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
refu