'Um, ah. So you are in a hurry to discard the ancient Cymric kilt are you?'
'They make one look so like a girl,' was William's shamefaced answer.
'Yet there are grown men both in Wales and in Scotland who still cling to the kilt, and are proud of it. You will be for casting off the old Saxon smock-frock next.'
''Deed no, sir. Men wear smock-frocks, women don't. Rhys wears one and Evan too.'
But, ancient or modern, no sooner had William a chance of an exchange for a short-tailed coat and a pair of knee-breeches than he felt he had made a step towards manhood, much as Davy had done before him—Davy, who went plodding along from day to day and from week to week, with scarcely a thought that did not centre in the farm, and who never troubled himself about 'whys' or 'wherefores.'
'William is not at church to-day. How is that?' remarked the vicar to Mrs. Edwards on the Whitsunday, as he took his customary stroll among his parishioners in all the importance of his wig and three-cornered hat, noting each newly flower-decked grave as he went, and perhaps making a kindly remark in passing.
''Deed, sir, I thought he would be here. He was dressed before any of us. Ales said he was proud as a peony of his new clothes, and had gone off first to show himself. He do be a strange boy.'
'Did Rhys say anything to him about them?'
'Yes, sure, he told him that now he was being dressed like a man he hoped he would cease to be playing with stones like a baby.'
'Um, ah, yes, yes. I thought as much. You need not be alarmed if William is not home until late. I can partly guess where he has gone. He is not doing any harm, my good friend. He is in much less danger than Rhys, I can assure you.'