TURNED OUT!
The first few days following the Sciet were days of anxious waiting for
Ebben Owens. He had laid his soul bare before his son, the idol of his
life, and he waited for the answer to his letter, with as intense an
anxiety as does a prisoner for the sentence of the judge. He rose with
the dawn as was always his custom, but now, instead of the active
supervision of barn or stable or cowshed, which had filled up the early
morning hours, his time was spent in roaming over the moor or the
lonely shore, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes bent on the
ground. Morva watched him from the door of her cottage, and often, as
the morning mists evaporated in curling wisps before the rising sun,
the sad, gaunt figure would emerge from the shadows and pass over the
moorland path. Then would Morva waylay him with a cheerful greeting.
"There's a brâf day we are going to have, 'n'wncwl Ebben!--"
"Yes, I think," the old man would answer, looking round him as if just
awakening to the fact.
"Yes, look at the mist now rolling away from Moel Hiraethog, and look
at those rocks on Traeth y daran which looked so grey ten minutes ago;
see them, all tipped with gold, and, oh, anwl, look at those blue
shadows behind them, and the bay all blue and silver!"
"Yes," answered her companion, looking round with sad eyes, "'tis all
beautiful."
"Well, now," said Morva, "I am only an ignorant girl, I know, and I
have many foolish thoughts passing through my mind, but this, 'n'wncwl
Ebben, isn't it a wise and a true one? 'Tis Sara has told me,
whatever."
"What is it?" he asked. "If Sara told thee 'tis sure to be right."
"Yes, of course," said Morva.
The sun was gradually lighting up the moor with golden radiance. The
old man stood with his back to the light, the girl facing him, bathed
in the bright effulgence of the sunrise, her hair in threads of gold
blown by the sea breeze like a halo round her face, her blue eyes
earnest with the light of an inner conviction which she desired to
convey to her companion.
"Look, now," she said, "how everything is bathed in light and beauty!
Where are the grey shadows and the curling mists? All gone! 'Tis the
same world, 'n'wncwl Ebben, dear, but the sun has come and chased away
the darkness. 'Tis like the grace of God, so mother says, if we will
open our hearts and let it in, it shines upon us like the sunlight.
His love spreads through our whole being, He blots out our sins if we
are sorry for them, He smiles upon us and holds out His loving arms to
us, and yet we turn our backs upon Him, and walk about in the shadows
with our heads bent down, and our eyes fixed upon the ground. Every
morning, mother says, when the sun rises, God is telling us, 'This is
how I love you, this is how I will fill your hearts with warmth and
light and joy.' Now, isn't that true, 'n'wncwl Ebben?"
"What about the mornings when the mist does not clear away, lass, but
turns to driving rain?"
"Oh, well, then," said Morva, not a whit daunted, "the rain and the
clouds are wanted sometimes for the good of the earth, and, remember,
'tis only a thin veil they make; the sunshine is behind them all the
time, filling up the blue air, and ready to shine through the least
break in the clouds. And, after all, 'n'wncwl Ebben," she added, in a
coaxing tone, "'tis very seldom the mornings do turn to rain and fog.
You and I, who are out on the mountains so early, know that better than
the townspeople, who lie in bed till nine o'clock, they say, and often
by that time the glory of the morning is shaded over."
"Well, perhaps," he said. "Thou art more apt to count the clear dawns,
while I count the grey ones."
"Twt, twt, you must leave off counting the grey ones. There's a verse
in mother's Bible that says, 'Forgetting the things which are behind,
and reaching forth unto those things which are before.'"
"Yes, indeed, 'merch i, I've read it many times, but I never thought
much of the meaning of it before. 'Tis a comforting verse, whatever,
and I will look for it in my Bible."
"Yes, I suppose 'tis in every Bible," said Morva, with a merry laugh;
"but, indeed, I feel as if mother's brown Bible was the best in the
world, and was full of messages to brighten our lives. Didn't I say I
was a foolish girl?"
"Thee't a good girl, whatever; but 'tis time to milk the cows."
"Yes, indeed. Let me shut the door and I will come back with you."
And as she ran over the dewy grass, he looked after her with a smile.
"She's got the sea wind in her heels, I think," he said.
He chatted cheerfully as they walked home together, and gladdened Ann's
heart by making a good breakfast.
In the course of the morning Morva entered the best kitchen, bearing a
letter which Dyc "pigstye" had just brought from Pont-y-fro.
