Gwladys turned silently away, her heart like a lump of lead, her eyes burning with tears which she must not shed. She must not even ask for more particulars—nay, she must not even wish for more; and as she walked back over the dusty road to her new home, she tightened her grasp upon her own feelings, and laid a strong curb upon her natural instincts.
She followed the progress of the brewing with punctilious care, patiently and gently directing Madlen, who endeavoured to frustrate all the plans of the new mistress with the annoying obstinacy of a jibbing horse. She peeped into the mash-tub, and exclaimed:
"Sure as I'm here, it'll never clear; it's as thick as the Gwendraeth after rain!"
Getting no reply she tried in another direction:
"Ivor Parry and Mishteer always praised my ale; 'twas as clear as cryshal,[[3]] but cawl it'll be to-day!"
Gwladys smiled. "Thee's an evil prophetess, Madlen!"
They both looked up as a shadow fell through the open doorway. It was Gwen.
"I came to ask thee if I could help in the brewing. Thee'lt like be anxious about thy first brewing; how does it go?"
"Pretty well, I think," said Gwladys. "It will be casked to-night."
"Have you heard of Ivor's illness?" said Gwen, looking full into her face, which visibly blanched under her keen glance.