The red light of the fire, with every now and then
a falling piece of turf sending forth a fresh blaze, shone full upon four
young men who were dancing a measure something like a Scotch reel,
keeping admirable time in their rapid movements to the capital tune the
harper was playing. They had their hats on when Owen first took his
stand, but as they grew more and more animated they flung them away, and
presently their shoes were kicked off with like disregard to the spot
where they might happen to alight. Shouts of applause followed any
remarkable exertion of agility, in which each seemed to try to excel his
companions. At length, wearied and exhausted, they sat down, and the
harper gradually changed to one of those wild, inspiring national airs
for which he was so famous. The thronged audience sat earnest and
breathless, and you might have heard a pin drop, except when some maiden
passed hurriedly, with flaring candle and busy look, through to the real
kitchen beyond. When he had finished his beautiful theme on “The March
of the men of Harlech,” he changed the measure again to “Tri chant o’
bunnan” (Three hundred pounds), and immediately a most unmusical-looking
man began chanting “Pennillion,” or a sort of recitative stanzas, which
were soon taken up by another, and this amusement lasted so long that
Owen grew weary, and was thinking of retreating from his post by the
door, when some little bustle was occasioned, on the opposite side of the
room, by the entrance of a middle-aged man, and a young girl, apparently
his daughter. The man advanced to the bench occupied by the seniors of
the party, who welcomed him with the usual pretty Welsh greeting, “Pa sut
mae dy galon?” (“How is thy heart?”) and drinking his health passed on to
him the cup of excellent _cwrw_. The girl, evidently a village belle,
was as warmly greeted by the young men, while the girls eyed her rather
askance with a half-jealous look, which Owen set down to the score of her
extreme prettiness. Like most Welsh women, she was of middle size as to
height, but beautifully made, with the most perfect yet delicate
roundness in every limb. Her little mob-cap was carefully adjusted to a
face which was excessively pretty, though it never could be called
handsome. It also was round, with the slightest tendency to the oval
shape, richly coloured, though somewhat olive in complexion, with dimples
in cheek and chin, and the most scarlet lips Owen had ever seen, that
were too short to meet over the small pearly teeth. The nose was the
most defective feature; but the eyes were splendid. They were so long,
so lustrous, yet at times so very soft under their thick fringe of
eyelash! The nut-brown hair was carefully braided beneath the border of
delicate lace: it was evident the little village beauty knew how to make
the most of all her attractions, for the gay colours which were displayed
in her neckerchief were in complete harmony with the complexion. Owen was much attracted, while yet he was amused, by the evident coquetry
the girl displayed, collecting around her a whole bevy of young fellows,
for each of whom she seemed to have some gay speech, some attractive look
or action. In a few minutes young Griffiths of Bodowen was at her side,
brought thither by a variety of idle motives, and as her undivided
attention was given to the Welsh heir, her admirers, one by one, dropped
off, to seat themselves by some less fascinating but more attentive fair
one. The more Owen conversed with the girl, the more he was taken; she
had more wit and talent than he had fancied possible; a self-abandon and
thoughtfulness, to boot, that seemed full of charms; and then her voice
was so clear and sweet, and her actions so full of grace, that Owen was
fascinated before he was well aware, and kept looking into her bright,
blushing face, till her uplifted flashing eye fell beneath his earnest
gaze. While it thus happened that they were silent—she from confusion at the
unexpected warmth of his admiration, he from an unconsciousness of
anything but the beautiful changes in her flexile countenance—the man
whom Owen took for her father came up and addressed some observation to
his daughter, from whence he glided into some commonplace though
respectful remark to Owen, and at length engaging him in some slight,
local conversation, he led the way to the account of a spot on the
peninsula of Penthryn, where teal abounded, and concluded with begging
Owen to allow him to show him the exact place, saying that whenever the
young Squire felt so inclined, if he would honour him by a call at his
house, he would take him across in his boat. While Owen listened, his
attention was not so much absorbed as to be unaware that the little
beauty at his side was refusing one or two who endeavoured to draw her
from her place by invitations to dance. Flattered by his own
construction of her refusals, he again directed all his attention to her,
till she was called away by her father, who was leaving the scene of
festivity. Before he left he reminded Owen of his promise, and added—

“Perhaps, sir, you do not know me. My name is Ellis Pritchard, and I
live at Ty Glas, on this side of Moel Gêst; anyone can point it out to
you.”

When the father and daughter had left, Owen slowly prepared for his ride
home; but encountering the hostess, he could not resist asking a few
questions relative to Ellis Pritchard and his pretty daughter. She
answered shortly but respectfully, and then said, rather hesitatingly—

“Master Griffiths, you know the triad, ‘Tri pheth tebyg y naill i’r
llall, ysgnbwr heb yd, mail deg heb ddiawd, a merch deg heb ei geirda’
(Three things are alike: a fine barn without corn, a fine cup without
drink, a fine woman without her reputation).” She hastily quitted him,
and Owen rode slowly to his unhappy home. Ellis Pritchard, half farmer and half fisherman, was shrewd, and keen,
and worldly; yet he was good-natured, and sufficiently generous to have
become rather a popular man among his equals. He had been struck with
the young Squire’s attention to his pretty daughter, and was not
insensible to the advantages to be derived from it. Nest would not be
the first peasant girl, by any means, who had been transplanted to a
Welsh manor-house as its mistress; and, accordingly, her father had
shrewdly given the admiring young man some pretext for further
opportunities of seeing her. As for Nest herself, she had somewhat of her father’s worldliness, and
was fully alive to the superior station of her new admirer, and quite
prepared to slight all her old sweethearts on his account. But then she
had something more of feeling in her reckoning; she had not been
insensible to the earnest yet comparatively refined homage which Owen
paid her; she had noticed his expressive and occasionally handsome
countenance with admiration, and was flattered by his so immediately
singling her out from her companions.