Was he mistaken? Would she come to-night? Surely yes, for the broom bushes grew close to the path to Garthowen, and over that path she was constantly pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing, whether in daylight or starlight or moonlight.

"'Tis very quiet here," he thought. "It makes me think of a night watch at sea."

The sea heaved gently down below, the waves breaking softly and regularly on the beach. He heard the rustling of the gra.s.ses as they trembled in the night breeze, the hoot of the owl in the ivied chimneys of Garthowen, the distant barking of a dog, the tinkle of a chain on some fishing boat rocking on the undulating waves; but no other sound broke the silence of the night.

"Jar-i! there's slow she is, if she's coming at all," said Gethin.

"Will I go and see how Sara is after her journey? 'Tis what I ought to do, and no mistake, after all her kindness."

And leaving the shadow of the bushes, he stepped out into the full moonlight, only to meet Morva face to face.

"Well, indeed, Gethin!" she exclaimed, "I wasn't expecting to see you here so far from Garthowen."

"No; nor I, la.s.s," said Gethin, taking her hand, and continuing to hold it. "I was so surprised to see thee out alone to-night; it gave me a start. I was not expecting to see thee."

"No, of course," said Morva, "and I wouldn't be here, only I was afraid I had not fastened the new calf up safely and--and--"

And they looked at each other and laughed.

"Well, now, 'tis no use telling stories about it," said Gethin; "I will confess, Morva, I came here to look for thee; but I can't expect thee to say the same--or didst expect to see me, too, la.s.s? Say yes, now, da chi!" [1]

Morva hung her head, but answered mischievously:

"Well, if I did, I won't tell tales about myself, whatever; but, indeed, I mustn't stop long. Mother will be waiting for me."

"She will guess where thou art, and I cannot let thee go, la.s.s. Dost remember the last time we were here?"

"Yes--yes, I remember."

"Dost remember I told thee what I would say if I were Will? Wilt listen to me now, la.s.s, though I am only Gethin?"

Is it needful to tell that she did stay long--that Sara did guess where she was; and that there, in the moonlight, with the sea breeze whispering its own love messages in their ears, the words were spoken for which each had been thirsting ever since they had met there last?

In the early sunrise of the next morning Ebben Owens, too, was crossing the moor. He wanted to tell Sara of the happiness which his son's return had brought him, and to thank her for her share in bringing it to pa.s.s. He wanted, too, to tell her of the sorrow and repentance which filled his heart, and the deep grat.i.tude he felt for all she had done for him.

She was already in her garden attending to her bees.

"Sara, woman," said the old man, standing straight before her with outstretched hands.

"Dear, dear, Ebben Owens, so early coming to see me! Sit thee down, then, here in the sun," and she placed her hand in his, endeavouring to draw him down beside her; but he resisted her gentle pressure and, still standing, bent his head like a guilty child.

"No, no," he said, with a tremble in his voice. "Tell me first, can'st forgive me my shameful sin? Everybody is forgiving me too easy, much too easy, I know. 'Tis only one will be always remembering, and that is me."

"I am not surprised at that, and I am glad to hear those words from thee," said Sara, "but my forgiveness, Ebben bach, is as full and free as I believe thy repentance is deep."

And gradually the old man ceased to resist her gentle persuasions, and, sitting down beside her, the bees humming round them, and the sun rising higher and higher in the sky, they conversed together in that perfect communion of soul which sometimes gilds the friendship of old age. Together they had experienced the joys of youth, in middle age both had tasted the bitterness of sorrow, and now in old age the calm and peace of evening was beginning to shine upon one as it had long shone upon the other.

"I have never thanked thee," he said at last, "for all thy loving-kindness to me; never in words, Sara, but I have felt it; and I thank G.o.d that thou art living here so near me, where I can come sometimes for refreshment of spirit, as my journey draws towards the end, for I am a weak man, as thou knowest, and often stumble in my path. Ever since that first mistake of my life I have suffered the punishment of it, Sara, and thou hast reaped the golden blessing."

