Sara was sitting at tea when the girl arrived. Through the open
doorway came the glow of the sunset, with the humming of bees and the
smell of the thyme and the bean flowers.

"Thou hast something to ask me, Morva. What is it?" she said, making
room for her at the little round table in the chimney corner.

"Oh, 'tis nothing, I suppose," said Morva, cutting herself a long slice
of the flat barley loaf; "only 'tis the same old questions that are
often troubling me. What is going to become of me? What is in the
future for me? I used to think when I grew to be a woman I would marry
Will, and settle down at Garthowen close to you here, mother fâch, and
take care of 'n'wncwl Ebben when Ann and Gwilym Morris were married;
but now, somehow, it all seems altered."

The old woman looked at her long and thoughtfully.

"Wait until later, child," she said. "Clear away the tea, tidy up the
hearth, and let me read my chapter while the daylight lasts," and
finishing her tea Morva did as she was bid.

Later on in the evening, sitting on the low rush stool opposite to
Sara, she continued her inquiries.

"Tell me, mother, about Will and Gethin when they were boys. Was
Gethin so very wicked?"

"Wicked? No," said Sara, "never wicked. Wild and mischievous and full
of pranks he was, but the truest, the kindest boy in the world was
Gethin Owens Garthowen."