Come, sing on." And Morva sang again, Gethin's rich tones blending with hers in full harmony.

This time she was awake, and realised the sorrow of the words.
"Well, no," said Gethin, "'tis not a very merry thing, indeed, to set your heart upon winning a maiden, and to lose her as that poor fellow did.

But, Morva," he said, tossing the gorse blossoms on her lap, "'tis a happy thing to love and to be loved in return." "Yes, perhaps," said the girl, thinking of Will, and wondering why, though he loved her so much, there was always a shadow hanging over her affection for him.
Gethin longed to break the silence which fell over them, but a nervous fear deterred him, a dread of spoiling the happy freedom of their intercourse--a nameless fear of what her answer might be; so he put off the hour of certainty, and seized the joys of hope and delight which the present yielded him.
"Where's thy necklace, Morva ?" "'Tis at home in the box.

Mother says a milkmaid should not wear such beautiful things every day, and on Sunday the girls and boys would stare at me if I wore them to chapel." "What art keeping them for, then ?" said Gethin.

"For thy wedding-day ?" "That will be a long time; oh, no, before then very often I will wear it, now when I'm at home alone, and sometimes when the sun is gone down I love to feel it on my neck; and I go up to the moor sometimes and peep at myself in the bog pools just to see how it looks.