Davy was always inclined to saunter along, and Jonet, however brisk at starting, began to drag heavily after the first mile on the return, encumbered by her Sunday shoes.
For all that neither William nor Rhys were at home when they got there, and the rare Sunday's dinner of boiled meat and potatoes was on the table, with buttermilk to wash it down, before the latter came hurrying in, his cheeks aglow.
The uneasy look on Mrs. Edwards' face had not been set aside with her hat and cloak—worn in all seasons on account of uncertain skies—nor had she found it as easy to conceal her displeasure with a smile, as it was to cover her best linsey-woolsey skirt with a fair linen apron.
'Has not Willem come in?' asked Rhys, glancing round the kitchen.
'No!' said his mother curtly, 'and you have not been hurrying yourself.'
'Owen Griffith kept me talking about the success of his new crop of potatoes. He says that his brothers, and Roberts, and Lloyd are all for trying them next year.'
'Potatoes, indeed!' his mother jerked out, and he looked up at her. But he set her evident ill-humour down to the absence of William, as did both Evan and Ales.
And where was William rambling that bright Whitsunday morning, when he should have been helping his mother to dress his father's grave with flowers?
Had he gone, as suggested, to parade his manly suit before his friend Robert Jones?
Not he; that would hardly have accounted for his absence from church, since the turf-cutter's cottage was on the direct road-side.