"Oh, I hope so! It would break poor Gwen's heart to lose it. I can't think why—but she's always very spiteful to me."
"To thee!" said Mari. "Why? I wonder—but she dare not show her spite to the Mishtress, surely! Poor Gwen! I pity her. Didst know she was very fond of Ivor Parry once?"
A crimson blush overspread Gwladys' face as she bent more closely over her knitting—a blush that faded as quickly as it had appeared, leaving on her face a deathly pallor, though she answered in a calm voice:
"I remember hearing something of it."
Mari saw the blush and the pallor, and quickly changed the conversation, for if there was one trait in her character more conspicuous than another, it was tenderness, and, with a spasm of pain, she perceived she had touched upon a secret in Gwladys' life.
"It is drawing near tea-time; I must go. 'N'wncwl Jos is so punctual! the tap of his wooden leg is almost as good as a clock."
"Here is Hugh," said Gwladys, and she ran to the gate to meet him.
There was only the usual "Wel, merch i!" and "Wel, Hugh!" at meeting, for the Welsh, although so emotional—perhaps because of this—are very chary of any exhibition of tenderness in public.
"Ah! now I have caught thee, Mari, going to slip away as usual just as I come in. Indeed, now, stay to tea. 'N'wncwl Jos has gone out in the Speedwell, and she will not be back till nine o'clock; he told me to tell thee. Come, sit thee down, and keep Gwladys and me company."
"Oh, then I will, and I can fry those light-cakes for thee, Gwladys." And before long they were seated round the oak table, in the shade of the big chimney, for the evenings were still cold, although it was May.