"Tis from Will, 'n'wncwl Ebben," said the girl; "here are your glasses,
or will I call Ann to read it to you?"
"Let me see, is it English or Welsh?" said Ebben Owens, opening it with
trembling fingers. "Oh! 'tis Welsh, so read thou to me. My glasses
are not suiting me so well as they were."
The truth was, he was too nervous to read the letter himself, a fact
which Morva quite comprehended.
"MY DEAR FATHER," began Will, "I daresay you are expecting to hear from
me, but I have had a good deal to do since we returned from our wedding
tour. The contents of this letter will surprise you, I am sure, but I
hope they will please you too. We are very happy in our new home, and
my uncle, though living under the same roof with us, is very kind and
considerate, and never interferes with our plans. He seems very fond
of Gwenda, and it would be strange if he were not, for she is as good
as she is beautiful. The church here is filled with a large
congregation, and they seem to appreciate my ministrations thoroughly.
There is, I am glad to say, very little dissent in the parish. You
know I never liked dissent, but Gwenda is broader in her views, and
wants to convert me to her way of thinking. Now this letter is really
more a message from her than from me. She wants to know if you will
have us at the farm for a week or a fortnight, when the spring is a
little more advanced. She wants to see the moor when the gorse is in
blossom. She would like to know you more intimately, she says, and
would enjoy nothing more than a taste of real farm life; she therefore
begs, that if you can have us you will not make any alteration in your
ways of living. She sends her love to Ann, and hopes she will put up
with her for a little while. If you will let us know when it will be
convenient to you, we will fix a time to come to Garthowen. I remain,
dear father,
"Your affectionate son,
"WILLIAM OWEN."
Ebben Owens had been gradually growing more excited, and at the last
word said with a gasp:
"He has forgotten my confession, Morva; I am of no consequence to him!"
"Yes--yes," said the girl, "here's another half sheet with 'P.S.' at
the top," and she continued to read:
"Dear father, Gwenda was looking over my shoulder, so I could not add
what I say now. Please ask Ann to put the best knives and forks on the
table, and to bring out mother's silver teapot when we come. I forgot
to refer to the contents of your last letter. You make too much of
your fault, dear father, you have made a cornstack of a barleymow. I
am only sorry you have published it abroad as you have done. You need
only have confessed to God, or if you wanted to do more, I am an
ordained priest. I can't imagine why you did not ask Gwilym to lend
you the money; at all events you returned it as soon as you could. Ask
Jacob the Mill to keep one of Fan's pups for me."
Ebben Owens was too excited by the rest of the letter to notice the
callousness of the postscript, and thought only of the kindness which
so easily forgave his sin.
"Call Ann," he said, and Morva went joyfully.
"Come, Ann fâch!" she cried, at the foot of the stairs, "here's good
news for you. Will and his wife are coming to see you."
Ann came down in a flurry, half of pleasure and half of fright.
"Oh, anwl!" she said, as she entered the kitchen, "there's a happy time
it will be for us all. Oh! mustn't we bustle about and get everything
nice for them. I must rub up the furniture in the best bedroom and get
the silver teapot out and the silver spoons!"
"Yes," said her father, rubbing his knees, "'twill be a grand time
indeed! When will they come, I wonder? Perhaps we have not quite lost
Will after all."
"Twt, twt, no," said Morva; "didn't mother always say that they would
come back to you?"
"Yes, indeed--do you think she meant Gethin too?"
"I think she meant him too," said Morva, blushing.
"When will the gorse and the heather be in full bloom, I wonder? Caton
pawb! I have never noticed it much," asked the old man.
"Oh! in another month," answered Morva, "'twill be gold and purple all
over, with soft blue and brown shadows in the mornings, and in the
evenings grey and copper in all the little hollows. Oh, 'tis
beautiful! and I can show her where the plovers lay their eggs, and I
will take her to listen for the curlew's note coming out of the mist
like a spirit whistler, and I can take her down to the rocks by Ogo
Wylofen, too, where the seals are making their home. But, indeed, Will
knows it all as well as I do, and he will like to show them all to her
himself, I think."
From that day light seemed to dawn upon the old man's soul; his step
grew firmer, he stooped less in the shoulders, he looked less on the
ground and more bravely on his fellow travellers on the road of life.
