since she had
"gone into long frocks and turned her hair up," she crossed her arms on
the table, and leaning her head upon them, she sobbed, and sobbed, and
sobbed.

CHAPTER X

THE CYNOS

In the old grey mill in the gorge, which ran up the moor about half a
mile beyond Sara's cottage, there was a "sound of revelry by night,"
for the Garthowen "cynos" was in full swing. It bid fair to be the
merriest, heartiest cynos of the year, and Jacob the miller was in his
element.

As Morva came down the side of the moor after supper, the enlivening
sounds which greeted her ear hastened her steps and quickened the blood
in her veins.

Will's absence, though unconsciously, was a relief to her, and in the
morning when, on rising, she had opened the cottage door, disclosing to
view all the charms of the autumn day, its glow of crimson bramble, its
glory of furze and heather, against the blue of the sea, her spirits
had risen with a bound, and the sadness of the evening before had at
once taken flight. For in the elasticity of youth, the hand of sorrow
has but to be removed for a moment and the flowers of hope and
happiness rise with unimpaired freshness and vigour; not so when age
draws near, then the heavy hand may be lifted, and the crushed flowers
of happiness may slowly revive and open once more, but there is a
bruise on the stem and a stain on the petals which remain.

Ebben Owens and Ann had all day been busy with the preparations for the
cynos. Gethin's whistle came loud and clear from the brow of the hill.
It had been a happy day for every one, so Morva thought, knowing
nothing of the anxiety which her burst of sorrow on the previous
evening had awakened in her foster-mother's heart. Sara's love for her
adopted child, who had come to her when her mother's heart was crying
aloud in its bereavement, had in it not only tenderness deep as a
mother's, but also that keen intuition and sensitiveness to every
varying mood and feeling of the loved one, which is the bitter
prerogative of all true love. So, while Morva had gone singing to her
milking, Sara had walked in her herb garden, musing somewhat sadly.
There was neither sorrow nor anxiety in the girl's heart as she
hastened her steps down the side of the gorge. She saw the twinkling
light in the window of the old mill kitchen, she heard the trickling of
the stream, and the sound of laughter and merry voices which issued
from the wide open mill door.

When sh