our fill of love until the morning:
let us solace ourselves with love. For the goodman is not at home, he is
gone on a long journey. He hath--"

"That's lovely," said Gwen.

"Tapestry from my shop," Enoch expounded. "And Irish linen. And busy was
the draper in Kingsend."

Gwen pretended to be asleep.

"He is the father. That will learn him to keep his promise. The wicked
man!"

Unknown to her husband Gwen stood before Ben; and at the sight of her
Ben longed to wanton with her. Gwen stretched out her arms to be clear
of him and to speak to him; her speech was stopped with kisses and her
breasts swelled out. Again she found pleasure in Ben's strength.

Then she spoke of her husband's hatred.

"Like a Welshman every spit he is," said Ben. "And a black."

But his naughtiness oppressed him for many days and he intrigued; and it
came to pass that Enoch was asked to contest a Welsh constituency, and
Enoch immediately let fall his anger for Ben.

"Celebrate this we shall with a reception in the Town Hall," he
announced. "You, Gwen fach, will wear the chikest Paris model we can
find. Ben's kindness is more than I expected. Much that I have I owe to
him."

"Even your son," said Gwen.

VI

TREASURE AND TROUBLE

On a day in a dry summer Sheremiah's wife Catrin drove her cows to drink
at the pistil which is in the field of a certain man. Hearing of that
which she had done, the man commanded his son: "Awful is the frog to
open my gate. Put you the dog and bitch on her. Teach her will I."

It was so; and Sheremiah complained: "Why for is my spring barren? In
every field should water be."

"Say, little husband, what is in your think?" asked Catrin.

"Stupid is your head," Sheremiah answered, "not to know what I throw
out. Going am I to search for a wet farm fach."

Sheremiah journeyed several ways, and always he journeyed in secret;
and he could not find what he wanted. Tailor Club Foot came to sit on
his table to sew together garments for him and his two sons. The tailor
said: "Farm very pretty is Rhydwen. Farm splendid is the farm fach."

"And speak like that you do, Club Foot," said Sheremiah.

"Iss-iss," the tailor mumbled.

"Not wanting an old farm do I," Sheremiah cried. "But speak to goodness
where the place is. Near you are, calf bach, about affairs."

The tailor answered that Rhydwen is in the hollow of the hill which
arises from Capel Sion to the moor.

In the morning Sheremiah rode forth