"'N'wncwl Jos has just been telling me," said her victim, trying in vain to speak in a natural tone. "What is it?"
"Fever, they say," said Gwen, "but a bad one. Siencyn saw him in his lodgings; 'tis a good thing he is well looked after. The daughter of the house seems very fond of him, and he of her, for he calls her continually, 'Gwladys! Gwladys!' if she only leaves him for a minute. Dir anwl![[4]] how pale thou art getting! Art not well?"
"Not very," said Gwladys. "The heat has been so great to-day, and the wind blows straight from the limekilns."
"Perhaps, indeed! but thou hast lost thy roses whatever!" and lifting the lid of the mash-tub, she peered into its contents. "There's a muddy cloud in it! That will spoil thy brewing."
"Perhaps, indeed!" said Gwladys, using the formula that does duty in Wales for every variety of expression.
"What will the Mishteer say?"
"Oh, well, he won't mind much if I do not grieve about it."
"No; I suppose thou canst do pretty well what thou lik'st with him now. So can I with Siencyn; but that won't last. 'There's never a pig' thee knowest, 'without a twist in his tail,' and 'never a man without a quirk in his temper!' Oh! yes, we shall see it some day; but as long as we have nothing to hide we need fear nothing. But diwedd anwl![[5]] the time goes like the andras.[[6]] I must go. Pity for Ivor Parry—isn't it?"
When she was gone, Gwladys began to breathe again, and endeavoured to steel herself against the wounds which she would receive in her passage through life, and to endure, for this, she felt, would be her portion for the future.
"Gwladys!" called a manly voice, and Hugh entered from the sunshine, "where art, my little one? Come and comfort me, for I have had bad news, and thou wilt be sorry, too! Poor Ivor is ill; hast heard?"