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.