"Tell them to harness Bowler, and put the two pigs in the car. I'll sell them to-day if I can."

"I will come too," said Ann, "and take little Gwil to have a new cap.

He wants one shocking."

She chatted volubly as they drove under the leafy ash branches which bordered the road, her father answering only in monosyllables.

When the pigs had been carried shrieking, in the usual unceremonious ear-and-tail fashion into their pens, and Bowler had been led into the "Lamb" yard, the old man looked rather forlorn and desolate as he gazed after Ann, who was making her way with little Gwil down the busy street.

"'Twill be hard to bear to-day," he thought. "They are all talking about me; but 'tis not so hard as I deserve."

Suddenly a hand was laid on his arm, and a kindly greeting reached his ears. Mr. Price the vicar, standing at his window, had observed the Garthowen car pa.s.s into the market, and had startled his housekeeper by turning round suddenly with the question.

"Didn't you say we wanted a pig, Jinny?"

"That I did about six months ago, sare, but you never got one. We wanted one then because we had so much milk to spare, but now Corwen is drying up very much, and Beauty is not so good as she was."

Mr. Price took snuff vigorously.

"I think a little pig would look well in that stye, and he would be company for you, Jinny and we could buy a little bran or mash or something for him," he added, hunting for his stick and hat, and hurrying to the front door, Jinny looking after him with a smile of amused disdain.

"'Ts-ts!" she said; "Mistheer, pwr fellow, is very ignorant, though he is so learned. 'Tis a wonder, indeed, he didn't want to buy hay for the pig!"

But she went out pleased, nevertheless, and spread a bed of yellow straw in readiness for her expected "company."

"I wonder who is wanting to sell a pig now," she soliloquised. "I daresay Mishteer saw an old 'bare bones' pa.s.sing that n.o.body else would buy, and is going to take pity on him."

"Poor old Ebben Owens. 'Twill be hard for him to-day," thought the vicar, as he made his way to the pig market, and in another moment he was gladdening the heart of the lonely old man by his kindly greeting.

"Well, well, Mr. Price, sir! Is it you indeed so early in the market?"

"Yes, I have come to buy a pig," said the vicar, holding out his hand.

Embarra.s.sment and shame suffused Ebben Owens's face with a burning glow, and he hesitated to place his own hand in the vicar's.

"Have you heard about me, sir?" he asked,

"I have heard everything," answered the vicar, grasping the timid hand and pressing it warmly.

"And yet you shake hands with me, sir? Well, indeed."

"Yes, with more respect than I have ever done before. Not condoning your sin, remember that, Ebben Owens; but honouring you for having the courage to confess it. That is sufficient proof of your repentance."

There were tears in the old man's eyes as he tried to answer; but Mr.

Price, seeing his emotion, hastened to change the subject.

"Now let us see the pigs," he said, holding out his snuff box, from which Ebben Owens helped himself with more cheerfulness than he had felt since the meeting at which he had made his confession.

They bent over the pen in conclave, during which the vicar exhibited such lamentable ignorance of the points of a pig that, had it not been for his previous kindness, he would have fallen considerably in the old farmer's estimation.

"This is the fattest," he said, prodding one with his stick, and trying to look like a connoisseur.

"Oh! he's too fat for you, sir; this is the one that would look well on your table."

"Poor thing," said the vicar, a shadow falling on his face, as he realised that there would come a morning when the air would be rent with shrieks, and he would wish himself in the next parish. "No doubt, you're right, you're right, he looks a nice little pig; there's a nice curl in his tail, and I like his ears; he'll do very nicely. And here's Dyc 'pigstye.' Well, Dyc, how are you? Will you drive the pig home to my yard, and tell Jinny to give him a good meal, and a gla.s.s of beer for you, Dyc. And now we have settled that matter," he said, turning to the farmer with a business-like air, "I want you to come home with me, Owens, I won't keep you long, just that you may see a very nice letter I have had from your brother, Dr. Owen; 'tis all about your son and his bride, and the home they are coming to."

