, as he sat smoking in the chimney-corner,
Tudor beside him gazing rather mournfully into the fire. He was
looking ill and worn, and spoke in a low, husky voice. He had sat
there lost in thought ever since he had pushed away his almost untasted
dinner.

"Yes," said Morva, "I am going; but mother is not coming to-night; she
doesn't like the Sciet, you know."

"She is an odd woman," said Ann. "Not like the Sciet indeed! If I
didn't love her so much I would be very angry with her."

Morva flushed.

"She is very different to other people, I know; but she is a good woman
whatever."

"Yes, yes, yes," said Ebben Owens emphatically; "but why doesn't she
like the Sciet?"

"Oh! that's what she is saying," answered the girl, "that she doesn't
see the use of people standing up to confess half their sins and
keeping back the other and the worst half. She has been talking to
Gwilym Morris about it, and he is agreeing with her."

"Och fi!" sighed the old man, relapsing into his moody silence, from
which not even little Gwyl's chatter was able to rouse him.

At last when the cheerful sound of the tea-things, and Ann's
oft-repeated summons, recalled him to outward surroundings, he rose as
if wearily, and drew his chair to the table, where, stooping more and
more over his tea, Ann detected a tear furtively wiped away.

"You won't take little Gwyl to chapel to-night, will you? 'tis rather
damp," he said, though it was really a clear twilight.

"No, no," said Ann, "Magw will take care of him at home."

Gwilym helped the old man to change his coat.

"Where are his gloves, Ann, and his best hat? There's grand he'll be!"

But there was no answering smile on his father-in-law's face.

"Twt, twt," he said, "there is no need of gloves for me, and I won't
wear my best hat, give me my old one."

He sighed heavily as with bent head, and hands buried deep in his coat
pockets, he followed Ann and her husband down the stony road to the
valley where Penmorien Chapel lay. It was one of the unlovely square
buildings so much affected by the Welsh Dissenters, its walls of grey
stone differing little in appearance and colour from the rocky bed of
the hill which had been quarried out for its site.

As the Garthowen family entered, led by the preacher hat in hand, there
was a little movement of interest in the thronging congregation, and a
settling down to their prospective enjoyment, for an eloquent sermon
possesses for the Welsh t