“Not changed you are.”

“No.  The last time you came was to see the rabbit.”

“Dear me, yes.  Have you still got her?”

“She’s in the belly long ago,” said the clothier.

“I have another in her stead,” said Kate.  “A splendid one.  Would you like to fondle her?”

“Why, yez,” answered the soldier.

“Drat the old animal,” cried the clothier.  “Too much care you give her, Kate.  Seven looks has the deacon from Capel King’s Cross had of her and he hasn’t bought her yet.”

As he spoke the clothier heaped garments on the counter.

“Put out your arms,” he ordered Kate, “and take the suits to a room for Llew to try on.”

Kate obeyed, and Llew hymning “Moriah” took her round the waist and embraced her, and the woman, hungering for love, gladly gave herself up.  Soon attired in a black frock coat, a black waistcoat, and black trousers, Llew stepped into the shop.

“A champion is the rabbit,” he said; “and very tame.”

“If meat doesn’t come down,” said the clothier, “in the belly she’ll be as well.”

“Let me know before you slay her.  Perhaps I buy her.  I will study her again.”

The clothier gazed upon Llew.  “Tidy fit,” he said.

“A bargain you give me.”

“Why for you talk like that?” the clothier protested.  “No profit can I make on a Cymro.  As per invoice is the cost.  And a latest style bowler hat I throw in.”

Peering through Llew’s body, Saint David saw that the dealer dealt treacherously, and that the money which he got for the garments was two pounds over that which was proper.

Llew walked away whistling.  “A simple fellow is the black,” he said to himself.  “Three soverens was bad.”

On the evening of the next day—­that day being the Sabbath—­the soldier worshiped in Capel Kingsend; and betwixt the sermon and the benediction, the preacher delivered this speech:  “Very happy am I to see so many warriors here once more.  We sacrificed for them quite a lot, and if they have any Christianity left in them they will not forget what Capel Kingsend has done and will repay same with interest.  Happier still we are to welcome Mister Hughes-Jones to the Big Seat.  In the valley of the shadow has Mister Hughes-Jones been.  Earnestly we prayed for our dear religious leader.  To-morrow at seven we shall hold a prayer meeting for his cure.  At seven at night.  Will everybody remember?  On Monday—­to-morrow—­at seven at night a prayer meeting for Mister Hughes-Jones will be held in Capel Kingsend.  The duty of every one is to attend.  Will you please say something now, zer?”

Hughes-Jones rose from the arm-chair which is under the pulpit, and thrust out his bristled chin and rested his palms on the communion table; and he said not one word.

“Mister Hughes-Jones,” the preacher urged.

“I am too full of grace,” said Hughes-Jones; he spoke quickly, as one who is on the verge of tears, and his big nostrils widened and narrowed as those of one who is short of breath.