kind to you; that he is making you to work on the farm, when you ought
to be a gentleman."

"That is not true," said Cardo, flushing in the darkness; "it is my
wish to be a farmer; I like it better than any other work; it is my own
free choice. Besides, can I not be a farmer and a gentleman too?
Where could I be so happy as here at home, where my ancestors have
lived for generations?"

"Ancestors?" said the girl; "what is that?"

"Oh! my grandfather and great-grandfather, and all the long dead of my
family."

"Yes, indeed, I see. Ancestors," she repeated, with a sort of
scheduling tone, as though making sure of the fresh information; "I do
not know much English, but there's good you are speaking it! Can you
speak Welsh?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Cardo, and his voice woke the echoes from Moel
Hiraethog, the hill which they were nearing, and which they must
compass before reaching the valley of the Berwen. "Ha! ha! ha! Can I
speak Welsh? Why, I am Welsh to the core, Cymro glan gloyw![1] What
are you?"

"Oh! Welsh, of course. You can hear that by my talk."

"Indeed no," said Cardo. "I did not know anyone at Traeth Berwen could
speak English as well as you do."