always laughing or singing or something."

"Indeed I wish we could," said Madlen, a pale girl who was bending over
a box of knitting pins, looking round curiously and rather sadly; "I
wish the whole world could be like you, Morva."

Morva snatched the girl's listless hand in her own warm firm grasp, and
pressed it sympathetically, for she knew Madlen's secret sorrow.

"Wait another year or two," said Fani, "we'll talk to you then! Wait
till your husband comes home drunk from 'The Black Horse!'"

"And wait till you put all your money into a shop and then find it
doesn't pay you," said Jos.

Madlen said nothing, but Morva knew that in her heart she was thinking,
"Wait until your lover proves false to you!" and she gave her hand
another squeeze.

"Well, indeed!" she said springing up, "what are you all talking about?
I won't put all my money in a shop, and I won't marry a drunkard!
Sixpence, is it? I am going home over the bog and round the hill, but
I am going to sit on the bench outside a bit first. There's lots of
swallows' nests under your eaves, Jos Hughes; that brings good luck,
they say, so your shop ought to pay you well."

So saying she passed out, and sitting on the bench round the corner of
the house she kissed her hand toward the swallows, who flitted in and
out of their nests, twittering ecstatically.

"Hark to her," said Fani, "singing again, if you please--always
light-hearted! always happy! I don't think its quite right, Jos bach,
do you? You are a deacon at Penmorien and you ought to know. If it
was a hymn now! but you hear it's all nonsense about the swallows. Ach
y fi! she is learning them from Sara ''spridion';[1] some song of the
'old fathers' in past times!"

"Yes," said Jos, sanctimoniously clasping his stubby fingers, "I'm
afraid the girl is a bit of a heathen. What wonder is it? Nursed by
Sara--always out with the cows or the sheep, and they say she thinks
nothing of sleeping under a hedge, or out on the slopes, if any animal
is sick and wants watching."

Fani went out with a toss of her head, as the sweet voice came in
through the little side window with the twittering of the swallows and
the cluck, cluck of a happy brood hen.

Outside, Morva had forgotten all about Jos Hughes and Fani "bakkare's"
sour looks, and was singing her heart out to the sunshine.

"Sing on, little swallows," she said, "and I'll sing too. Sara taught
me the 'bird song' long ago when I was a baby."