely closed the door into the kitchen, when, like the

vision of the woman who tempted St. Anthony, Catrin Griffiths stood

before him, the shrewd ogling eyes looking at him out of the painted

face. The question, the answer to which was of more concern to him than

anything else on earth, surged back upon him and stifled him and beat in

his temples and his ears till it seemed as if he could not breathe.

Catrin coughed.

"Um-m, Pedr Evans, I forgot the envelopes this mornin'."

"Well, indeed," he replied mechanically.

"Aye," she affirmed. Then asked, "Did ye see Nelw Parry this afternoon?"

knowing that he had done so, for her room was opposite the Raven.

"Yes," he said.

"What was she tellin' you, eh, what? She's not so unlike me, yes?"

Pedr looked at her, his mind at a bow-and-string tension of expectancy.

"She didn't tell you, I see," Catrin continued. "Well, may every one

pity the poor creature! You'll be wantin' to know so----"

But Catrin Griffiths never got any further, for with a leap Pedr was

upon her.

"Out of my shop, girl, out!" and she was bundled through the door and

the door slammed behind her and locked.

Pedr's feeling of passionate anger against himself as well as against

Catrin gradually settled. He must try to think. He would see no one else

to-night and turned out the lamps. For a minute the wicks flickered,

puffing odd jets of shadow on the raftered ceiling. There was an instant

of wavering flame, then darkness, and only the silvered window-panes

looking into the obscure room like big shining eyes. Pedr sat still,

thinking, sighing and sighing. There were vague rustling noises in the

shop; every time he sighed it seemed as if the noises quivered together

like dry leaves. What would it ever matter to him now what happened?

Without warning he had been robbed of his happiness; even time never

could have proved such a thief, for time was no common plunderer,--if it

took away, often it put something far more precious in its place. Pedr

had always liked to think what time meant to anything lastingly

beautiful; he loved the houses better when they were old, the thought

that they had been attractive to others, had held many joys and even

sorrows, made them beautiful to him; he liked the lines in an old face,

somehow they made it merrier, made it sweeter; even the yellowing of a

photograph, for Pedr was limited in his subjects from which to draw

illustrations, pleased him with some added softening of tone. Life with

Nelw, as it wound towards the end of the road, would be, he had thought,

ever more and more enchanting, for just where the road dipped over into

space there was the sky. Even Death confirmed love. That last blessing

it had to give--the greatest blessing of all. But now his mind must be

forever like the track of the snail in the dust. It was no matter to him

now what lay upon the hillsides or within the valleys; the heavy-domed

shadows of foliage trees, the shadow of ripple upon ripple where the

water wrinkles, were alike of little account. He sighed again, and there

was the same succession of small sounds, for he was not alone in the

room. Hidden away in all the corners and nooks of the darkened shop were

scores of little beings, once his comrades. Now they hid and trembled in

their dark places, shrinking from Pedr from whom it had been their wont

to take what the all-powerful hand offered. They well knew what tragedy

might be coming to them, for of their race more had died in one age than

of the race of man in all ages. But like the children of men, till the

moment of danger they had counted themselves secure, and now when Pedr

sighed it was as if the sea went over them. They had always been so well

off; but they had seen the fate of their kin, the wide reachless waters

that had unexpectedly surrounded them, the boiling of the waves, the

calm, and the bodies floating on the surface, their wee diaphanous hands

empty of the hearts that had once beat through them, their faces looking

with closed eyes up into the everlasting day. As Pedr sighed again and

again, they shook now, their hands over their ears, in the dusty holes

of the shop. At last Pedr sighed a mighty sigh, and it was like the

shaking of the wind in a great tree. Although it was a mighty sigh, the

little beings uncovered their ears, and, with a new expression on their

faces, leaned forward to hear it repeated. It came once more. Then they

crept softly out of their nooks and small recesses and dusty corners,

and stood tiptoe waiting for the next sigh. It came, and the wind seemed

to shake down lightly through the great tree with the most dulcet notes

in all the world; whisperings and tremolos and flutings and pipings. At

that, the little beings ran from every part of the shop, and Pedr heard

them coming; they clambered about his knees, they climbed into his lap,

and Pedr gathered them all into his arms--that is as many as he could

hold, and the rest seemed happy enough without being there.

If the truth must be told, Pedr slept soundly that night, just like the

most fortunate of lovers. And the next morning, after he had found fault

with his breakfast and scolded Betsan for her late rising, he betook

himself, with a far more cheerful heart than he had known in many hours,

to Nelw's. Pedr in the darkened shop had learned a lesson which he would

not have exchanged for any pure unmixed joy upon earth. And he knew even

now, with the sun upon him and a strange yearning within him, that it

mattered very little what Nelw had done or was hiding from him, for

despite every dreadful possibility he loved her with a feeling that

mastered fear.

