And no one now lent a more willing hand to any work upon the farm, when not otherwise employed, than thoughtful William, who saw with pain the streaks of white interlacing his mother's once black hair.
But William Edwards was not content to be a mere builder of dry walls. He looked at the masonry of the church and of Caerphilly Castle, and was conscious he had much to learn. How to enlarge his fund of knowledge was a problem. But he was not easily daunted.
One Sunday he observed a cow and sundry sheep trespassing on the vicar's glebe, having taken a wide gap in the wall as an invitation. No sooner was service concluded than he marched up boldly to the vicar, reminded him of promised help, explained his desire to master higher forms of arithmetic than Owen Griffith had ability to teach, and modestly offered to repair the glebe wall if the vicar would accept his services. The Rev. John Smith smiled, and assented readily. William set to work upon the wall the next day, going into the vicarage parlour when candles were lighted, and making the best use of the privilege accorded. Long after the wall shut out four-footed intruders, William might be seen on his way to the vicarage, after a hard day's work, once or twice a week, a bit of candle stuck in a hollowed turnip serving to light him home when there was no moon.
It was about this time a gleam of stronger light shone on his darkness.
He was engaged enclosing a fresh field for a farmer about two miles from Caerphilly. Raising his head, and giving his arms a stretch, his attention was arrested by a noise there was no mistaking. There was a blacksmith's shop by the roadside, and almost in front of it a load of stones was being dumped down from a cart, or what then answered to the name in that wild region. It was little more than a sled, low to the ground, but running on broad wheels or rollers of solid wood, girthed with iron bands and drawn by four horses.
His curiosity was excited. A group of working men were there. What were they about to do? One man was measuring the ground, the others, doffing their coats, rolled up their shirt sleeves, and also set to work.
A trench was dug along the lines marked out. And now two mules came up with laden panniers. William overleapt his own low wall and drew nearer to observe, his pulses beating rapidly. He was coming on the secret he had so long panted to learn.
A heap of sand was emptied on the ground, and hollowed out like a huge shallow bowl. Into this was poured lime from the other panniers, and then a man carrying a pail brought water from a wayside runnel and poured it on the lime. There was no need to tell whence rose that volume of steam to one who whitewashed his mother's farm buildings so repeatedly. But the stirring up and mixing of mortar was new to him. And what was that soft fluff shaken out of a bag when the steam began to subside? It was something with which the wind made free and blew about almost like thistle-down—ay, almost into his own face. He caught a loosened tuft; examined it. It could be nothing but cow's hair. So that was how the mortar was bound together!
Anon began a chipping and ringing of steel upon stone, that was, and was not, new to him.
Nearer and nearer he drew, yet afraid of exciting observation. He knew his own purpose, and felt as if the busy masons would know it too, and drive him away before his object was attained.