He did not flinch from the consequences of his confession, but seemed
to find some inward peace, which more than recompensed him for the
discredit which he had brought upon himself. From this time forward a
great change was observable in him, a change for which we can find no
better name than _conversion_. It is an old-fashioned word, all but
tabooed in modern polite society, but where will be found another which
so well expresses the complete transformation in the life and character
of a man who awakes from the sleep of selfish worldliness, to the
better and higher principles of spiritual life? To every human being
this awakening comes sooner or later. To some, gradually and naturally
as the dawning of morning, and the bright effulgence of its rays is not
recognised until the darkness and clouds have already rolled away, and,
lo, it is day. Upon others it bursts with the suddenness of a
thunderstorm, and the soul cowers under the threatening peals, and is
riven by the lightning flashes of conscience before it reaches the
haven of calm and peace. To some, alas, the awakening comes not at
all, until through the open door of death the soul escapes from the
veil of flesh which has hidden from it the true life.
"Is there a 'Sciet' next Sunday?" asked Ebben Owens, as they all sat at
tea together one evening.
"No--not till the Sunday after," said Gwilym, reddening.
Ann's hand shook as she poured out the tea.
"Father bâch!" she said tenderly, looking at him with eyes in which the
tears welled up.
"Oh! don't you vex about me," said the old man. "I must bear my
punishment like everyone else; 'twill not be so hard as I deserve."
"I must not let my feelings influence me in this matter," said Gwilym,
"though you know, father, how it breaks my heart."
And he held his shapely hand across the table and grasped the old man's
warmly.
"Yes, yes, 'tis all right; you must do your duty, only I would like it
to be over soon. Gwae fi! that it could be next Sunday."
"Well, I will give it out at the prayer-meeting tonight if you like,
and have a special meeting next Sunday."
"Yes," said Ebben Owens, "the sooner I am turned out the better. I am
quite prepared. Perhaps they will take me back again some day, though
I was pretty hard upon Gryffy Lewis when he got drunk, and would not
agree to his being taken back again for months, when the other deacons
were quite ready to forgive him. Well, well! I must live a good many
years yet to repent of all my bad ways, and you must have patience with
me, my little children."
"Well, next Sunday it shall be then," answered the preacher; "and may
God turn the bitter to sweet for you, father bâch."
"Oh, it will be all right for me!" said the old man again, and sitting
under the big chimney after tea, Tudor and Gwil both leaning on his
knees, the old peace and content seemed in some measure to have
returned to him.
The following market day was a trying ordeal to him, but one from which
he did not flinch.
At breakfast no one suggested the usual journey into Castell On, until
Ebben himself called to Magw as she passed through the kitchen.
"Tell them to harness Bowler, and put the two pigs in the car. I'll
sell them to-day if I can."
"I will come too," said Ann, "and take little Gwil to have a new cap.
He wants one shocking."
She chatted volubly as they drove under the leafy ash branches which
bordered the road, her father answering only in monosyllables.
When the pigs had been carried shrieking, in the usual unceremonious
ear-and-tail fashion into their pens, and Bowler had been led into the
"Lamb" yard, the old man looked rather forlorn and desolate as he gazed
after Ann, who was making her way with little Gwil down the busy street.
"'Twill be hard to bear to-day," he thought. "They are all talking
about me; but 'tis not so hard as I deserve."
Suddenly a hand was laid on his arm, and a kindly greeting reached his
ears. Mr. Price the vicar, standing at his window, had observed the
Garthowen car pass into the market, and had startled his housekeeper by
turning round suddenly with the question.
"Didn't you say we wanted a pig, Jinny?"
"That I did about six months ago, sare, but you never got one. We
wanted one then because we had so much milk to spare, but now Corwen is
drying up very much, and Beauty is not so good as she was."
Mr. Price took snuff vigorously.
"I think a little pig would look well in that stye, and he would be
company for you, Jinny and we could buy a little bran or mash or
something for him," he added, hunting for his stick and hat, and
hurrying to the front door, Jinny looking after him with a smile of
amused disdain.
"'Ts-ts!" she said; "Mistheer, pwr fellow, is very ignorant, though he
is so learned. 'Tis a wonder, indeed, he didn't want to buy hay for
the pig!"
But she went out pleased, nevertheless, and spread a bed of yellow
straw in readiness for her expected "company."
"I wonder who is wanting to sell a pig now," she soliloquised. "I
daresay Mishteer saw an old 'bare bones' passing that nobody else would
buy, and is going to take pity on him."
