He was a dark, pale man, of earnest and studious appearance, of quiet manners, and rather silent, but often seeking the liquid brown eyes which lighted up Ann's gentle face.
"Tis the only time father is cross when he has lost his 'bacco box," said Ann, laughing; "but then he is as cross as two sticks." "Lol! lol!" said the old man snappishly, "give me a cup of tea; but I can't think where my 'bacco box is.

I swear I left it here on the table." Gwilym Morris hunted about in the most unlikely places, as men generally do--on the tea tray, between the leaves of some newspapers which stood on the deep window-sill.

He was about to open Ann's work-bag in search of it, when Morva entered panting, and placed the shining box and ball of red wool on the table.
"Good, my daughter," said Ebben Owens, pocketing his new-found treasure, and regaining his good temper at once.
"I saw it was empty, so I took it with me to Jos Hughes's shop," she said.
Soon afterwards, seated on her milking stool, she was singing to the rhythm of the milk as it streamed into the frothing pail, for Daisy refused to yield her milk without a musical accompaniment.

Very soft and low was the girl's singing, but clear and sweet as that of the thrush on the thorn bush behind her.
"Give me my little milking pail, For under the hawthorn in the vale The cows are gathering one by one, They know the time by the westering sun.
Troodi, Troodi! come down from the mountain, Troodi, Troodi! come up from the dale; Moelen, and Corwen, and Blodwen, and Trodwen! I'll meet you all with my milking pail." So sang the girl, and the lilting tune caught the ears of a youth who was just entering the farmyard.

He knew it at once.