wind," she said. "Sara has told me, but I haven't time to sing the
'wind song' to-day," and reaching the sheep path which led round the
mountain, she sped against the wind, her hair streaming behind her, her
blue skirt fluttering in the breeze, the ball of scarlet worsted and
the shining 'bacco box held high in either hand to steady her flying
footsteps, Tudor barking with joy as he bounded after her and twitched
at her fluttering skirts.

It was tea-time when she reached Garthowen, and, winter or summer, that
was always the pleasantest hour at the farmstead, when the air was
filled with the aroma of the hot tea, and the laughter and talk of the
household. On the settle in the cosy chimney corner sat Ebben Owens
himself, the head of the family and the centre of interest to every
member of it. He possessed that doubtful advantage, the power of
attracting to himself the affection and friendship of everyone who came
in contact with him; his children idolised him, 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