While the news, old Rumour panting in the rear, was running swiftly from door to door, Nance was watching Silvan with passionate devotion, no expression of the face that had lain close to her own for so many years escaping her. Rhyd Ddu must know at the last, must have some solemn sign of the eminent goodness he had meant to her. She could not let him go with one of his jests on his lips—every day was fit enough for that, but not these minutes. Her thoughts clung even to the words of the over-cheerful verse she believed he would say. And yet there was a tantalising merriness in his eyes.
“Father,” she said, “do ye mind?”
“Aye, dearie, I’m to be sayin’ that ye—have the faith an’ I—I have the works?”
“Och, lad!”
“There, mam, I’m just teasin’ ye—just teasin’ ye.”
“But, lad, it’ll be soon.”
“Mam,” he whispered, “closer.”
Nance bent her head.
“Mam—ye—are a darlin’, an’—I’ll—no—forget.”