"Poor old Ebben Owens. 'Twill be hard for him to-day," thought the
vicar, as he made his way to the pig market, and in another moment he
was gladdening the heart of the lonely old man by his kindly greeting.
"Well, well, Mr. Price, sir! Is it you indeed so early in the market?"
"Yes, I have come to buy a pig," said the vicar, holding out his hand.
Embarrassment and shame suffused Ebben Owens's face with a burning
glow, and he hesitated to place his own hand in the vicar's.
"Have you heard about me, sir?" he asked,
"I have heard everything," answered the vicar, grasping the timid hand
and pressing it warmly.
"And yet you shake hands with me, sir? Well, indeed."
"Yes, with more respect than I have ever done before. Not condoning
your sin, remember that, Ebben Owens; but honouring you for having the
courage to confess it. That is sufficient proof of your repentance."
There were tears in the old man's eyes as he tried to answer; but Mr.
Price, seeing his emotion, hastened to change the subject.
"Now let us see the pigs," he said, holding out his snuff box, from
which Ebben Owens helped himself with more cheerfulness than he had
felt since the meeting at which he had made his confession.
They bent over the pen in conclave, during which the vicar exhibited
such lamentable ignorance of the points of a pig that, had it not been
for his previous kindness, he would have fallen considerably in the old
farmer's estimation.
"This is the fattest," he said, prodding one with his stick, and trying
to look like a connoisseur.
"Oh! he's too fat for you, sir; this is the one that would look well on
your table."
"Poor thing," said the vicar, a shadow falling on his face, as he
realised that there would come a morning when the air would be rent
with shrieks, and he would wish himself in the next parish. "No doubt,
you're right, you're right, he looks a nice little pig; there's a nice
curl in his tail, and I like his ears; he'll do very nicely. And
here's Dyc 'pigstye.' Well, Dyc, how are you? Will you drive the pig
home to my yard, and tell Jinny to give him a good meal, and a glass of
beer for you, Dyc. And now we have settled that matter," he said,
turning to the farmer with a business-like air, "I want you to come
home with me, Owens, I won't keep you long, just that you may see a
very nice letter I have had from your brother, Dr. Owen; 'tis all about
your son and his bride, and the home they are coming to."
"But, Mr. Price, sir, you haven't asked the price of the pig," said the
farmer, with a gasp.
"Bless me! no!" said the vicar, "I quite forgot that," and he laughed
heartily at his own want of thought. "But I'm sure it won't be much.
Two or three pounds, I suppose!"
"Two pounds I thought of getting for this one, and two pound ten for
the other."
"Very cheap, too," said the vicar, drawing out the two sovereigns from
his waistcoat pocket.
Leaving the pen in charge of a friend, Ebben Owens accompanied Mr.
Price in a state of joyful bewilderment. To walk up the street, in
friendly converse with the vicar, he felt would do more than anything
else to reinstate him in the good opinion of his neighbours, and as
they passed through the crowded market in animated and confidential
conversation, the hard verdict which many a man had passed on his
conduct was changed into one of pitying sympathy.
"Well," they thought, "the vicar has forgiven him, whatever, and he is
a good man."
Sitting in the vicarage dining-room, listening to the praises of his
beloved son, Ebben Owens became less depressed, and felt braver to meet
the consequences of his confession.
Although he never discovered that the purchase of the pig was but a
blind of the vicar's to hide his plans for helping him to regain, in
some degree, the respect of his neighbours, Ebben Owens never forgot
the strengthening sympathy held out to him on that much dreaded
morning, and Price the vicar became to him ever after, the exemplar of
all Christian graces.
"There's a man now," he would say, rubbing his knees as he sat under
the big chimney at home; "there's a man now, is fit to help you in this
world, and to guide you to the next; and there's the truth! But he
does not know much about pigs."
The prospect of seeing Will once more in his old home shed a radiance
over everything, and in spite of the humiliation and contrition which
overshadowed him, a new-born calmness and peace gradually filled his
heart.
To Morva too had come a season of content and joy--why, she could not
tell, for she was not free from anxiety concerning Sara's prolonged
absence. Certainly the longing for Gethin's return increased every
day, but in spite of this, life seemed to hold for her a cup brimming
over with happiness. Going home through the gloaming one evening,
singing the refrain of her milking song, she broke off suddenly and
began to run towards the cottage, for lo! against the brown hill across
the valley she saw the blue smoke rise from Sara's thatched chimney,
and in another moment a patch of scarlet showed bright against the
golden furze.
