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and much of what they said was in the Welsh tongue. They had the air in their self-contained aloofness of being a race apart. Yet they were a kindly people. Their enjoyments were simple, and were found usually in their own homes, in the chapel halls, on the foreshortened rugby football ground at the top of the town. Their prevailing passion was, perhaps, a love of music – not the cheap melodies of the moment, but stern, classical music. It was not uncommon for Andrew, walking at night along the rows, to hear the sound of a piano coming from one of these poor homes, a Beethoven sonata or a Chopin prelude, beautifully played, floating through the still air, rising to these inscrutable mountains and beyond.
    The position in regard to Doctor Page’s practice was now clear to Andrew. Edward Page would never see another patient. But the men did not like to ‘go off’ Page who had served them faithfully for over thirty years. And the devoted Blodwen, bringing her forces to bear upon Watkins, the mine manager, through whom the workmen’s medical contributions were paid, had succeeded in keeping her brother on the Company’s list, and was in consequence receiving a good income, perhaps one sixth of which she paid out to Manson, who did all the work.
    Andrew was profoundly sorry for Edward Page. Edward, a gentle, simple soul, who had never had much enjoyment in his lonely bachelor life. He had literally worked himself out in the unswerving pursuit of duty in this harsh valley. Now, broken and bedridden, he was a man without interest. True, he was fond of Blodwen, and she, in a secret intense fashion, was fond of Edward. He, Doctor Page, was her dear brother. Coming into the room while Andrew sat with the sick man she would advance, smiling apparently, yet with a queer jealous sense of exclusion, exclaiming:
    ‘Hey! What are you two talkin’ about!’
    It was impossible not to love Edward Page, he had so manifestly the spiritual qualities of sacrifice and unselfishness. He would lie there, helpless in bed, a worn out man, submissive to all the attentions of his sister, thanking her merely by a movement of his eyes, a wry contraction of his brows.
    There was no need for him to remain in Drineffy and he had occasionally vague desires to get away to a warmer, kindlier place. Once, when Andrew asked: ‘Is there anything you’d like, sir,’ he had sighed: ‘I’d like to get out of here, my boy. I’ve been reading about that island – Capri – they’re going to make a bird sanctuary there.’ Then he had turned his face sideways on the pillow. The longing in his voice was very sad.
    He never spoke of the practice except to say occasionally in a spent voice: ‘I daresay I didn’t know a great deal. Yet I did my best.’ But he would spend hours lying absolutely still, watching his window-sill, where Annie every morning devotedly placed crumbs, bacon rind and grated coconut. On Sunday forenoons an old miner, Enoch Davies, came in, very stiff in his rusty black suit and celluloid dicky, to sit with Page. The two men watched the birds in silence. On one occasion Andrew met Enoch stamping excitedly downstairs. ‘Man alive,’ burst out the old miner, ‘we’ve had a rare fine mornin’. Two bluetits playin’ pretty as you please on the sill for the best part of an hour.’ Enoch was Page’s only friend. He had great influence with the miners. He swore staunchly that not a man would come off the doctor’s list so long as he drew breath. He little knew how great a disservice his loyalty was to poor Edward Page.
    Another frequent visitor to the house was the manager of the Western Counties Bank, Aneurin Rees, a long dry bald-headed man whom Andrew at first sight distrusted. Rees was a highly respected townsman who never by any chance met anyone’s eye. He came to spend a perfunctory five minutes with Doctor Page and was then closeted for an hour at a time with Miss Page. These interviews were perfectly moral. The question