Hugh shuddered.
"I believe she's crazy," he said. "That laugh did not sound like that of a sane woman; and, since she has taken to wear that grey shawl over her head, she looks the image of her old grandmother. I believe it's the very shawl old Peggi Shân used to wear. No wonder the children call after her, 'Avaunt, witch!' I feel inclined to say the same myself."
"Wel, indeed, she frightens me often," said Gwladys. "In the garden or here by the fire, or leaning over the brewing tub, I look up, and there she stands, saying nothing, but just staring, staring at me; and her eyes seem to pierce me through and through."
"She has been distraught ever since her child died, I think," said Ivor; "but we must see to her. She must not trouble the Mishtress in this way."
With the pardonable pride of a middle-aged husband, Hugh again drew Gwladys forward, saying:
"No, no, she sha'n't be troubled by anything! The best little woman that ever trod the sands of Mwntseison, in spite of her silent ways sometimes. Eh, Ivor?"
The latter felt he was expected to make some reply, while Gwladys stood flushed and perturbed before him. His lips were dry and parched, and his generally pleasant voice sounded harsh and hoarse as he answered:
"Wel, everybody knows that you picked the flower of Mwntseison; and everybody knows too, that only you, Mishteer, are worthy of her."
"Oh, halt there, lad, halt there! I think sometimes I have stolen her from a better man," and, as he loosened his arm from her waist, and seated himself at the supper table, a serious look came over his face, and a shadow seemed to have fallen upon his spirits. He had scarcely meant anything by his words; but even while he spoke there came to his mind a dim foreboding, and to his heart a sharp suspicion, of he knew not what, for he had not failed to notice the change in Ivor's manner—the difficulty with which he had brought out his words,—and, turning to look at Gwladys, he felt that those downcast eyes and that troubled face were not the signs of a young wife's pride in her husband's tender touch and admiring praises. But he smothered the feeling, and applied himself to his supper, and the meal was gone through with some outward show of hilarity. Having finished, Hugh pushed the brown jug of ale towards his friend. "Wilt drink, lad?" he said. "Wilt drink to my health and Gwladys'?"
"I will keep to the meth,"[[4]] answered Ivor; "'tis the best I ever drank; it still tastes of the wild thyme and the sweet brier. Mishtress! here's to your good health and the Mishteer's, and long life and happiness to you both!"