"I say, clap her in!" said 'n'wncwl Jos; "she'll be safe there. Clap her in!"
"Well, she seemed quiet enough to-night, and sensible. Perhaps I have been too easily frightened," said Ivor. "Wilt promise me, Mari, to send over to the mill if she shows any signs of mischief?"
"I promise."
"Then good-night," said Ivor; "I was a fool not to know the old game song."
As he passed Gwen's cottage, Lallo stood at the door.
"Well, I am glad," she said, "that thou hast not quite left us, Ivor Parry. Come in, come in, and have a chat, for I am all alone."
"Where is Gwen, then—and how is she?"
"Oh, she's better—very quiet indeed, and gone to bed."
"Da iawn!" said Ivor, "that is good news." And making the lateness of the hour an excuse for not entering, he returned over the cliffs to Traeth Berwen.
Acsa was still up when he entered the mill kitchen, stooping over the fire and crooning an old Welsh hymn. With an oar-shaped porridge spoon, she stirred the "bwdran" which babbled in the iron pot hanging from a chain in the chimney. In her quaint Welsh costume, a red cotton handkerchief tied under her chin, her hard-featured face catching the light of the glowing fire, she looked like a witch who stirs the broth in her cauldron.