Garthowen | Page 5

plenty of
seed, of seed, of seed. Women have winnow'd it, threshers have
garner'd it, Barns must be filled up indeed, indeed, indeed!
"Are you glad we have come with a flitter and twitter Once more on the
housetop to meet, to meet, to meet? Make haste little primroses,
cowslips, and daisies, we're Longing your faces to greet, to greet, to
greet!"
--Trans.
"Yes, that's what you are singing. Good-bye," and waving her hand
towards them again, she turned her face to the boggy moor, picking her
way over the stepping-stones which led up to the dryer sheep paths.
The golden marsh marigolds glittered around her, the beautiful bog
bean hung its pinky white fringe over the brown peat pools, the silky
plumes of the cotton grass nodded at her as she passed, and the wind
whispered in the rushes the secrets of the sea.
Morva listened with a smile, a brown finger up-raised. "Yes, yes, I
know what you are singing too down there in the rushes, sweet west
wind," she said. "Sara has told me, but I haven't time to sing the 'wind
song' to-day," and reaching the sheep path which led round the
mountain, she sped against the wind, her hair streaming behind her, her
blue skirt fluttering in the breeze, the ball of scarlet worsted and the

shining 'bacco box held high in either hand to steady her flying
footsteps, Tudor barking with joy as he bounded after her and twitched
at her fluttering skirts.
It was tea-time when she reached Garthowen, and, winter or summer,
that was always the pleasantest hour at the farmstead, when the air was
filled with the aroma of the hot tea, and the laughter and talk of the
household. On the settle in the cosy chimney corner sat Ebben Owens
himself, the head of the family and the centre of interest to every
member of it. He possessed that doubtful advantage, the power of
attracting to himself the affection and friendship of everyone who came
in contact with him; his children idolised him, and Morva was no whit
behind them in her affection for him. In spite of his long grizzled locks,
and a slight stoop, he was still a hale and hearty yeoman under his
seventy years. His cheeks bore the ruddy hue of health, his eyes were
still bright and clear, the lines of his mouth expressed a gentle and
sensitive nature. It was by no means a strong face, but its very
weakness perhaps accounted for the protecting tenderness shown to
him by all his family. As he sat there in the shadow of the settle it was
easy to understand why his children were so devotedly attached to him,
and why he bore the reputation of being the kindest and most
good-natured man in Pont-y-fro and its neighbourhood. Ann, his only
daughter, was looking smilingly at him from 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