One clear autumn evening, when the sun was lighting up the heather on the sides of Cader Idris, you might, if you’d a-happened to be there, have beheld a scene which the whole world don’t show out of North Wales, me and my girl, Rhoda, was walking, cosy-like, through a quiet bit of wood, where none could hear, and I don’t think I ever felt my heart so swell with joy as I did that moment, when she says, says she, beating her foot on the grass, “Shall I tell you a secret?”
“Yes,” I answers, just glancing at her, and seeing her lips come over pale.
“Will you promise me,” she asks, “to keep it?”
“Promise!” I cries out; “I’ll swear!” You see, I was getting curious.
She looks at me serious—yes, indeed, very serious. Then she whispers, quite confidential-like, “I’ve got a lover!”
“What!” I bellows, quite savage. It didn’t take much to make me jealous; and I felt as if I would have killed a rival ker-slap.
She smiles, in a faint sort of a fashion. Then she mutters, just as if the trees were all a-listening to us with ears instead of leaves, “I shan’t say, unless you’ll agree to be sensible.”
A kind of a sulky feeling come over me, my boys, at her teasing words; but I told her I’d always do exactly, indeed, as she wished.
“Then,” says she, with a wry face, “it’s David Thomas. He’ve been to father this morning, and asked for me. Yes, indeed!”
“I—I’ll fight the lubber!” I sings out, forgetful of my promise.