"Gwladys Price."
There was a dead silence for a moment. Mari put down her knitting; 'n'wncwl Jos changed his quid from one cheek to the other.
"Jâr-i!" he said; "she's a nice girl."
"What dost say, Mari?" said Hugh; "too young, dost think?"
"Well," she answered calmly, "she's the best girl in the village; and if she does not think herself too young, it won't matter what others think."
"There's just what I was thinking," said Hugh. "Mari, thou art always a sensible woman. She has no other lover, and er—and er—in fact, I love her. I have been a lonely man for years—since the old days, Mari. Nay, don't blush; I'm not blaming thee, lass. And perhaps if it had been otherwise, we wouldn't now be such perfect friends."
"Perhaps, indeed," said Mari, beginning to recover her equanimity. She saw in her mind's eye another long stretch of arid desert before her; but her courage rose, and her love was not quenched. She would still be his friend, and that could bring nothing but blessing upon him. Though unchanged and undiminished in its depth and fervour, her love had become more and more free from the selfishness and taint of earthly passion.
"Well, in my little deed!" said 'n'wncwl Jos, "if any girl in Mwntseison could tempt me to do such a foolish thing as to get married, 'twould be Gwladys Price."
"Caton pawb!" said Hugh, with a merry ring in his voice, which was not lost upon Mari's quick ear; "don't you go and be my rival now, 'n'wncwl Jos, or I will have no chance, indeed!"
"No doubt, no doubt!" answered the old man, with, a perfect storm of laughter and stumps of his wooden leg.