took warmly.

"Miss Owen, I suppose?"

"I was Ann Owens," she said, blushing. "I am Mrs. Gwilym Morris now
these three years. This is my little boy," she added, as a chubby,
curly-headed child toddled towards her. She had already opened the
door of the best kitchen. "There is no fire in the parlour," she
apologised, "or I would take you there."

"Oh, no; please let me come to your usual sitting-room. Is this your
father?"

And she held out her hand again. There was something in her face that
always ensured its own welcome.

"Yes, I am Ebben Owens," said the old man, "and very glad to see you,
though I not know who you are."

"I am Gwenda Vaughan of Nantmyny, come to ask if you will let me rest
awhile. I have been out with the fox-hounds; we have had a long run,
and I am so tired."

She had no other excuse to give for her inroad upon their hearth; but
in Wales no excuse is required for a call.

"Well, indeed," said the old man, rubbing his knees with pleasure,
"there's a good thing now, you come just in time for tea. I think I
have heard your name, but I not know where. Oh, yes. I remember now;
'twas you the bull was running after in the market, and my boy Will