When Nelw opened the door for him she shrank away.

"Och, Pedr," she said, "so early!"

"Well, indeed, _so_ early," he replied, with an attempt at gaiety.

"So now I must be tellin' you," she whispered, hanging her head, and

looking, with her white face, ready to sink to the floor.

"Indeed, dearie, you'll not be tellin' me, whatever," he declared

hotly.

"Pedr!" she exclaimed, "but you said Catrin Griffiths--alas, I must tell

you!" She lifted her hand as if she were going to point to something and

then dropped it.

"I'm not carin' what I said about Catrin Griffiths or about any one

else. Dear little heart, you're makin' yourself sick over this an'----"

"Och, but I must tell you!" and again came the futile motion of the

hand.

"You shall not!" he commanded.

"Yes, now, now," she cried, lifting her hand; "Pedr I--I have----"

Pedr seized the uplifted hand.

"No, Nelw, no;" and he put his finger over her mouth and drew her to

him.

"Pedr, I must," she pleaded, struggling to free herself.

"No, not now; I'm not carin' to know now. Wait until we're married."

"Oh no, oh no!" Nelw moaned. "That wouldn't be fair to you. Och, if you

knew----"

But Pedr covered her mouth with his hand and drew her closer.

"Not now, little lamb."

She sat quite still, her head upon his shoulder. Pedr felt her relaxing

and heard her sighing frequently. She seemed so little and so light

where she rested upon him, almost a child, and a new sense of

contentment stole over Pedr. He patted her face; she made no reply, but

he felt her draw nearer to him. At last she lifted her hand and passed

it gently over his head.

"Och, Pedr," she whispered, "I'm growin' old."

"Old, nothin'," replied Pedr.

"Aye, but I'm over thirty."

"Pooh!" returned Pedr, "that's nothin'!"

"Yes, it is; an' as I grew older you would mind even more if----"

"Nelw," said Pedr warningly, covering her mouth again.

"But, Pedr, how could you love me when I'd grown very old? I wouldn't

have any hair at all," she faltered, "an' not any teeth," she continued,

gasping painfully, "an'--an' wrinkles an' oh--an' oh--dear!" she half

sobbed.

"Tut," said Pedr calmly, "what of it? It's always that way, an' I'm

thinkin' love could get over a little difficulty like that, whatever.

Indeed, I'm thinkin' what with love an' time we'd scarcely notice it. I

dunno," he added reflectively, "if we did notice it I'm thinkin' we'd

love each other better."

At these words Nelw smiled a little as if she were forgetting her

trouble. After a while she spoke--

"You are comin' this afternoon again, Pedr, are you?"

"Yes, dearie," he answered, "I'm comin'."

"Och, an' it must--it must be told," she ended, forlornly.

It was quiet up and down the winding cobblestone street; no two-wheeled

carts jaunted by; there was no clatter of wooden clogs, no merriment of

children playing, no noise of dogs barking. And all this quietude was

due to the simple fact that people were preparing to take their tea,

that within doors kettles were boiling, piles of thin bread and butter

being sliced, jam--if the family was a fortunate one--being turned out

into dishes, pound-cake cut in delectably thick slices, and, if the

occasion happened to need special honouring, light cakes being browned

in the frying-pan. Previous to the actual consumption of tea, the men,

their legs spread wide apart, were sitting before the fire, enjoying the

possession of a good wife or mother who could lay a snowy cloth. And the

children, having passed one straddling age and not having come to the

next, were busy sticking hungry little noses into every article set upon

the cloth, afraid, however, to do more than smell a foretaste of

paradise.

So the street, except for a gusty wind that romped around corners, was

deserted. When Nelw Parry opened a casement on the second floor, she

saw not a soul. She looked up and down, up and down,--no, there was not

a body stirring. Then her head disappeared, and shortly one hand

reappeared and hung something to the sill. True, there was not a soul

upon the street, but opposite the Raven Temperance, behind

carefully-closed lattice windows, sat a woman who saw everything. Catrin

Griffiths had been waiting there some time to discover whether Pedr

Evans would come to-day as he did other days at half-past four. But when

she beheld Nelw's hand reappear to hang something at the window, she

jumped up, with a curious expression on her face, exclaiming, "A

wonder!" and ran swiftly downstairs and out into the street. Once in the

street she gazed steadily at the object swinging from the casement of

the Raven, and again, "A wonder!" she ejaculated. She began to laugh in

a harsh low fashion, then shrilly and more shrilly. "Oh, the lamb!" she

exclaimed, "oh, the innocent!" Her hilarity increased, and she slapped

herself on the hip, and finally held on to her bodice as if she would

burst asunder. At the doors, heads appeared; some disappeared

immediately upon descrying Catrin, but others thrust them out further.

"See" she called, seeing Modlan Jones coming towards her, "there's Nelw

Parry's _cocyn_."