Mrs. Jones was loud in her sympathy as Sara, faint and weary, seated herself on the settle.
"Oh, Kitty Jones fâch!" she said, leaning on her stick and swaying backwards and forwards. "I am more sorry than I can say. To go back without comfort for Garthowen or my little Morva. He's gone to France, and I suppose he won't be back for a year or six months, whatever, and I have no money to stop here all that time."
"Six months!" said Mrs. Jones; "there's ignorant you are in the country. Why, he'll be back in a fortnight, perhaps a week. What's the woman talking about?"
"Yes, indeed?" said Sara, in delighted astonishment. "Yes, I am a very ignorant woman, I know, but a week or a fortnight, or even three weeks, I will stop," and the usual look of happy content once more beamed in her eyes.
Every day little Tom Jenkins, upon whom Sara's two pennies had made a favourable impression, went down to the docks to see if the Gwenllian had arrived. When a week, a fortnight, and nearly three weeks had passed away, and still she was not in port, Mrs. Jones suggested that probably she had extended her voyage to some other port, or was perhaps waiting for repairs.
At last one sunny morning Tom Jenkins came in with a whoop.
"The Gwenllian is in the docks!" he cried, and Sara prepared at once for another expedition in that direction.
"Wait a bit," said Mrs. Jones. "You can write, Sara?"
"Yes, in Welsh," said the old woman.
"Well, then, send a letter, and Tom will take it for you."