beyond the valley she saw the evening star hanging in the sky. Once more she sang, and all the spring was in her song. Then she turned to go into the house, her heart beating with fear. As she came through the doorway she heard her name called.

“Annie, sweetheart, did ye hear the cuckoos singin’?”

David was sitting up in bed, his hands stretched towards her.

“Aye, lad dear,” replied Annie softly, taking David into her arms.

“An’ there were so many, an’ they sang over an’ over again.”

“Aye, David.”

“But ye were not here, an’ I’d like hearin’ them better with ye here.”

“Aye, dearie, I was busy.”

“Oh, it was beautiful singin’—”

“Aye, lad, I know.”

“An’ over an’ over again, like this——” But David’s notes trailed away as he started to sing.

“Aye, dearie, I see.”

“An’ the—valley—was—quiet—but—Annie——” The voice ceased, for a second the pulse in his throat ticked sharply against her heart, then his head settled drowsily upon her breast.

“Oh, lad, lad dear, Davie,” called Annie, rocking him in her arms, “lad, lad dear, will ye not speak to me?”

And the young minister stepping in over the threshold saw that the Messenger had come.

Mors Triumphans

I

Griffith Griffiths has a Happy Thought and takes a Trip

Each new election for the Town Council found Griffith Griffiths still unelected. The primary reason for his failure was a party matter: Griffiths was a Conservative, whereas every other Welshman in the town of Bryn Tirion was a Radical. Let him change his politics, said Bryn Tirion. No, said Griffith Griffiths, never! And the town knew he meant it. But, added Griffiths, I will be a member. For thirty years this battle was waged; children were born and their children; mothers grew old and died; and Griffiths grew rich in slate and sheep. Now he was sixty and still unsuccessful. If he wished he could buy up all Merionethshire; true, but he could not buy up one independent honest Welshman, whether that Welshman counted his sheep by tens or thousands. Nor, to do Griffiths justice, did he think of buying votes, for he was as honest as his fellow townsmen. Pulling his whiskers, he looked vindictively at the mantelpiece before him, with its cordon of shining, smiling china cats. Had he not done more for the village than any other man? He had given Bryn Tirion two sons of whom to be proud, he had provided the young minister with a wife in the person of a beloved daughter, he had piously paid for tearing down a shabby old treasure of a church built in the time of Edward I., he had presented the village with a fountain and a new bread-oven, he had introduced improved methods in cleaning and shearing sheep, and he employed daily over one hundred men in his slate-quarry. Notwithstanding all these benefactions, he was still obliged to consider schemes for winning a paltry election.

“That’s a happy thought,” he exclaimed, starting forward, “I’ll do it. Aye, it’ll win this time. I’ll go for it myself an’ bring it home, I will. There’ll be no word spoke when they see that. It’ll cost me a hundred pounds an’ the trip, but I’ll do it.”

Griffith’s eyes twinkled as he winked at the mantelpiece cats. “There’ll be no doubt this time, my girls. No doubt, no doubt this time, an’ every old granny in the town a-thankin’ me. Oho, ho, ho!”

Mrs. Griffiths peered in.

“Father!”

“Aye!”

“Father?”

“Well, mother?”

“Is it a joke?”

“No-o, a joke, yes, a—no-o, it is not.”

“Father, what are ye thinkin’?”

“I—I, well, I’ve been a-thinkin’!” replied Griffiths, with conviction.

Mother’s face expressed censure.

“I’m thinkin’ now, mother, I’m thinkin’ of goin’ to Liverpool.”

“Liverpool! an’ what would ye be goin’ there for?”

“I’m thinkin’, mother, of goin’ to-morrow.”

“Thinkin’ of goin’ to-morrow?”

“Aye!”

“Are ye goin’ about slate?”

“No, not just about slate,” father hedged.

“Is it sheep?”

“No, not exactly sheep.”

Mrs. Griffiths by this time regarded her husband with alarm.

“Ye’ve not been to Liverpool in twenty years; am I goin’?”

“Why, no, mother, I’ll travel there one day and back the next. I’m—I’m a-goin’ just—I’m a-goin’ for the trip.”

“For the trip!” sniffed Mrs. Griffiths.

“What’ll I bring ye, mother?”

“I’m no’ wantin’ anything,” replied Mrs. Griffiths coolly.

II

Griffith Griffiths takes a Trip and his Wife receives a Call

While her generous husband was running about Liverpool to buy another benefaction for Bryn Tirion, Mrs. Griffiths was receiving calls at Sygyn Fawr.

“Good-day,” said Olwyn Evans, stepping over the brass doorsill of Sygyn Fawr.

“Good-day,” replied Betty Griffiths.

“I hear Griffiths is gone to Liverpool?”

“Aye, he is.”

“He went yesterday?”

“Aye.”

“He comes back this evening?”

“Aye.”

The clock ticked and the china cats smiled blandly in the silence.

“He’s not come yet?”

“No, he has not.”

Olwyn readjusted her shawl.

“Evan says he’s not taken the trip for twenty years?”

“No, twenty years ago this September.”

“Rhys Goch says he’s gone for new machinery come from Ameriky; has he so?”

At this point there was a chorus of yaps and shrieks from Colwyn Street, on which Sygyn Fawr stood.

“It’s Marged Owen’s baby, Johnny. Dalben’s terriers are always upsettin’ him when they’re fightin’. At Cwm Dyli farm they say he’s gone to sell sheep; has he so?”

“It’s neither sheep nor slate,” replied Betty Griffiths acridly.

“Is it so?”

The street rang with another volley of yells.

“It’s Cidwm Powell this time, fallin’ off the slate copin’. He always is; some day he’ll fall in, an’ I don’t know what Maggie’ll do then.”

“No, nor I,” added Olwyn Evans, “it’s her only. Jane Wynne and Jane Jones is ill. Their folks’ve been to the chemist’s in Tremadoc for them, but you’d think they’d have the doctor, now wouldn’t you?”

“You would,” assented Betty. “Jane Wynne’s eighty; how old is Jane Jones?”

“She’s comin’ seventy-five.”

“She is?”

“The chemist says it’s failin’ with both,” commented Olwyn. “They’ll not die very far apart. They’ll be keepin’ the minister busy what with visitin’ them and then buryin’ them. It’ll be hard on Robert.”

“It will.”

“You say Griffiths is not back?”

“No, not back.”

“He’ll be comin’?”

“Aye.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

III

Griffith Griffiths brings his Happy Thought Home

The evening light lay purple and lavender on the heather-covered hills; it cut through Aberglaslyn Pass in a golden shaft, gilding the jagged top of Craig y Llan and making the cliff side of Moel