Garthowen | Page 8

he seldom remained long in the
same frame of mind), made inquiries of the sea-faring men who visited
the neighbouring coast villages, and learning from them that Gethin
had been taken as cabin boy by an old friend of his, whom he knew to
be of a kindly disposition, felt quite satisfied concerning his son's safety,
and congratulated himself upon the result of his own firmness.
"There's the very thing for him," he thought; "'twill make a man of him,
and 'tis time he should be brought to his senses! and he won't be so
ready with his 'Amens!' again. Ach y fi!"
From time to time as the years sped on, news of Gethin came in a
roundabout way to the farm, and at last a letter from some foreign port,
from which it was evident that the youth, now growing up to manhood,
still retained his bright sunny nature and laughter-loving ways, together
with the warmth of heart which had always distinguished the
troublesome Gethin. There was no allusion to the past, no begging for
forgiveness, no hint of a wish to return home. His father seldom looked
at the lad's letters, but flung them to Will to be read, the quarrel
between him and his son, instead of dwindling into forgetfulness,
seeming to grow and widen in his mind with each succeeding year, as
trifling disagreements frequently do in weak but obstinate natures.
"Gethin will be an honour to us yet," Ann would say sometimes.
"Honour indeed!" the old man would answer, with a red spot on each
cheek, which always denoted his rising anger. "What honour? A
common sailor lounging about from one foreign port to another! 'Tis
stopping at home he ought to be, and helping his old father with the

farming. If Will is going to be a clergyman I will want somebody to
help me with the work."
"Well, I'm sure he would come, father, and glad too, if he knew that
you were wanting him."
"Oh, I don't want him. Let him come when he likes; that's fair enough."
But Gethin still roamed, and latterly nothing had been heard of him, no
letters and no news. 'Tis true, a dim and hazy report had reached
Garthowen from some sailor in the village "that Gethin Owens was
getting on 'splendid,' that he was steady and saving." Ann had flushed
with pleasure, but the old man had laughed scornfully, saying, "Well,
I'll believe that when I see it--Gethin steady and saving!" And even
Will had joined in the laugh, but Gwilym Morris looked vexed and
serious.
"I think, indeed, you are too hard upon that poor fellow,", he said; "he
may return to you some day like the prodigal son. Don't forget that,
Ebben Owens--"
"Oh, I don't forget that," said the old man; "and when he comes home
in the same temper as the son we read of, then we'll kill for him the
fatted calf."
"Well, I'd like to know what did he do whatever?" said a girlish voice
from behind the settle, where Morva Lloyd (who was shepherdess,
cowherd, milkmaid, all in one), was drying her hands on a jack-towel;
"what did Gethin do so very bad?"
"Look in his mother's Bible," said the old man, "and you'll see his last
sin."
"I've put it away," said Ann. "Twas too wicked to leave about; but he
was very young, father, and Gwilym says--"
"Oh! Gwilym," said her father, "has an excuse for everyone's faults
except his own; for thine especially."

There was a general laugh, during which Morva made up her mind to
hunt up the old Bible.
"I hope," said Ann, addressing Will, when he had come to an end of his
tea, "you told Price the vicar that Gwilym did not spend evening after
evening here helping you on with your studies, knowing that you were
going to be a clergyman?"
"No, I didn't tell him that, but I can tell him some other time," answered
Will, who would have promised anything in his desire to propitiate Ann
and his father, and to gain their consent to his entering Llaniago
College at the beginning of the next term.
"I'll tell him if he comes here," said Ann. "I wouldn't have him think
that Gwilym Morris, the Methodist minister, spent his time in teaching
a parson."
"Well," said the preacher, who was standing at the old glass bookcase
looking for a book, "you certainly did spring the news very suddenly
upon me, Will; you kept your secret very close; but still, Ann, it makes
no difference. I would have done anything for your brother, and I'm
glad, whatever his course may be, that I have been able to impart to
him a little knowledge."
"Look you here now," said the old man,