On the following Sunday, Morva kept house alone at Garthowen, for
everyone else had gone to chapel, except Will, who had walked to
Castell On, which was three miles away up the valley of the On, he
having been of late a frequent attendant at Mr. Price's church. The
vicar was much beloved by all his parishioners, beloved and respected
by high and low, but still his congregation was sparse and uncertain,
so that every new member was quickly noticed and welcomed by him--more
especially any stray sheep from the dissenting fold possessed for him
all the interest of the sheep in the parable, for whose sake the ninety
and nine were left in the wilderness. Will had gone off with a large
prayer book under his arm, determined to take special note of the
Vicar's manner in reading the lessons, for on the following Sunday this
important duty would devolve upon him.

No one who has not spent a Sunday afternoon in a Methodist household
can really have sounded the depths of dullness; the interminable hours
between the early dinner and the welcome moment when the singing kettle
and the jingling of the tea-things break up the spell of dreariness,
the solemn silence pervading everything, broken only by the persistent
ticking of the old clock on the stairs, Morva had noted them all rather
wearily. Even the fowls in the farmyard seemed to walk about with a
more sober demeanour than usual, but more trying than anything else to
an active girl was the fact that _there was nothing to do_.

It was a hot blazing summer afternoon; she had paid frequent visits to
the sick calf, which was getting well and mischievous again, and
inclined to butt at Tudor, so even that small excitement was over, and
the girl came sauntering back under the shady elder tree which spread
its branches over the doorway of the back kitchen. She crossed to the
window, and leaning her arms on the deep sill looked out over the yard,