forgiveness is waiting for every sinner who repents."

The old man said nothing for some time, but trudged heavily beside her.

"_Thou_ art tender and forgiving, whatever," he said at last; "but Ann,
where is she? Will she ever forgive me?"

"She is waiting for Gwilym," answered Morva.

"She is right; but come thou with me, lass; thou must help me to-night,
for I have only done half my task," and as they passed under the elder
tree at the back door he hurried before her into the house.

"Now, 'merch i, bring me pen and ink and some paper."

Now was the time, he felt, when he must make a clean breast of all his
guilt, and drink his bitter draught of expiation to the dregs. He
seized the pen eagerly and with trembling hands began to write, "My
beloved son." The letter was to Will, of course. A clergyman! a
gentleman! with a lady to wife! What would he say when he heard that
his father was a thief?

He made a full and ample confession, adding no extenuating
circumstances and making no excuses. He wrote slowly and laboriously,
Morva meanwhile rifling Ann's work-box for a seal.

"There's beautiful writing for an old man," she said at last, as Ebben
Owens toiled through the address, his tongue following every movement
of the pen. "Now, here's the seal, and I will put the letter in the
post at once, and then your mind will be easy."