d much attention to this point.

"The time is drawing near, father," he said one day. "I am determined
to go to Llaniago, and if you can't pay I must get the money somewhere
else, that's all," and he had risen from the table with that wilful,
dogged curve on his mouth which his father knew so well, and had always
been so weakly unable to resist.

"Twt, twt, my boy," he said, "that will be all right; don't you vex
about that."

And thus reassured, Will gladly banished the disquieting doubt from his
mind, and his good humour returned.

Gethin seemed to fall naturally into his place as eldest son of the
family, taking to the farm work with zeal and energy, and making up for
his want of experience by his complete devotion to his work.

Ann was calm and serene as usual, happy in her brother's prospects, and
deeply interested in the grey stone house which the congregation at
Penmorien were building for their minister.

Gwilym Morris devoted himself entirely to Will's preparations for his
entrance examination.

And for Morva, what had the autumn brought? A rich, full tide of life
and happiness. Every morning she rose with the sun, and as she opened
the door and let in the scent of the furze and the dewy grass, her
whole being responded to the voice of Nature around her. She was
constantly running backwards and forwards between Garthowen and the
cottage. Nothing went well at the farm without her, and in the cottage
there were a score of things which she loved to do for Sara. There
were the fowls to be fed, the eggs to be hunted for, the garden to be
weeded, the cottage to be cleaned, Sara's knitting to be set straight,
the herbs to be dried and sorted and tied up in bundles under the brown
rafters. Oh, yes! every day brought for Morva its full harvest of
lovely scenes, of beautiful sounds, and sweet scents. Certainly, Will
was a little cold and irritable lately, but she was well used to his
variable humours, and somehow the home-coming of Gethin had filled the
only void there had been in her life, though of that she had scarcely
been conscious. There was hardly an hour in the day when Morva's song
might not be heard filling the autumn air with melody, for how could
she help singing as she sat knitting on the moorside while she watched
the cattle, and kept them from roaming too near the edge of the cliff.

On the brow of the hill Gethin was harrowing. His lively whistle
reached her on the breeze, and she would