Page:Cup of Gold-1929.djvu/15

that he seemed to change expression with slow, conscious effort.

"I'm cold, Robert," his queer dry voice went on. "I can't seem ever to get warm again. But anyway, I'm rich,"-as though he hoped these two might balance-"rich along with him they call Pierre le Grand."

Young Henry had risen, and now he cried:

"Where have you been to, man-where?"

"Where? Why, I've been; to Goaves and to Tortuga-that's the turtle-and to Jamaica and the thick woods of Hispaniola for the hunting of cattle. I've been all there."

"You'll be sitting down, Dafydd," Mother Morgan interrupted. She spoke as though he had never been away. "I'll about getting something warm to drink. Will you look how Henry gobbles you with his eyes, Dafydd? Like as not he'll be wanting to go to the Indies, too." To her, the words were a pleasant idiocy.

Dafydd kept silence, though he appeared to be straining back at a desire to talk. Mother Morgan frightened him as she had when he was a towheaded farm boy. Old Robert knew his embarrassment, and Mother, too, seemed to sense it, for when she had put a steaming cup in his hands she left the room.

Wrinkled old Gwenliana was in her seat before the fire, her mind lost in the swimming future. Her clouded eyes were veiled with to-morrow. Behind their vague blue surfaces seemed to crowd