"You cut that inscription on the little cross, Morris?"
"Iss, sir, I did; with my own hands, and I don't think you get it better done—no, not in Paddington itself."
"No—it is excellent. But the gap after 'Robert Powell'; you must add
'Wynne' to it at once."
"That's it, sir, that's it! before next Sunday it shall be done. I hope you will find the young leddy, sir."
"My wife, Morris."
"Iss, iss, sir; there's glad I was to hear that."
And, as Cardo left, and passed through the rest of the village, the same warm wish followed him from many a cottage window, and from every group of fishermen whom he passed on the way.
"He has not forgotten his pleasant manners, whatever," said the men, as he greeted them all with his usual frank and genial smile.
"No; nor he hasn't lost his good looks," said the women. "Though, indeed, his heart must be heavy now, druan bâch." [1]
"Well," said the Vicar next morning, as Cardo drove off to Caer Madoc to catch the train at the nearest station, "I mustn't grumble at losing him so soon; he is doing the right thing, poor fellow, and I hope in my heart he may find his wife and bring her home. What a happy party we shall be! The only thorn in my flesh will be Essec Powell; I don't think I can ever get over my dislike to that man."