There was so much to excite the enthusiasm of a young preacher in that harvest-home gathering—­in the mows of golden corn heaped up against the future—­in the splendid autumn weather they were then enjoying—­in the bright sunshine and many-hued leaves of the changing trees—­and the goodness of God crowning the whole!

I am not going through his sermon, for I should only mar what his feelings made powerful.  Suffice it to say that some of his friends had tears in their eyes as he preached; others, according to the custom of their country, uttered occasional exclamations of approval as he went on, and some were glad to own him as their near and dear relation.

Perhaps the proudest moment of the farmer’s life was when Mr Gwynne went up to him after that short discourse, and shook him by the hand, with the words—­emphatic words for him—­

’Well, Prothero, I congratulate you upon your son.  You have reason to be proud of him.  He managed his sermon well at a short notice, clear, poetical, etc., and all that sort of thing.’

The abrupt termination to the speech was occasioned by the approach of Lady Mary Nugent, who also congratulated Mr Prothero.

‘Thank you, sir; thank your ladyship; glad you approve,’ was all the proud father could say, with the tears in his eyes all the while.

As to Rowland, he was undergoing an ovation of hand-shakings and praises from everybody present, which he was fain to put an end to, by beginning to organise the procession to the tent.  One simple sentence, however, rang in his ears for the remainder of that day.

’Thank you, Mr Rowland, for your sermon.  I hope you have done us all good,’ said Miss Gwynne.

She began to think more highly of him than she had ever thought before, and owned to Miss Hall that he had words at command, and that at a short notice.

The procession was very pretty.  The school-children walked two and two, and looked like so many large scarlet poppies, as they wended their way through the avenue.  Miss Gwynne gave them all their outer garments, and it was her picturesque and pleasing fancy to keep to the national costume; so they had high-crowned black beaver hats, scarlet cloaks with hoods, striped linsey frocks, and woollen aprons.  They carried a due amount of little flags with appropriate mottoes, and some few of the Glanyravon musicians formed a band for the occasion, and played cheerily, ‘The March of the Men of Harlech.’

Mr Prothero and his son Owen headed the tenantry, and carried between them a magnificent banner, fashioned at the farm, bearing as motto, ‘Prosperity to Glanyravon.’  Others followed with appropriate Welsh mottoes.  And one was conspicuous as containing the sentiment, ’Long live our Vicar and his Lady.’