"But, Mr. Price, sir, you haven't asked the price of the pig," said the farmer, with a gasp.

"Bless me! no!" said the vicar, "I quite forgot that," and he laughed heartily at his own want of thought. "But I'm sure it won't be much.

Two or three pounds, I suppose!"

"Two pounds I thought of getting for this one, and two pound ten for the other."

"Very cheap, too," said the vicar, drawing out the two sovereigns from his waistcoat pocket.

Leaving the pen in charge of a friend, Ebben Owens accompanied Mr.

Price in a state of joyful bewilderment. To walk up the street, in friendly converse with the vicar, he felt would do more than anything else to reinstate him in the good opinion of his neighbours, and as they pa.s.sed through the crowded market in animated and confidential conversation, the hard verdict which many a man had pa.s.sed on his conduct was changed into one of pitying sympathy.

"Well," they thought, "the vicar has forgiven him, whatever, and he is a good man."

Sitting in the vicarage dining-room, listening to the praises of his beloved son, Ebben Owens became less depressed, and felt braver to meet the consequences of his confession.

Although he never discovered that the purchase of the pig was but a blind of the vicar's to hide his plans for helping him to regain, in some degree, the respect of his neighbours, Ebben Owens never forgot the strengthening sympathy held out to him on that much dreaded morning, and Price the vicar became to him ever after, the exemplar of all Christian graces.

"There's a man now," he would say, rubbing his knees as he sat under the big chimney at home; "there's a man now, is fit to help you in this world, and to guide you to the next; and there's the truth! But he does not know much about pigs."

The prospect of seeing Will once more in his old home shed a radiance over everything, and in spite of the humiliation and contrition which overshadowed him, a new-born calmness and peace gradually filled his heart.

To Morva too had come a season of content and joy--why, she could not tell, for she was not free from anxiety concerning Sara's prolonged absence. Certainly the longing for Gethin's return increased every day, but in spite of this, life seemed to hold for her a cup br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with happiness. Going home through the gloaming one evening, singing the refrain of her milking song, she broke off suddenly and began to run towards the cottage, for lo! against the brown hill across the valley she saw the blue smoke rise from Sara's thatched chimney, and in another moment a patch of scarlet showed bright against the golden furze.

"Mother anwl! Dear mother! you have come!"

And she was folded in the tender loving arms.

"My little daughter! I have missed thee!" said Sara, and together they entered the cottage.

Supper was on the table, and the crock of porridge hung over the blazing furze fire on the hearth.

"They called me into Penlau," said Sara, "as I pa.s.sed through the yard, and made me bring this oatmeal, 'for thee'lt want something quick for thy supper,' they said; and there's asking questions they were about what I had seen in Cardiff. Let us have our bwdran, child, for oh! I am tired of the white bread, and the meat, and the puddings they have in the towns. Kitty Jones was very kind, making all sorts of dainties for me, but 'tis bwdran and porridge and cawl and bacon is the fittest food for human beings after all, and the nicest."

"Oh, mother, tell me what you have seen?"

"My little girl, 'twill take many days to tell thee all. Ladies in silks and satins--carriages and horses sparkling in the sun--men playing such beautiful music through shining bra.s.s horns--little children dressed up like the dolls you see at the fairs--fruit of every kind--grand houses and gay streets--but oh, Morva, nothing like the moor when the gorse and heather are in blossom, nothing like the sea and the rocks and the beautiful sky at night when the stars are shining; you couldn't see it, Morva, because of the lamps and the smoke."

"And the moon, mother, did you see her there?"

"Well, yes, indeed, she was there, but she was not looking so clear and so silvery as she is here. No, no, Morva, I thank G.o.d I have lived on the moor, and I pray Him to let me die here."

Morva was longing to ask whether success had crowned her mother's mysterious journey, but refrained from doing so with a nervous shyness which did not generally mark her intercourse with Sara.