As she did not like to disturb the weary wretches, who were sleeping so soundly in their rags amongst the hay and straw, she prepared to leave the barn; but as she moved away, the girl’s eyes unclosed, and glanced dimly at her through a film of tears.  Nourishment seemed the only remedy that presented itself to her mind.  She smiled kindly at the girl, murmured ‘I will come again,’ and went through the sleepers towards the door, pausing, however, to look at the peaceful face of the baby, as it lay on its mother’s arm, covered with the old red cloak.

She returned to the house, and went to the clean, large dairy, where she took a cup of the last night’s milk, already covered with rich cream, from a pan and went with it to the back kitchen, where was a fire, kept up all night by means of the hard Welsh coal, and heat-diffusing balls.  She warmed the milk, procured a piece of fine white bread, and once more returned to the barn.

She administered these remedies to her patient, who swallowed them with the same avidity and difficulty as she had done the broth.  She fancied she again heard the words, ‘God bless you, my lady,’ but they were so faint that she was not sure.

Again she threaded her way amongst the sleepers, and left the barn.  She went into her garden, and walked for a few moments amongst the flowers, as if for council.  The bees were beginning to hum about the hives, and the butterflies to flit amongst the flowers.  She stood and looked at the beautiful scene before her—­the woods, hills, river, and above, the morning sun—­and offered up a prayer and thanksgiving to the Giver of all good things.  Her thoughtful face brightened into a smile, and her walk became more brisk as she left her garden, and went again into the farm-yard.

The cow-man was bringing up the cows to be milked, and he looked astonished as he greeted his mistress.  So did the two ruddy, disheveled farm maidens, who had barely turned out of their beds to milk the cows, and had paid small attention either to their toilet or ablutions.

The house was perfectly quiet as she entered it, and she crept upstairs, and into her bedroom very softly, for fear of disturbing any one.

‘Where in the world have you been, my dear?’ greeted her, in a gruff voice from amongst the bed-clothes, that covered a large old-fashioned bed, hung with chintz curtains.

’Go to sleep and don’t trouble, Davy, bach’, [Footnote A Welsh term of endearment, equivalent to ‘dear,’ pronounced like the German.] quietly replied the brisk little dame.

’Go to sleep, indeed!  Easier said than done, when one wakes up in a fright, and finds you gone, nobody knows where.  Now where have you been?  You ‘ont let one sleep, even of a Sunday morning.’

‘Well, now, don’t get into a passion, my dear—­I mean, don’t be angry.’

’What have I to be angry about when I don’t know what you’ve been doing?’