ere such shells in the world."

"They are beautiful, indeed," said Sara, "but just like a sailor. If
he had given thee something useful it would have been better. They
will not suit a shepherdess. Thee will have to take them off in a day
or two and lay them away in their box. 'Tis a pity, too, child."

"Any way, mother, I will wear them sometimes; they are only shells
after all. 'Tis hard I can't wear them because they are so lovely."

And the next day she wore them again, and, longing to see for herself
how she looked, made her way up to the moor in the early morning
sunshine to where a clear pool in the brown peat bog reflected the sky
and the gold of the furze bushes. Here she stood on the edge and gazed
at her own reflection in the clear water.

"Oh, 'tis pretty!" she said leaning over the pool, and as she gazed her
own beautiful face with its halo of golden hair impressed itself on her
mind as it had never done before. "And there's pretty I am, too," she
whispered, and gazing at her own image she blushed, entranced with the
vision. "Good-bye, Morva," she whispered again, "good-bye. I wonder
does Gethin see me pretty? But I must not think that; what would be
the use? Will does, and that must be enough for me;" and with a sigh
she turned down the moor again.

CHAPTER VII

THE BROOM GIRL

One morning in the following week the high road leading to Castell On
presented a lively appearance. It was white and dusty from the tramp
of the country folk and the vehicles of all descriptions which followed
each other towards the town, whose one long street would be crowded
from ten o'clock in the morning till late afternoon, as it was market
day. This was the weekly excitement of the neighbourhood, and there
was scarcely a household within the radius of a few miles that did not
send at least one of its members to swell the number of chafferers and
bargainers in the market. Jolly farmers, buxom maidens, old women in
witch hats and scarlet scarves, pigs, sheep, horses, all followed each
other in the same direction.

Amongst the rest came a girl who rather stooped under what looked like
a large bunch of blooming heather. It was Morva, who was carrying her
bundle of heath brooms to the corner of the market-place, where she was
eagerly waited for by the farmers' wives.

Dyc "pigstye" was accustomed to bring her a bundle of broom handles,
which he had roughly fashioned in the wood in the valley, and she