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Updated: May 26, 2025
The doors were closed, the soft sea wind blew up the valley, and the breaking of the waves on the shore below was distinctly audible. Sara and Morva did not attend the Sciet, but shut themselves up in their cottage, cowering over the fire as if it had been winter. Sara particularly, appeared to suffer acutely as the evening hours passed on.
There I am, dear friends. That is Ebben Owens. You know him now as what he is a liar a sot a thief! You will turn me out of your 'Sciet. You are right; I am not worthy to be a member of it. I don't want anyone's pity, I only want you to know me as I am, and may God forgive me." And he sat down amidst breathless silence, his hands sunk deep into his pockets, his chin resting on his chest.
He had met an Abersethin man in the town, who had promised to bring his luggage home in his cart next day, and had supplemented the promise by the information that on this particular evening, Ebben Owens would be turned out from the Penmorien Sciet. "Jâr-i! it's time for me to start, then," said Gethin; "will I be there in time, d'ye think?" "Yes, if you walk sharp; but what will you do?
"Is there a 'Sciet' next Sunday?" asked Ebben Owens, as they all sat at tea together one evening. "No not till the Sunday after," said Gwilym, reddening. Ann's hand shook as she poured out the tea. "Father bâch!" she said tenderly, looking at him with eyes in which the tears welled up. "Oh! don't you vex about me," said the old man.
"Why?" he said, "because you better not. John Jones and William Hughes, the deacons, is bin speaking to master about you, and next week is the 'Sciet, and you will be turn out."
The first few days following the Sciet were days of anxious waiting for Ebben Owens. He had laid his soul bare before his son, the idol of his life, and he waited for the answer to his letter, with as intense an anxiety as does a prisoner for the sentence of the judge.
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