By Berwen Banks

His son listened to his retreating footsteps.

"As bigoted as ever, poor fellow!" he said; "but what a fool I was to

mention the subject." And he continued his supper in silence. When

Betto came in to clear away he had flung himself down on the hard

horse-hair sofa. The mould candle lighted up but a small space in the

large, cold room; there was no fire in the grate, no books or papers

lying about, to beguile the tedious hour before bedtime. Was it any

wonder that his thoughts should revert to the earlier hours of the

evening? that he should hear again in fancy the soft voice that said,

"I am Valmai Powell," and that he should picture to himself the

clustering curls that escaped from the red hood?

The old house, with its long passages and large rooms, was full of

those nameless sounds which fill the air in the quiet of night. He

heard his father's footsteps as he paced up and down in his study, he

heard the tick-tack of the old clock on the stairs, the bureau creaked,

the candle spluttered, but there was no human voice to break the

silence, With a yawn he rose, stretching his long legs, and, throwing

back his broad shoulders, made his way along the dark passage which led

into the kitchen, where the farm servants were seated at supper. Betto

moved the beehive chair into a cosy corner beside the fire for the

young master, the men-servants all tugged their forelocks, and the

women rose to make a smiling bob-curtsey.

"Have some cawl, Ser!" said Betto, selecting a shining black bowl

and spoon.

"Not to-night, after all that fried ham; but another night I want

nothing better for supper."

"Well, there's nothing will beat cawl, that's certain," said Ebben, the

head servant, beginning with long-drawn noisy sups to empty his own

bowl.

"Finished the turnips to-day?" asked Cardo.

"Oh, yes," said Ebben, with a slight tone of reproof in his voice; "the

work goes on though you may not be at home, Ser. I consider there is

no piece of land on this earth, no, nor on any other earth, better

farmed than Brynderyn. Eh?" and he looked defiantly at Betto, between

whom and himself there was a continual war of words.

"Well, I suppose so, indeed," said Betto; "you say so often enough,

whatever, and what you say must be right."

There was such an insidious mixture of flattery and sarcasm in her

words that, for a moment Ebben was at a loss what to answer, so Malen,

the milkmaid, took the opportunity of changing the subject.

"There's tons of bread will be baked on Monday," she said, "ready for

the Sassiwn. Jini 'bakkare' has two sacks of flour to bake, and

there's seven other women in Abersethin will bake the same quantity."