"Yes," said Sara, looking dreamily over the garden hedge, "I have had more than compensation, my cup is full and running over. No one can understand how bright life is to me," and over her face there spread a light and rapture which Ebben Owens gazed at with a kind of wondering reverence.

"There's no doubt thou hast something within thee that few others have," he said, with a shake of his head.

Here Morva arrived from the milking, and finding them still sitting in the sunshine in earnest conversation, held her finger up reprovingly, and begged them to come in to breakfast.

"Oh, stop, 'n'wncwl Ebben, and have breakfast with us. Uwd it is, and fresh milk from Garthowen."

"No, no, child," said the old man, rising. "Ann will be waiting for me; I must go at once."

"Well indeed, she was laying the breakfast. She doesn't want me to-day, she says, so I am stopping at home with mother to weed the garden."

And as Ebben Owens trudged homewards, her happy voice followed him, breaking clear on the morning air as she sang in the joy other heart:

"Troodie! Troodie! come down from the mountain; Troodie! Troodie! come up from the dale; Moelen and Corwen, and Blodwen and Trodwen, I'll meet you all with my milking-pail!"

The echo of it brought a pleased smile to the old man's lips, as he neared his home and left the clear singing behind him.

The day had broadened to noontide, and had pa.s.sed into late afternoon, when Gethin Owens once more crept round the Cribserth. He crept, because he heard the sound of Morva's voice, and he would come upon her unawares--would see the sudden start, the shy surprise, the pink blush rising to the temples; so he stole from the pathway and crept along behind the broom bushes, watching through their interlacing branches while Morva approached from the cottage, singing in sheer lightness of heart, Tudor following with watchful eyes and waving tail, and a sober demeanour, which was soon to be laid aside for one of boisterous gambolling, for on the green sward Morva stopped, and with a bow to Tudor picked up her blue skirt in the thumb and finger of each hand, showing her little feet, which glanced in and out beneath her brick-red petticoat. She was within two yards of Gethin, where he stood still as a statue, scarcely breathing lest he should disturb the happy pair, his eyes and his mouth alone showing the merriment and fun which were br.i.m.m.i.n.g over in his heart.

"Now, 'machgen i," said Morva, "what dost think of me?" and she curtseyed again to Tudor, who did the same. "Dost like me? dost think I am grand to-day? See the new bows on my shoes, see the new caddis on my petticoat, and above all, Tudor, see my beautiful necklace! Come, lad, let's have a dance, for Gethin's come home," and she began to imitate as well as she could the dance which Gethin had executed, with such fatal consequences to her heart, at the Garthowen cynos. Up and down, round and across, with uplifted gown, Tudor following with exuberant leaps and barks of delight, and catching at her flying skirts at every opportunity. As she danced she sang with unerring ear and precision, the tune that Reuben Davies had played in the dusty mill, setting to it the words of one refrain, "Gethin's come home, bachgen!

Gethin's come home!"

Little did she know that Gethin's delighted ears missed not a note nor a word of her singing, or silence and dire confusion would have fallen upon that light-hearted couple who pranked so merrily upon the green.

But human nature has its limits, even of happy endurance; the temptation to join that dance was irresistible, and Gethin, suddenly succ.u.mbing to it, sprang out upon them. There was a little scream, a bark, and a flutter, and Morva, clasped in Gethin's arms, was wildly whirled in an impromptu dance, round and round the green sward, up and down, and round again, until, breathless and panting, they stopped from sheer exhaustion; and when Gethin at last led his laughing partner to rest under the golden broom bushes, he cared not a whit that she chided him with a reproving finger, for her voice was full of merriment and joy.

The sun was drawing near his setting, and still they sat and talked and laughed together, Tudor stretched at their feet, and looking from one to the other with an air of entire approval.