“Aye. Ye’re a thoughtful man, Griffiths. Ye’ve done about everything could be done for this village. There ain’t a man better thought of nor ye, except ye’re a Conservative. But they ought to put ye on the Council just the same.”
The caravan moved slowly into Bryn Tirion. At the rumble of wheels Olwyn thrust her head out of Cwm Cloch door, took one look at the moving load, and rushed into the back garden for Evan.
To Ty Isaf they hurried with the crowd; girls with water-pails dropped them; children staggering along under mammoth loaves of bread fresh from the oven tumbled them in the white dust of the road; mothers with babies strapped to them by shawls tightened the shawls and hastened along; old women put down their bundles of faggots; dogs ceased their quarrelling and children their playing, all rushing in the same direction.
Griffiths and Jones were stripping away the crating.
“It’s an organ for Chapel,” said Marged Owen.
“It’s a new pulpit,” exclaimed Maggie Powell.
“It’s a hearse!” cried Olwyn Evans, as the bagging was ripped from one side.
For an instant admiration made the concourse silent; then old Marslie Powell said softly: “If the Lord had ’a’ asked me what I wanted most He could not’ve done better.”
“Surely, it is the Lord’s gift,” affirmed Ellen Roberts.