"I am glad to see you have not suffered, and I thank you again," said Hugh, with a slight show of warmth. He could not look into those honest blue eyes and not trust them, but he could not remember all he had learnt of late, and quite believe.
The death of Lallo's pig was the subject of conversation in the sail-shed that morning, and Hugh was thankful that its racy horrors had the effect of turning the gossip of the villagers from his wife's narrow escape.
"Oh, she is quite well, and none the worse for her dip," he answered jovially to every one who made inquiries.
"There's glad I am, indeed, indeed—she might be drowned. But, Mishteer, what shall we do about Gwen, weaving in and out amongst us? Ach y fi! there's dangerous."
"Yes, I am afraid she must go to the asylum as soon as I have settled my affairs a little," said Hugh, not sorry to add to the gruesomeness of the incident, and to turn their thoughts away from his wife.
"But how did the Mishtress get to Traeth-y-daran?" said the wise woman of the village—"that's what I want to know."
"Oh, she's but young, you know," said Hugh, smiling indulgently, "and thoughtless like all young things, and fancied she would like to see the storm from Traeth-y-daran. She might have fared badly if Ivor Parry had not risked his life so nobly. I have given her a good scolding." And he laughed cheerfully.
"Did Ivor know it was the Mishtress?" said the inquisitive wise woman.
"No, no, we both thought it was Gwen."
And so the incident was allowed to sink to rest, to make room for the more exciting adventures of Lallo's pig.