"Mother anwl! Dear mother! you have come!"
And she was folded in the tender loving arms.
"My little daughter! I have missed thee!" said Sara, and together they
entered the cottage.
Supper was on the table, and the crock of porridge hung over the
blazing furze fire on the hearth.
"They called me into Penlau," said Sara, "as I passed through the yard,
and made me bring this oatmeal, 'for thee'lt want something quick for
thy supper,' they said; and there's asking questions they were about
what I had seen in Cardiff. Let us have our bwdran, child, for oh! I
am tired of the white bread, and the meat, and the puddings they have
in the towns. Kitty Jones was very kind, making all sorts of dainties
for me, but 'tis bwdran and porridge and cawl and bacon is the fittest
food for human beings after all, and the nicest."
"Oh, mother, tell me what you have seen?"
"My little girl, 'twill take many days to tell thee all. Ladies in
silks and satins--carriages and horses sparkling in the sun--men
playing such beautiful music through shining brass horns--little
children dressed up like the dolls you see at the fairs--fruit of every
kind--grand houses and gay streets--but oh, Morva, nothing like the
moor when the gorse and heather are in blossom, nothing like the sea
and the rocks and the beautiful sky at night when the stars are
shining; you couldn't see it, Morva, because of the lamps and the
smoke."
"And the moon, mother, did you see her there?"
"Well, yes, indeed, she was there, but she was not looking so clear and
so silvery as she is here. No, no, Morva, I thank God I have lived on
the moor, and I pray Him to let me die here."
Morva was longing to ask whether success had crowned her mother's
mysterious journey, but refrained from doing so with a nervous shyness
which did not generally mark her intercourse with Sara.
"'Twas a long journey; mother; are you glad you took it?"
"Why, yes, child, of course, since I've gained my object. Gethin Owens
will be home before long."
A crimson tide of joy rushed up into Morva's face, and an embarrassment
which she turned away to hide, but which was not lost upon Sara.
"Well, indeed, then," said the girl, "there's glad 'n'wncwl Ebben will
be. Will I go and tell him when I have finished my bwdran?"
"No, no, better not tell him anything till Gethin arrives. Lads are so
odd; he may not come for a week, and that would seem long waiting to
his father."
It was long waiting for Morva too, but she hid the secret in her heart,
and flooded the moor with happy songs.
On the following Sunday evening a special Sciet was held in the gaunt
grey chapel in the valley; an event of small importance to the outside
world, but to Ebben Owens and every member of his family one of
momentous interest. To them every event of life was brightened or
shaded by its connection with their religious life, and Penmorien
Chapel was almost as sacred in their eyes as the Temple of old was to
the Jews.
The members dropping in one by one from moor, or village, or shore,
looked with sympathising curiosity as the Garthowen family entered, and
took their places in the corner pew, Ebben Owens sitting with them, and
for the first time for many years vacating his place amongst the
deacons in the square seat under the pulpit.
A formal admission of sin is of frequent occurrence at an "experience
meeting," but the real confession of a sinful action is very rare.
Therefore the Garthowen family required strong moral courage to enable
them to pass through the trying ordeal of the Sciet, and its fiat of
excommunication, with dignified firmness.
The doors were closed, the soft sea wind blew up the valley, and the
breaking of the waves on the shore below was distinctly audible.
Sara and Morva did not attend the Sciet, but shut themselves up in
their cottage, cowering over the fire as if it had been winter. Sara
particularly, appeared to suffer acutely as the evening hours passed on.
"There's the sun going, mother, 'tis seven o'clock, the Sciet is over.
Will I go and meet them? Oh! mother, I long to comfort 'n'wncwl Ebben."
"No, child, leave him alone to-night; he has better help than thou
canst give him. To-night he will feel God's presence as he has never
felt it before, and what else will he want, Morva? Come and read our
chapter, 'merch i."
