“I am going to try to get them interested in gardening,” said Mr. Wythburn. “Coming as I do from the country, I have been able to bring with me a quantity of splendid peas and beans, as well as cabbages and potatoes; and I have talked to a lot of the fellows this week about what they can do with their bits of ground. The soil isn’t bad, and in a fortnight’s time there will be some home-grown cress at the family tea-tables, which will be a sort of first-fruits, and will encourage them to get on with the planting or sowing of other things. I have undertaken to give practical advice on the subject of crops to the community, and am not without hope that digging will—for the present, at all events—quite take the place of drinking.” “I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Wythburn,” said Mr. Knight, “and to you all, for what you are doing for me. It will, I think, be a good plan to call in the aid of those who happen to have been born in villages, and get them to lend a hand to their more inexperienced neighbours.” “I have some creeping plants which will grow rapidly. We shall put them outside the houses, and in a little time they will cover the new walls with beauty. A word of commendation from you, Mr. Knight, will go a long way to encourage the men.” “It shall certainly be spoken,” said Arthur Knight. But the men were even less interested in the outside of their homes than were the women in the inside. It was the first time that they had ever had a real home in the lives of many. And every woman took a pride in making the best of what she had. The houses were plainly furnished—there was nothing answering to a drawing-room so far as Mr. Knight’s arrangements went; but there were two rooms besides the scullery, and one of them, intended to be the living room of the family, was large, light, and comfortable. There was plenty to be done still in order to beautify the places, and add to their convenience; and the women, especially the young ones, were eager to use up their Saturday half-holiday for this purpose. The love of home is born with every Englishman, and the women in whose hearts it does not live are untrue to the traditions of their race. These women, who had been brought into Wales by Mr. Knight, had forgotten many things; but few there were who did not honestly try to remember the old lessons of their girlhood, when the word was passed round to them: “The places are clean and comfortable, and you are expected to keep them so.” And, therefore, on this Saturday there was an immense amount of scrubbing and rubbing, of making dainty curtains and pretty rosettes, of hanging up pictures and ornaments, and of showing in a dozen ways how dear the new homes were becoming to the hearts of those who dwelt in them. “Craighelbyl must have another name,” said Mary Wythburn; “something that means a city of homes; for that is what our place will become.”