MY PEOPLE
fach. Iss not the grave our last home then? We must begrudge it to no man. O little ones, there is largish space in the Big Man’s acre.”
“No, no, Respected bach,” cried Bertha. “For why? The graveyard is full. Father was the last to be laid there. And in comfort did he go up when he knew of that glory.”
Rhys Shop looked upon the minister. The minister looked upon Bertha: his gaze travelled from her clogs, her torn stockings and her turned-over petticoat to the yellow skin of her face and the narrow eyes which looked out damply over her bridgeless nose.
“Woman,” he cried at last, “dost thou speak what thou knowest to be true, or dost thou repeat unto meyea, unto me thy Judgethat which is idle gossip?”
“The truth, Bryn-Bevan bach. The truth.”
The minister was confounded. The
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