Perhaps he had been struck by the dejected attitude of his master, as he followed his daughter and son-in-law through the farmyard; at all events the loving and loyal heart had felt that over that bent head and stooping figure a cloud of trouble hung low, and as he followed his master through the silent congregation he hung his head and drooped his tail as though he himself were the delinquent.
"Come, Ann, let us follow him," whispered Morva.
"No," answered Ann, withdrawing her hand from Morva's warm clasp, "I cannot.

Go thou and comfort him.

I will wait for Gwilym." And Morva did not hesitate, though it required some courage to make her way through that shocked and scandalised throng.
Gaining the door, where the fresh night air met her with refreshing coolness, she saw the tall, stooping figure moving slowly up the stony road, followed by the dejected Tudor, and in a moment was at his side.
Taking his hard, rough hand in both her warm palms she lifted it to her cheek and pressed it to her neck.
"'N'wncwl Ebben dear, and dear, and very dear! my heart is breaking for you! To think that while we knew nothing about it you were bearing all the burden of your repentance alone.

But there is plenty of love in all our hearts to sink every sin you ever committed in its depths, for the sake of all the good you have done and all the kindness you have shown to me and to every one who came near you, and you know God's forgiveness is waiting for every sinner who repents." The old man said nothing for some time, but trudged heavily beside her.
"_Thou_ art tender and forgiving, whatever," he said at last; "but Ann, where is she?
Will she ever forgive me ?" "She is waiting for Gwilym," answered Morva.
"She is right; but come thou with me, lass; thou must help me to-night, for I have only done half my task," and as they passed under the elder tree at the back door he hurried before her into the house.
"Now, 'merch i, bring me pen and ink and some paper." Now was the time, he felt, when he must make a clean breast of all his guilt, and drink his bitter draught of expiation to the dregs.

He seized the pen eagerly and with trembling hands began to write, "My beloved son." The letter was to Will, of course.