lost in thought, his eyes narrowly
scanning the cliffs and rocks around for some sign of Valmai, and
sometimes rewarded by a glimpse of her red hood or a wave of her
handkerchief; but for the lounging laziness which shirks work, and
shrinks from any active exertion, he had nothing but contempt. Dye
always averred "that the work never went so well as when the young
master helped at it."

"Twt, twt, he is like the rest of the world these days," said Ebben,
"works when he likes, and is idle when he likes. When I was young--"
etc. etc.

When the haymaking began he was everywhere in request, and entered with
much energy into the work of the harvest. Early and late he was out
with the mowers, and, at a push, with his strong shoulders and brawny
arms could use the scythe as well as any of the men. The Vicar paid
occasional visits to the hayfields, and Betto was busy from morning to
night filling the baskets with the lunch of porridge and milk, or the
afternoon tea for the haymakers, or preparing the more substantial
dinner and supper.

"What's Dinas thinking of?" said Ebben, drying his heated face; "not
begun to mow yet?"

"Begin to-morrow," answered Dye. "Essec Powell forgot it was hay
harvest, until Valmai pulled him out by the coat, and made him look
over the gate."

"Hast seen the picture," said Ebben, "Mr. Ellis has made of her and
Corwen? Splendid!"

"No," said Dye; "has he? What will the Vicare say? Jar-i! there'll be
black looks!"

But Gwynne Ellis had been wiser than to show his sketch to the Vicar;
he was learning like Cardo that if there was to be peace at Brynderyn,
neither Essec Powell nor his flock nor his family must be mentioned.

The last full wain of sweet scented hay had been carted into the
haggard, amidst the usual congratulatory comments of the haymakers, who
had afterwards trooped into the farm-yard, where, under the pale
evening sky, with the sunset glow behind them, and the moon rising full
before them, they seated themselves at the long supper table prepared
by Betto and Shan in the open yard.

First the bowls were filled with the steaming cawl, and then the wooden
platters were heaped with the pink slices of home-cured bacon, and
mashed up cabbages. Last of all came the hunches of solid rice
pudding, washed down by "blues" [1] of home-brewed ale; and the talk
and the laughter waxed louder and merrier, as they proceeded with their
meal.

Gwynne Ellis sat perched on the wall un