glad
I am! You are late to-night, and I was beginning to puzzle."

"Has my father missed me?"

"Well, indeed, he hasn't said anything," said Betto, hunting for the
frying-pan, and beginning to prepare the ham and eggs for supper. "But
where's that Robin?" she added; "a clout or two with the frying-pan
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 hen 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