r verging on seventy,
might not overstrain himself. He pointed out that by letting off
most of the glebe land and pretermitting David's "pocket-money" he
might secure a young and energetic Welsh-speaking curate, the
remainder of whose living-wage would--he felt sure--be found out of
the diocesan funds of St. David's bishopric.

The Revd. Howel let him have his way (This was after David had
returned to Fig Tree Court) and by the following June a stalwart
young curate was lodged in the village and took over the bulk of the
progressive church work from the fumbling hands of the dear old
Vicar. He was a thoroughly good sort, this curate, troubled by no
possible doubts whatever, a fervent tee-totaller, a half-back or
whole back--I forget which--at football, a good boxer, and an
unwearied organizer. Little Bethel was sold and eventually turned
into a seed-merchant's repository and drying-room. The curate in
course of time married the squire's daughter and I dare say long
afterwards succeeded the Revd. Howel Vaughan Williams when the
latter died--but that date is still far ahead of my story. At any
rate--isn't it _droll_ how these things come about?--David's action
in this matter, undertaken he hardly knew why--did much to fetter
Mr. Lloyd George's subsequent attempts to disestablish the British
Church in Wales.

What did Bridget think of all this, of the spiritual evolution of
her nursling, of his identity with the vicious, shifty, idle youth
whose uncanny gift of design seemed to have been completely lost
after his stay in South Africa? David Vavasour Williams had left
home to the relief of his father and the whole village, if even to
the half-pitying regret of his old nurse, in 1896. He had spent a
year or more in Mr. Praed's studio studying to be an architect or a
scene painter. Then somehow or other he did not get on with Mr.
Praed and he enlisted impulsively in a South African Police force
(in the Army, it seemed to Bridget). He had somehow become involved
in a war with a South African people, called by Bridget "the Wild
Boars"; he is wounded or ill in hospital; is little heard of, almost
presumed dead. Throughout all these five years he scarcely ever
writes to his forgiving father; maintains latterly a sulky silence.
Then, suddenly in the summer of 1901, returns; preceded only by a
telegram but apparently vouched for by this Mr. Praed; and announces
himself as having forgotten his Welsh and most of the events of his