An old, rosy-cheeked woman in a sunbonnet came up behind the old man, shrieked out "Master David!" and only waited with twitching fingers for her own onslaught till the father had first embraced his prodigal son.

This was done at least three times, accompanied with tears, blessings, prayers, the uplifting of poor filmy eyes to a cloudless Heaven--"Diolch i Dduw!"-- ejaculations as to the wonder of it--"Rhyfeddol yw yn eiholl ffyrdd"-- God's Providence--His ways are past finding out! "Ni ellir olrain ei Ragluniaeth!"-- "My own dear boy! Fy machgen annwyli!" Then the old woman took her turn: "Master David! Eh, but you're changed, mun!"-- then a lot of Welsh exclamations, which until the Welsh can agree to spell their tongue phonetically I shall not insert--"Five years since you left us! Eh, and I never thought to see you no more.

Some said you wass dead, others that you wass taken prisoner by the Wild Boars.

But here you are, and welcome--indeed--" Then Master David between the embraces was scanned, a little more critically than by the purblind father, but with distinct approval.
At last David stood apart in the stone-flagged hall of the Vicarage.
His abundant hair was rumpled, his face was stained by other people's tears, his collar, tie, dress disordered, and his heart touched.

It was a rare experience in his twenty-four years of life--he guessed that should be his age--to find himself really taken on trust, really desired and loved.