Presently, in the midst of his reading, his housekeeper (who was a small, middle-aged woman, rather like a black hen) entered the room at a run.
"Telegram for you, sir."
"Ah, yes; thank you, Margat," her master said as he took it.
He had guessed already what was in it. Some arrangement to do with his next Sabbath-day's journey. For he was a very popular preacher, invited to give sermons by exchange in every country town in Wales.
"This," he told his housekeeper complacently, as he tore open the envelope, "will be to say am I ex Pected in Carnarvon on the Sat Teudêh, or——"
Here he broke off, staring at the message in his hand. It was a long one.
There was a moment's silence while the clock ticked. Then that silence was broken by an exclamation, in Welsh, from a man startled out of all professional decorum. He added, with more restraint, but also in Welsh, "Great King!"
Then he exclaimed, "Dear father!" and "Name of goodness!"
"What is it, Mr. Lloyd bach?" demanded his housekeeper excitedly in Welsh, clutching her black, crochet wool shawl about her shoulders as she waited by the side of the breakfast.
"Is it somebody died?" In her mind's eye she saw already that loved orgy of her kind—a funeral.