There was a moment's silence.

"Will's temper is not improving," said Ann at last.

"Poor boy," said the indulgent father, "'tis disappointed he is; but it
won't be long to wait till January."

"But, father," said Ann, "there is the 80 pounds you got for the two
ricks? You put that into the bank safe, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes, yes, quite safe, 'merch i. Don't you bother your head about
things that don't concern you," and he too went out, leaving Ann
drumming with her fingers on the tea-tray.

Her father's manner awoke some uneasiness in her mind, for long
experience had taught her that money had a way of slipping through his
hands ere ever it reached the wants of the household.

"I went with him to the bank," said Gwilym Morris reassuringly, "and
saw him put it in," and Ann was satisfied.

Under her skilful management, in spite of their dwindled means,
Garthowen was always a home of plenty. The produce of the farm was
exchanged at the village shops for the simple necessaries of domestic
life. The sheep on their own pasture lands yielded wool in abundance
for their home-spun clothing, the flitches of bacon that garnished the
rafters provided ample flavouring for the cawl, and for the rest Will
and Gwilym's fishing and shooting brought in sufficient variety for the
simple tastes of the family. Indeed, there was only one thing that was
not abundant at Garthowen, and that was--ready money!