‘I can’t think what’s come of Hugh lately,’ said his mother. ‘He was never what you might call very sociable-like, but now it’s a wonder ever to get a word out of him. He seems to spend his life praying people out of the world, and I’m sure it don’t make him more cheerful at home.’ ‘There, missus, let the lad alone, do!’ exclaimed her husband. ‘You know’d from the first that he was good for nothing but the ministry. He’s got no heart, nor stomach, nor liver, nor nothing, hasn’t Hugh; he’s just a minister and nothing else. He’s been as silent and as sulky as a bear for the last three months, but I take no notice of it. Let him go on his own way, say I, and thank the Lord, ’tain’t mine.’ ‘Well, I suppose we’ve offended him, though I’m sure I can’t tell how,’ interposed Mrs Llewellyn, ‘for he’s not been near us for ever so long. When our Nell was ill, he was at the farm every day, praying most beautiful, and bringing her books and flowers, and such-like; but I don’t believe we’ve seen him, not to speak of, since Christmas, have we, Nell?’ ‘I don’t think we have, mother,’ replied Nell consciously. ‘Oh, that’s plain enough,’ said Farmer Owen. ‘You ain’t dying any longer, my lass, or you’d have Master Hugh at your bedside often enough. He don’t care for lasses with rosy cheeks, and who can eat a good dinner, and use their legs. They’ve no interest for a minister. You shouldn’t have got well, if you wanted to keep Hugh by your side.’ ‘Well, for my part, I wish she was better than she is, if we never saw Hugh again for it, begging your pardons, neighbours. But Nell ain’t half satisfactory. Dr Cowell, he says it’s only the weakness after the fever, but she’s a long time coming round, to my mind. She eats pretty well, but she hasn’t got any life in her, nor she can’t seem to take any interest in anything. Her memory too is something dreadful. She’s always dreaming when she ought to be doing. We must see if we can’t send her to Swansea this summer for the benefit of the sea air.’ Nell coloured faintly as she replied,-- ‘Now, mother, I wish you’d talk of something more interesting than me. I’m right enough. And we’re all talking of ourselves, and forgetting the little man’s health. Who’ll propose the toast? Shall I? Here’s to the very good health of Griffith William Owen, and may he live a long life and a happy one!’