will be thousands of people there."

"No, sir, I will not go; neither will you, I hope," answered the Vicar,
and pushing his plate away, he rose, and walked stiffly out at the door
and along the stone passage leading to his study.

His son listened to his retreating footsteps.

"As bigoted as ever, poor fellow!" he said; "but what a fool I was to
mention the subject." And he continued his supper in silence. When
Betto came in to clear away he had flung himself down on the hard
horse-hair sofa. The mould candle lighted up but a small space in the
large, cold room; there was no fire in the grate, no books or papers
lying about, to beguile the tedious hour before bedtime. Was it any
wonder that his thoughts should revert to the earlier hours of the
evening? that he should hear again in fancy the soft voice that said,
"I am Valmai Powell," and that he should picture to himself the
clustering curls that escaped from the red hood?

The old house, with its long passages and large rooms, was full of
those nameless sounds which fill the air in the quiet of night. He
heard his father's footsteps as he paced up and down in his study, he
heard the tick-tack of the old clock on the stairs, the bureau creaked,
the candle spluttered, but there was no human voice to break the
silence, With a yawn he rose, stretching his long legs, and, throwing
back his broad shoulders, made his way along the dark passage which led
into the kitchen, where the farm servants were seated at supper. Betto
moved the beehive chair into a cosy corner beside the fire for the
young master, the men-servants all tugged their forelocks, and the
women rose to make a smiling bob-curtsey.

"Have some cawl,[2] Ser!" said Betto, selecting a shining black bowl
and spoon.

"Not to-night, after all that fried ham; but another night I want
nothing better for supper."

"Well, there's nothing will beat cawl, that's certain," said Ebben, the
head servant, beginning with long-drawn noisy sups to empty his own
bowl.

"Finished the turnips to-day?" asked Cardo.

"Oh, yes," said Ebben, with a slight tone of reproof in his voice; "the
work goes on though you may not be at home, Ser. I consider there is
no piece of land on this earth, no, nor on any other earth, better
farmed than Brynderyn. Eh?" and he looked defiantly at Betto, between
whom and himself there was a continual war of words.

"Well, I suppose so, indeed," said Betto; "_you_ say so often enough,