y voyages, Gethin?"

"Brighter, grander, warmer, but more beautiful--none, Morva. Indeed to
me, since I've come home, every day seems happier and more
beautiful--and thou, too, Morva. I think by that merry song thou wert
singing thou art not very unhappy."

"Well, indeed, 'twas not a very happy song," said the girl, "but I
suppose I was putting my own foolishness into it."

"Wilt sing it again, lass?"

"Wilt sing, too?"

"Oh, dei anwl, yes; there's no song ever reaches my ears but I must
join in it. Come, sing on."

And Morva sang again, Gethin's rich tones blending with hers in full
harmony. This time she was awake, and realised the sorrow of the words.

"Well, no," said Gethin, "'tis not a very merry thing, indeed, to set
your heart upon winning a maiden, and to lose her as that poor fellow
did. But, Morva," he said, tossing the gorse blossoms on her lap,
"'tis a happy thing to love and to be loved in return."

"Yes, perhaps," said the girl, thinking of Will, and wondering why,
though he loved her so much, there was always a shadow hanging over her
affection for him.

Gethin longed to break the silence which fell over them, but a nervous
fear deterred him, a dread of spoiling the happy freedom of their
intercourse--a nameless fear of what her answer might be; so he put off
the hour of certainty, and seized the joys of hope and delight which
the present yielded him.

"Where's thy necklace, Morva?"

"'Tis at home in the box. Mother says a milkmaid should not wear such
beautiful things every day, and on Sunday the girls and boys would
stare at me if I wore them to chapel."

"What art keeping them for, then?" said Gethin. "For thy wedding-day?"

"That will be a long time; oh, no, before then very often I will wear
it, now when I'm at home alone, and sometimes when the sun is gone down
I love to feel it on my neck; and I go up to the moor sometimes and
peep at myself in the bog pools just to see how it looks. There's a
foolish girl I am!"

What a day of delight it was! The browns of autumn tingeing the moor,
the very air full of its mellow richness, the plash of the waves on the
rocks below the cliffs, the song of the reapers coming on the breeze,
oh, yes, life was all glorious and beautiful on the Garthowen slopes
just then.

"To-morrow night is the 'cynos.'[1] Wilt be there, Morva?" asked
Gethin.

"Well, yes, of course," answered the girl, "and 'tis busy we'll be with
only Ann and me and t