Page:My people stories of the peasantry of West Wales.djvu/123



When he had risen from his knees and had shaken the stiffness out of his joints, Dinah addressed him:

“Little father, for why you are an old mule? Shame on you to bring here a dirty, bad tramp. What then will folk say? Tell you him to go about his business.”

“Hush, hush, Dinah. Say you not so. ‘Inasmuch as ye do unto the least of my little ones.’ Michael is tired. Look you!”

The tramp had fallen asleep; a silver line of spittle ran from his lips along the stem of his pipe, dropping from the base of the bowl.

Ianto wound up his watch, and took off his clothes, and stepped over the mud floor to his bed, which stood against the nailed-down window-frame.

Dinah rested her elbows on her stockinged knees, and she settled her eyes on the sleeping strangera muscular figure with tanned, hairy skin showing under his buttonless shirt.