"See the old 'Vicare du' hunting between his coppers for a threepenny bit! Jar i man! you would think it was a sovereign he was looking for." "Yes," said Roberts, "the old Vicare is a keen man enough, but just; always pays his bills regularly; he is not as black as they make him out to be." "No, I daresay! They say the devil isn't, either," said Deio.
It was very evident the person in question was no favourite of his.
Meanwhile Caradoc, or Cardo as he was called all over the country side, the "Vicare du's" only son, had begun his tramp homewards with a light heart and a brisk step.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with health and youthful energy expressed in every limb and feature, with jet black hair and sparkling eyes to match.

His dark, almost swarthy face, was lighted up by a pleasant smile, which seemed ever hovering about the corners of his mouth, and which would make itself evident in spite of the moustache which threatened to hide it.
The band of the local militia was practising in the open market hall as he passed, and an old Welsh air struck familiarly on his ear.
"They'll wonder what's become of me at home," he thought, "or rather Betto will.

I don't suppose my father would notice my absence, so long as I was home to supper.

Poor old dad!" he added, and a grave look came over his face.
In truth it was not a very cheerful home to which he was returning, but it _was_ home, and had been his from childhood.