Owen Davies tramped along the cliff with a light heart. The wild lashing of the rain and the roaring of the wind did not disturb him in the least. They were disagreeable， but he accepted them as he accepted existence and all its vanities， without remark or mental comment.
There is a class of mind of which this is the prevailing attitude.
Very early in their span of life， those endowed with such a mind come to the conclusion that the world is too much for them. They cannot understand it， so they abandon the attempt， and， as a consequence， in their own torpid way they are among the happiest and most contented of men. Problems， on which persons of keener intelligence and more aspiring soul fret and foam their lives away as rushing water round a rock， do not even break the placid surface of their days. Such men slip past them. They look out upon the stars and read of the mystery of the universe speeding on for ever through the limitless wastes of space， and are not astonished. In their childhood they were taught that God made the sun and the stars to give light on the earth； that is enough for them. And so it is with everything. Poverty and suffering； war， pestilence， and the inequalities of fate； madness， life and death， and the spiritual wonders that hedge in our being， are things not to be inquired into but accepted. So they accept them as they do their dinner or a tradesman's circular.
In some cases this mental state has its root in deep and simple religious convictions， and in some it springs from a preponderance of healthful animal instincts over the higher but more troublesome spiritual parts. The ox chewing the cud in the fresh meadow does not muse upon the past and future， and the gull blown like a foam-flake out against the sunset， does not know the splendour of the sky and sea. Even the savage is not much troubled about the scheme of things.
In the beginning he was "torn out of the reeds，" and in the end he melts into the Unknown， and for the rest， there are beef and wives， and foes to conquer. But then oxen and gulls are not， so far as we know， troubled with any spiritual parts at all， and in the noble savage such things are not cultivated. They come with civilization.
But perhaps in the majority this condition， so necessary to the more placid forms of happiness， is born of a conjunction of physical and religious developments. So it was， at least， with the rich and fortunate man whom we have seen trudging along the wind-swept cliff.
By nature and education he was of a strongly and simply religious mind， as he was in body powerful， placid， and healthy to an exasperating degree. It may be said that it is easy to be religious and placid on ten thousand a year， but Owen Davies had not always enjoyed ten thousand a year and one of the most romantic and beautiful seats in Wales. From the time he was seventeen， when his mother's death left him an orphan， till he reached the age of thirty， some six years from the date of the opening of this history， he led about as hard a life as fate could find for any man. Some people may have heard of sugar drogers， or sailing brigs， which trade between this country and the West Indies， carrying coal outwards and sugar home.
On board one of these， Owen Davies worked in various capacities for thirteen long years. He did his drudgery well； but he made no friends， and always remained the same shy， silent， and pious man. Then suddenly a relation died without a will， and he found himself heir-in-law to Bryngelly Castle and all its revenues. Owen expressed no surprise， and to all appearance felt none. He had never seen his relation， and never dreamed of this romantic devolution of great estates upon himself. But he accepted the good fortune as he had accepted the ill， and said nothing. The only people who knew him were his shipmates， and they could scarcely be held to know him. They were acquainted with his appearance and the sound of his voice， and his method of doing his duty. Also， they were aware， although he never spoke of religion， that he read a chapter of the Bible every evening， and went to church whenever they touched at a port. But of his internal self they were in total ignorance. This did not， however， prevent them from prophesying that Davies was a "deep one，" who， now that he had got the cash， would "blue it" in a way which would astonish them.
But Davies did not "excel in azure feats." The news of his good fortune reached him just as the brig， on which he was going to sail as first-mate， was taking in her cargo for the West Indies. He had signed his contract for the voyage， and， to the utter astonishment of the lawyer who managed the estates， he announced that he should carry it out. In vain did the man of affairs point out to his client that with the help of a cheque of ā100 he could arrange the matter for him in ten minutes. Mr. Davies merely replied that the property could wait， he should go the voyage and retire afterwards. The lawyer held up his hands， and then suddenly remembered that there are women in the West Indies as in other parts of the world. Doubtless his queer client had an object in this voyage. As a matter of fact， he was totally wrong.
Owen Davies had never interchanged a tender word with a woman in his life； he was a creature of routine， and it was part of his routine to carry out his agreements to the letter. That was all.
As a last resource， the lawyer suggested that Mr. Davies should make a will.
