Garthowen - A Story of a Welsh Homestead
Raine, Allen, 1863-1908
English
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This is approximatly the first 1,000 words of Garthowen - A Story of a Welsh Homestead
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GARTHOWEN
A Story of a Welsh Homestead.
by
ALLEN RAINE.
Author of "Torn Sails," "A Welsh Singer,"
"By Berwen Banks," Etc.
Sixty-Fifth Thousand
London
Hutchinson & Co.
Paternoster Row
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. A Turn of the Road
II. "Garthowen"
III. Morva of the Moor
IV. The Old Bible
V. The Sea Maiden
VI. Gethin's Presents
VII. The Broom Girl
VIII. Garthowen Slopes
IX. The North Star
X. The Cynos
XI. Unrest
XII. Sara's Vision
XIII. The Bird Flutters
XIV. Dr. Owen
XV. Gwenda's Prospects
XVI. Isderi
XVII. Gwenda at Garthowen
XVIII. Sara
XIX. The "Sciet"
XX. Love's Pilgrimage
XXI. The Mate of the "Gwenllian"
XXII. Gethin's Story
XXIII. Turned Out!
XXIV. A Dance on the Cliffs
GARTHOWEN
CHAPTER I
A TURN OF THE ROAD
It was a typical July day in a large seaport town of South Wales.
There had been refreshing showers in the morning, giving place to a
murky haze through which the late afternoon sun shone red and round.
The small kitchen of No. 2 Bryn Street was insufferably hot, in spite
of the wide-open door and window. A good fire burnt in the grate,
however, for it was near tea-time, and Mrs. Parry knew that some of her
lodgers would soon be coming in for their tea. One had already
arrived, and, sitting on the settle in the chimney corner, was holding
an animated conversation with his landlady, who stood before him, one
hand akimbo on her side, the other brandishing a toasting fork. Her
beady black eyes, her brick-red cheeks and hanks of coarse hair, were
not beautiful to look upon, though to-day they were at their best, for
the harsh voice was softened, and there was a humid gentleness in the
eyes not habitual to them. Her companion was a young man about
twenty-three years of age, dark, almost swarthy of hue, tanned by the
suns and storms of foreign seas and many lands, As he sat there in the
shade of the settle one caught a glance of black eyes and a gleam of
white teeth, but the easy, lounging attitude did not show to advantage
the splendid build of Gethin Owens. One of his large brown fists,
resting on the rough deal table, was covered with tattooed
hieroglyphics, an anchor, a mermaid, and a heart, of course! Anyone
conversant with the Welsh language would have divined at once, by the
long-drawn intonation of the first words in every remark, that the
subject of conversation was one of sad or tender interest.
"Well, indeed," said Mrs. Parry, "the-r-e's missing you I'll be,
Gethin! We are coming from the same place, you see, and you are
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