"No," he said. "Go you, Nani fâch; it will come better from a tender woman than a hard man like me. I will go to Dr. Hughes. There must be a 'quest, I suppose."
In less than a week Mari Vone was laid to rest in the little wind-swept churchyard on the hill; and none of the villagers seemed surprised when Gwladys expressed a wish that her grave should be dug close beside the Mishteer's. Their hearts had been too deeply moved for gossip, and they seemed to have been impressed with the reality of something beyond and behind the fleeting scenes of life.
Later on, a simple white cross stood between their graves with the words:
"In memory of Hugh Morgan (The Mishteer), who died November 18th, 18—, aged 45. And of his friend, Mari Vaughan, who died May 1st, 18—, aged 37.
"They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided."
[[1]] A kind of catechism in which the preacher questions the people, who all answer in monotone.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE MILL IN THE MOONLIGHT.
"Little I know of life
By worldly joys begot,
But the rapture well I know
That dwells in a mountain cot;
The glory that comes at eve,
As I sit 'neath the elder tree,
And watch the crimson sun
Sink down behind the sea."
—Ceiriog.
Another year had passed over the simple village, whose history we have hitherto followed, unmarked by anything more than the ordinary events of daily life. A golden harvest had been gathered on the uplands, and the herring fishing had been unprecedentedly plentiful. The work at the sail-shed was once more in full swing, and Mwntseison was peaceful and contented.