By Berwen Banks | Page 6

would not hurt his addle pate."
"He has been wise, and made himself scarce; but what has he done,
Betto?"
"What has he done? the villain! Well, you know the sheep are grazing
in the churchyard this week, and that 'mwnki' is watching them there.
Well--he seated himself yesterday on a tombstone when we were in
church, and whit, whit, whitted 'Men of Harlech' on his flute! and the
Vicare praying so beautiful all the time, too! praying against the wiles
of the devil and of Essec Powell!"
"Essec Powell! What has he been doing?"
"Well, machgen i, you will not believe! the boldness of those 'Methots'
is something beyond! And the impidence of Essec Powell! What do

you think, Caradoc? he is praying for your father--out loud, mind
you!--in the prayer-meeting every Wednesday evening! But there! the
master is beforehand with him, for he is praying for Essec Powell on
Tuesdays!" and she tossed the frizzling ham and eggs on the dish.
"Come to supper, my boy," and Cardo followed her nothing loth into
the gloomy parlour, lighted by one home-made mould candle, for he
was hungry in spite of the ginger-bread.
"Ah, Caradoc! you have come," said the Vicar, as he entered the room
punctually at the stroke of ten, "what made you so late to-night?"
"Well," said Cardo, "when Deio, 'Red Dragon,' led Captain out of the
stable, I found the swelling on his leg had risen again, so I left him with
Roberts, the farrier. He will bring him home on Friday."
"You have ridden him too soon after his sprain, as I told you, but young
men always know better than their elders."
"Well, you were right anyway this time, father."
"Yes," said his father; "as the old proverb says, 'Yr hên a wyr yr ifanc a
debyg." [1]
"Shouldn't wonder if it rained to-morrow, the wind has veered to the
south; it will be bad for the 'Sassiwn,' won't it?" said Cardo, after a
pause.
"The what?" said the Vicar, looking full at his son.
"The 'Sassiwn,' sir, as they call it; the Methodist Association, you know,
to be held here next week."
"I don't want to hear anything about it; I take no interest in the subject."
"Won't you go then, father? There will be thousands of people there."
"No, sir, I will not go; neither will you, I hope," answered the Vicar,
and pushing his plate away, he rose, and walked stiffly out at the door
and along the stone passage leading to his study.

His son listened to his retreating footsteps.
"As bigoted as ever, poor fellow!" he said; "but what a fool I was to
mention the subject." And he continued his supper in silence. When
Betto came in to clear away he had flung himself down on the hard
horse-hair sofa. The mould candle lighted up but a small space in the
large, cold room; there was no fire in the grate, no books or papers
lying about, to beguile the tedious hour before bedtime. Was it any
wonder that his thoughts should revert to the earlier hours of the
evening? that he should hear again in fancy the soft voice that said, "I
am Valmai Powell," and that he should picture to himself the clustering
curls that escaped from the red hood?
The old house, with its long passages and large rooms, was full of those
nameless sounds which fill the air in the quiet of night. He heard his
father's footsteps as he paced up and down in his study, he heard the
tick-tack of the old clock on the stairs, the bureau creaked, the candle
spluttered, but there was no human voice to break the silence, With a
yawn he rose, stretching his long legs, and, throwing back his broad
shoulders, made his way along the dark passage which led into the
kitchen, where the farm servants were seated at supper. Betto moved
the beehive chair into a cosy corner beside the fire for the young master,
the men-servants all tugged their forelocks, and the women rose to
make a smiling bob-curtsey.
"Have some cawl,[2] Ser!" said Betto, selecting a shining black bowl
and spoon.
"Not to-night, after all that fried ham; but another night I want nothing
better for supper."
"Well, there's nothing will beat cawl, that's certain," said Ebben, the
head servant, beginning with long-drawn noisy sups to empty his own
bowl.
"Finished the turnips to-day?" asked Cardo.
"Oh, yes," said Ebben, with a slight tone of reproof in his voice; "the

work goes on though you may not be at home, Ser. I consider there is
no piece of land on this earth, no, nor on any other earth, better farmed
than Brynderyn. Eh?" and he looked defiantly at Betto, between whom
and himself there was