‘Why, farmer,’ quoth one worthy to Mr Owen, ‘but what’s come to yon lad of yourn, the minister? Is he going to be elected an elder, or is he thinking of getting spliced?’ ‘Spliced!’ roared the farmer, who, notwithstanding his pride in his learning and attainments, cherished rather a mean opinion of his eldest son as a man. ‘_Spliced_! the Lord save us, no! Where would Hugh get the courage to ask a lass to have him? He can’t so much as look them in the face; and when his mother or Hetty brings one of the neighbours’ girls in for a bit of a talk, he sneaks out at the back door with his tail between his legs, for all the world like a kicked cur. Married! Hugh will never be married. He wouldn’t know what to do with a wife if he’d got one, not he. He’s a minister, is Hugh--just that and nothing more. What makes you ask such a thing, Ben?’ ‘Why because I met him near Thomson’s patch this afternoon, with his mouth one grin, and talking to himself as if he was preaching. ‘“Why minister,” I says, “are you making up your next sermon?” and he says, “No, Ben,” he says, “I’m trying over a thanksgiving service for myself.” And he smiled as if someone had left him a fortune.’ ‘And yesterday,’ interposed a woman, ‘when my little Nan ran across the road and fell down, and whimpered a bit, as children will, Hugh he was after her in a minute, and picked her up, and there he _did_ kiss her as I never see. Nan, she didn’t know what to make of it, and stopped crying from sheer surprise, and when I called out, “That’s right, minister, nothing like getting your hand in for nursing,” he reddened. Lor’! just like my turkey-cock when the lads throw stones at him.’ ‘Well, my woman, you needn’t think he’s going to nurse any of his own for all that. Hugh is too much of a scholar to bear the noise of children in the house. If Hetty ever gets any little ones I expect he’ll find another place for himself. He said the other night that the old farm would never seem like the same again if there was babies in it.’ ‘He’s up a deal at Panty-cuckoo, I hear,’ said the first speaker. ‘Oh, ay. That’s all in his own line,’ replied the farmer. ‘The poor lass up there has been mortal bad--nearly dead, by my missus’s account--and Hugh’s been praying with her and for her, and such like. And his prayers have been heard, it seems, for my daughter-in-law says her sister is downstairs again, and in a fair way to mend. I expect she brought the fever from London town with her. We’re not used to have such fads in Usk. A young lass stricken down like an old woman. ’Twas an ugly sight, and I’m main glad, for the Llewellyns’ sake, as she’s been spared. ’Twould have been a sad coming-home else.’