The first few days following the Sciet were days of anxious waiting for
Ebben Owens. He had laid his soul bare before his son, the idol of his
life, and he waited for the answer to his letter, with as intense an
anxiety as does a prisoner for the sentence of the judge. He rose with
the dawn as was always his custom, but now, instead of the active
supervision of barn or stable or cowshed, which had filled up the early
morning hours, his time was spent in roaming over the moor or the
lonely shore, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes bent on the
ground. Morva watched him from the door of her cottage, and often, as
the morning mists evaporated in curling wisps before the rising sun,
the sad, gaunt figure would emerge from the shadows and pass over the
moorland path. Then would Morva waylay him with a cheerful greeting.

"There's a brâf day we are going to have, 'n'wncwl Ebben!--"

"Yes, I think," the old man would answer, looking round him as if just
awakening to the fact.

"Yes, look at the mist now rolling away from Moel Hiraethog, and look
at those rocks on Traeth y daran which looked so grey ten minutes ago;
see them, all tipped with gold, and, oh, anwl, look at those blue
shadows behind them, and the bay all blue and silver!"

"Yes," answered her companion, looking round with sad eyes, "'tis all
beautiful."

"Well, now," said Morva, "I am only an ignorant girl, I know, and I
have many foolish thoughts passing through my mind, but this, 'n'wncwl
Ebben, isn't it a wise and a true one? 'Tis Sara has told me,