To bear Will's apparent indifference was not difficult, for she had been accustomed to that all her life; but to know that she was bound to him--that he still loved her, and would carry with him his faith and trust in her, was a heavy burden.

The change in Gethin's manner, the averted look, the avoidance of her, the formal question or request, were positively so many sharp thorns that pierced her like some tangible weapon, and added to this was a deep regret that she was so unworthy of Will's love.

He did not ask her to meet him again behind the broom bushes, and only one night in the old beudy,[1] where she had carried a pail of grain to a sick cow, had he tried to speak to her alone.

Gethin, who watched his brother with eager interest, was astonished at the indifference he showed towards her.
Surely they must meet somewhere secretly! Well, what was it to him?
What was anything to him?
For Morva's love he would willingly have laid down his life; but now that that was denied him, nothing else was of any consequence; and in troubled thought he sauntered out to cross the farmyard on his way to Pont-y-fro.

The moor beyond the Cribserth he avoided carefully, and when his work led him along the brow of the hill, he tried to avert his eyes as well as his thoughts from its undulating knolls, a background, against which memory would picture a winsome girl, red-cloaked and blue-kilted.
Will had preceded him about a quarter of an hour, and had found Morva pensively holding the empty pail before the cow, who had eaten up the grain, and was licking round in search of more; she did not see him until he was close upon her, and then she started from her dreams.
"Oh, Will!" she said, and nothing more.
"I wanted to see thee once more, lass, to say good-bye, and to remind thee of thy promise." "You will be back before Christmas, Will, and we will be together again." "Yes," he answered, "and then we must manage to meet sometimes, for I find I cannot live without thee.