And while they read by the light of their tiny candle, and the furze
crackled and sparkled up the open chimney, a bronzed and stalwart man
was tramping down the stony road towards the chapel. Looking down the
narrow valley, he saw the broad grey sea, its ripples tipped with the
crimson of the setting sun. To the left towered the high cliffs which
closed in the valley, and on the right stretched away the furze-covered
slopes leading to Garthowen and the moor, and the rough sailor heart
throbbed with the happiness of home-coming and the re-awakening of long
deferred hopes. His brown face lighted up with pleasure, as he waved
his hand towards the sunlit side of the scene, but he turned his face
and his footsteps into the grey shadowed court-yard of the chapel. It
was Gethin! He had sailed into Caer-Madoc harbour in the afternoon,
the ships being the only things considered free to come and go during
the Sabbath hours. He had met an Abersethin man in the town, who had
promised to bring his luggage home in his cart next day, and had
supplemented the promise by the information that on this particular
evening, Ebben Owens would be turned out from the Penmorien Sciet.
"Jâr-i! it's time for me to start, then," said Gethin; "will I be there
in time, d'ye think?"
"Yes, if you walk sharp; but what will you do? You can't stop them
turning him out! There's a pity!"
"No, no," said Gethin, "that's all right, I suppose; but I want to be
there to meet the old man at the door. He'll find he's got one son
that'll stick to him, whatever. God bless him!" and he started bravely
along the old familiar road.
There were lights in the chapel windows as he approached, and outside
the closed doors one solitary friend already waited. It was Tudor, who
had sat there during the service, his eyes fixed on the blank closed
door, doggedly resisting the inviting barks of a collie who had caught
sight of him from the opposite hill. But when his long absent friend
appeared on the scene his self-restraint was thrown to the winds, and
Gethin in vain tried to check the joyous barks which accompanied his
frantic gambols of greeting.
"Art come to guard the poor old man, lad?" whispered Gethin, holding up
a reproving finger.
"Yes," said Tudor, as plainly as bark could speak.
"Then hush-sh-sh," said Gethin, pointing to the closed door, and Tudor
smothered his barks.
The murmur of voices inside the chapel was distinctly audible, blending
with the soft murmur of the sea. In a few moments the doors were
opened, and the congregation filed out with a more than usually solemn
look in their faces; some of the women dried their eyes, and actually
refrained from even a whispered remark until they had got fairly
outside the "cwrt."
Gethin kept out of sight until he saw his father leave the chapel,
followed closely by Ann and Gwilym. The bent head and subdued
appearance of the old man went straight to the sailor's warm, impulsive
heart. With a single step he was at his father's side, taking his arm
and linking it in his own.
"Who is it?" said Ebben Owens, his eyes blinded by tears and the
darkening twilight.
"Gethin it is, father bâch! come home to ask your forgiveness for all
his foolish ways, and to stick to you and to old Garthowen for ever and
ever."
"Is it Gethin?" asked the old man, in a tone of awed astonishment; "is
it Gethin indeed? Then God has forgiven me. I said to myself: 'When I
see my boy Gethin at home again, then will I believe that God has
forgiven me.' Now I will be happy though I'm turned out of the Sciet.
God will not turn me out of heaven, now that Gethin my son has forgiven
me. Hast heard all my bad ways, lad?"
"Yes," said Gethin, "and I will confess, father, it nearly broke my
heart. It made me feel there was no good in the world, if my old
father was not good. But when I heard how brave you were in telling
the whole world how you had fallen, and how you repented, my heart was
leaping for joy. 'Now there's a man,' says I to myself, 'a man worth
calling my father!' Any man may fall before temptation, but 'tisn't
every man is brave enough to confess his sins before the world!"
Arm was already hanging on her brother's arm and pressing it
occasionally to her side.
"Oh, Gethin!" she said, "Garthowen has been sad and sorrowful, but
to-night it seems as if you had brought back all the sunshine. There's
happy we'll be now."
"'Tisn't my doing," said her brother, "'tis Sara Lloyd who has done it
all. God bless her! She came all the way to Cardiff to fetch me home.
And where is she to-night? I thought she and Morva would surely be at
chapel."
"She has kept away for my sake, I think," said his father. "They call
her Sara ''spridion,' and they mean no good by it, but I think 'tis a
good name for her, whatever, for I believe the good spirits are always
around her, helping her and blessing her just as she is always helping
and blessing everybody around her."
"To be sure they are," said Gethin; "I always knew it from a little
boy. Whether living or dying 'twould be well to be in Sara's shoes!"
When they reached the old farmyard, and passed under the elder tree
where the fowls and turkeys were already roosting in rows on the
branches, little Gwil bounded out to meet them, Gwilym Morris at the
same moment caught them up from behind, and Ebben Owens felt that his
cup of earthly happiness was refilled almost to overflowing. Gethin
alone missed Morva.