forgetfulness, seeming to grow and widen in his mind with each
succeeding year, as trifling disagreements frequently do in weak but
obstinate natures.

"Gethin will be an honour to us yet," Ann would say sometimes.

"Honour indeed!" the old man would answer, with a red spot on each
cheek, which always denoted his rising anger. "What honour? A common
sailor lounging about from one foreign port to another! 'Tis stopping
at home he ought to be, and helping his old father with the farming.
If Will is going to be a clergyman I will want somebody to help me with
the work."

"Well, I'm sure he would come, father, and glad too, if he knew that
you were wanting him."

"Oh, I don't want him. Let him come when he likes; that's fair enough."

But Gethin still roamed, and latterly nothing had been heard of him, no
letters and no news. 'Tis true, a dim and hazy report had reached
Garthowen from some sailor in the village "that Gethin Owens was
getting on 'splendid,' that he was steady and saving." Ann had flushed
with pleasure, but the old man had laughed scornfully, saying, "Well,
I'll believe that when I see it--Gethin steady and saving!" And even
Will had joined in the laugh, but Gwilym Morris looked vexed and
serious.

"I think, indeed, you are too hard upon that poor fellow,", he said;
"he may return to you some day like the prodigal son. Don't forget
that, Ebben Owens--"