By Berwen Banks

The Sassiwn day dawned bright and clear, and as the time for the first

service drew near, the roads and lanes were thronged with pedestrians

and vehicles of every description.

The doors of the houses in all the surrounding villages were closed for

the day, except in a few cases where illness made it impossible for the

inmates to leave their beds. Everybody--man, woman, and child,

including babies innumerable--turned their faces towards the sloping

field which for the day was the centre of attraction.

Already the grass was getting hidden by the black throng, and still the

crowds arrived, seating themselves row behind row on the wild thyme and

heather. The topmost corner of the field merged into a rocky

wilderness of stunted heath and patches of burnt grass, studded with

harebells, and this unapportioned piece of ground stretched away into

the adjoining corner of the Vicar's long meadow. In the afternoon

Cardo, who had virtuously kept away from the morning meetings,

sauntered down to chat with Dye, who had condescended to absent himself

from the third service, in order to attend to his duties on the farm.

"You sit here, Mr. Cardo," he said, with a confidential wink, "on your

own hedge; the Vicar can't be angry, and you will hear something worth

listening to."

Soon the sloping bank was crowded with its rows of human beings, all

listening with intense interest to a pale, dark man, who stood on the

front of the platform at the bottom of the field, and with sonorous

voice delivered a short opening prayer, followed by an impassioned

address. In the clear, pure air every word was distinctly heard all

over the field, the surging multitude keeping a breathless silence,

broken only by the singing of the birds or the call of the seagulls.

Sometimes a baby would send up a little wail of fatigue; but generally

the slumberous air soothed and quieted them into sleep.

The prayer over, the preacher gave out the words of a well-known hymn,

and with one accord the people stood up, and from those hundreds and

thousands arose the swelling tones of one of those old hymns which lay

hold of every Welshman's heart, its strange reminiscences, its

mysterious influences swaying his whole being, and carrying him away on

the wings of its rising and falling melody. His fathers and

grandfathers sang it in their old thatched cabins--and, farther back,

the warriors and bards of his past ancestry breathed the same

tones--and, farther back still, the wind swept its first suggestions

through the old oaks of the early solitudes.

"Is it this, I wonder, this far-reaching into the past, which gives

such moving power to the tones of an old Welsh hymn?" Thus Cardo

mused, as he sat on the hedge in the spring sunshine, his eyes roaming

over the dense throng now settling down to listen to the sermon, which

the preacher was beginning in low, slow sentences. Every ear was

strained to listen, every eye was fixed on the preacher, but Cardo

could not help wondering where Valmai was. He saw Essec Powell with

clasped fingers and upturned chin listening in rapt attention; he saw

in the rows nearest the platform many of the wives and daughters of its

occupants. Here surely would be the place for the minister's niece;

but no! Valmai was nowhere to be seen. In truth, she had been

completely forgotten by her uncle, who had wandered off with a knot of

preachers after the hospitable dinner, provided for them at his house

by Valmai's exertions and Marged Hughes' help; but he had never thought

of introducing to his guests the real genius of the feast. She had

snatched a hurried meal in the pantry, and, feeling rather lost and

bewildered amongst the crowd of strangers, had retired to rest under

the elder bushes, until called upon by Marged Hughes to help at the

table, which she did at once, overcoming her shyness, and keeping as

much as possible in the background.