stood, made her way to the spring which dripped from a crack in the
cliffs. While she waited for the pitcher to fill, she sang, in sheer
lightness of heart, the old ballad which not only floated on the air of
Abersethin and its neighbourhood, but which she had heard her mother
sing in the far-off land of her childhood.

"By Berwen's banks my love has strayed
For many a day through sun and shade,"

and she paused to peep into the pitcher, but finding it only half full,
continued:

"And as she carolled loud and clear
The little birds flew down to hear."

"By Berwen's banks the storm rose high,"

but the pitcher was full, so, resting it on her side, she carried it
home, before Nance had caught her goat. When she returned with her
bowl of rich milk, Valmai was busy, with skirt and sleeves tucked up,
tidying and arranging the little room; the hearth had been swept and
the tea-things laid on the quaint little round table, whose black
shining surface and curved legs would have delighted the heart of a
collector of antique furniture.

"Oh, calon fâch![2] to think your little white hands have been working
for me! Now I will cut the bread and butter thin, thin--as befits a
lady like you; and sorry I am that it is barley bread. I don't forget
the beautiful white cakes and the white sugar you gave me at Dinas the
other day! And your uncle, how is he?"