Three weeks after the accident, on an afternoon soft with west wind, and glowing with May beauty, I went to visit little David’s grave. They had laid him in a very old churchyard, and the tiny grave faced the Rhoda Vale, and could be seen with its companion graves, from the bank of the Ffynon mine below. I had brought some flowers to plant there. Having completed my task, I sat, for a few moments, by the side of the little mound to rest. As I sat there, I saw a man walking quickly along the high road. He mounted the stile and ascended the steep path which led to the graveyard. As I watched him, my heart beat loud and audibly—for this man was Owen. He was coming to visit little David’s grave. He had probably never seen it yet. Still I would not go away. I had something to say to Owen, I could say it best here. He came up, saw me, started for a moment, then seated himself by my side.
“Gwladys, this is a fit place for us to meet. I have something to say to you.”
His words, look, manner, put any speech of my own out of my head. I turned to watch him.
“There is such a thing, Gwladys, as being guilty even of this—blood-guiltiness—and yet being washed white.”
Silence on my part. He laid his hand on the little grave, and continued—
“David, who never told a lie in his life, says he is glad; that if only the death of his child could bring me to his God, he is glad—glad even at that price.” A long pause. “I have found his God. Even by so dark a path as my own sin, I have been led to his God and Saviour.”
Owen pressed his head on his hands. I saw two heavy tears drop between his fingers.
“You will never know, Gwladys, what the finding of God out of so awful a storm of sin and suffering is like. I looked for Him down in the mine. With every stroke of my mandril, my heart cried, ‘Punish me as you will. I do not care what punishment you lay upon me. My life itself is valueless. Only let me find Thee.’ But I could not find Him. As I went further and further into the mine, I seemed getting further and further away from Him; my sins were between Him and me. I could not get a glimpse of Him. I was in despair. I worked with the strength of despair. It was no true courage prompted me to go back, when the other men faltered. My life was valueless to me. Then, as you know, we brought the men out. I went to David. I was glad that he was saved; but my heart was as heavy as ever. I used to sit up at night and fancy myself drifting further and further from God. My whole past life was before me, and it seemed hateful. Not only the wild, reckless days at Oxford, but the months that had seemed so righteous and proper here. One evening I said to David—
”‘David, can you forgive me?’
”‘Ay, lad,’ he answered, instantly, ‘and so can thy God.’