Betto's face exhibited a succession of expressions, which followed each other like dissolving views, astonishment, indignation, fear of her master's displeasure, determination to champion Cardo in any course of combat, all ending in a broad grin of delight as she saw an unaccustomed curve on the Vicar's lips.
"Did I know it? No; if I had, I wouldn't have had words with so many people in the village. Oh! my boy, bâch! didn't I always say he was a gentleman!" And her varied emotions culminated in a rain of tears.
"Twt, twt!" said the Vicar, clearing his throat, "no nonsense, Betto; bring me the potatoes."
And that meal was finished with more cheerfulness than had lightened up that dark old room for many a long year.
From that day forth the Vicar seemed to gain strength and gladness with every hour. He took long walks in his parish, and showed more tender sympathy with the ailments and troubles of his ancient congregation. The wonderful change in the "Vicare du" was the subject of remark at many a cottage hearth, and in many a roadside conversation.
"Oh! it's his son's coming home that has brightened him up so much; and John Jones, postmaster, says he took the other letter as meek as a lamb. But what has he done with it nobody knows. John Jones is saying that it has never been posted again, so he must have got it still."
"Well, well! how can he post it when nobody knows where Mrs. Caradoc
Wynne is?"
"Mrs. Caradoc Wynne, indeed! Phrutt!"
* * * * * *
Early in the New Year, when the bare, brown hills had thrown off their mantle of snow, and the blue waters of the bay were glinting in the sunshine, and the starry, golden celandines looked up fearlessly from every bank and hedge, a heavily-laden carriage, drawn by a pair of strong horses, rolled along the dry, hard road from Caer Madoc towards Abersethin. Its occupants looked at every scene with interest, recalling reminiscences of former days at every turn of the road, and looking out eagerly for the chimneys of the village, which lay at the bottom of the valley.