‘Of course the Owens have always been Dissenters,’ continued Mrs Llewellyn, ‘so I would never say anything against Hetty going to chapel with her husband, for where he goes it’s her duty to follow; but we only went to hear Hugh preach for friendship’s sake. But there, it was beautiful and no mistake. The words seemed to come flowing out of his mouth like milk and honey. They say as Mr Johnson, the curate, is quite jealous of the way that Hugh draws his congregation away to chapel. You must come with me and hear him one evening, Nell. It’s mostly Wednesday evenings that he takes the open-air service in Mr Tasker’s field. He stands on a high bench, and the people crowd round to hear him. He seems to speak so much from his heart. I’m sure if there was one woman crying, last Wednesday, there was a dozen.’ ‘Including Mrs Llewellyn,’ remarked the farmer, as he rose from table, and shook the crumbs from his coat. ‘Well, I don’t deny it, and I’m not ashamed of it,’ replied his wife, ‘Nell will cry too, maybe, when she hears her old sweetheart talk. It’s not much of a match for Hetty, Nell--not such a match as I hope to see _you_ make some day, my girl--but they’re good people, the Owens, and she’s safe under their care.’ ‘And what do you want more?’ demanded the farmer. ‘It’s far better than if she’d married some half-and-half fellow, who’d have brought her down to poverty, or worse. All I want for my girls is respectable husbands, men as will stick to them and work for them, not fashionable popinjays that would give ’em fine clothes and fine words for awhile, and then maybe desert ’em for another woman. You had better make a lot of Will Owen, wife, for you won’t get another son-in-law as good as he in a hurry.’ With which Mr Llewellyn took his thick, crabthorn walking-stick, and went on his way. ‘Lor’,’ said his wife, as he disappeared, ‘the way father do stick up for the Owens is wonderful. Not that I’ve a word to say against them, but I should have looked higher for Hetty myself. William is a good lad, but not more than a labourer on his father’s farm, and John Nelson at the post-office proposed twice for her, but she wouldn’t look at him, though he makes three hundred a year in hard cash. But I won’t hear of any farm-hand for you, Nell. You’ve got the looks to make a good marriage, my girl, and I hope you’ll make it. You’re rather peaky now, and your eyes are sunken and dark underneath. I shouldn’t wonder if your liver wasn’t out of order, but country fare and air will soon set you right again, and then there won’t be a prettier girl for miles round. It was time you came back to us, for you’d have lost all your good looks if you’d remained in London much longer.’