refused to yield her milk without a musical accompaniment. Very soft
and low was the girl's singing, but clear and sweet as that of the
thrush on the thorn bush behind her.

"Give me my little milking pail,
For under the hawthorn in the vale
The cows are gathering one by one,
They know the time by the westering sun.
Troodi, Troodi! come down from the mountain,
Troodi, Troodi! come up from the dale;
Moelen, and Corwen, and Blodwen, and Trodwen!
I'll meet you all with my milking pail."


So sang the girl, and the lilting tune caught the ears of a youth who
was just entering the farmyard. He knew it at once. It was a snatch
of Morva's simple milking song. He stopped to pat Daisy's broad
forehead, and Morva looked up with a smile.

"Make haste," she said, "or tea will be finished. Where have you been
so late?"

"Thou'll be surprised when I tell thee," said the young man; but before
he had time for further conversation, Ann's voice called him from the
kitchen window, and he hurried away unceremoniously.

Morva continued her song, for Daisy wanted nothing new, but was
contented with the old stave which she had known from calfhood.

Will Owens, arriving in the farm kitchen, had evidently been eagerly