‘Yes, I’ve seen a great deal of the world, more even than I’ve told my children about,’ Sam admitted. ‘But if you want the truth, Miss Trent, a seaman sees very little of the countries he visits, as a general rule. You see, one pulls into a harbour, the dockers swarm aboard to unload your cargo, you may have a meal in a quayside restaurant or a few drinks in a pub, and then you’re off again. But you have led a very different life. In short, Miss Trent, you are an enigma and one which intrigues me. Are you hiding some dark secret? But there is an honesty and openness in your face which makes me think not.’

Surprise tricked Glenys into answering more frankly than she intended. ‘I’m a foundling, so I have no knowledge of my relations,’ she said. ‘When I was found on someone’s doorstep and taken to the orphanage there was a note in Welsh pinned to my shawl and when I went to college a friend translated it for me, and then and there I decided that one day I would travel to Wales and see the country for myself.’

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I’d never have guessed it; you seem far too intelligent for the product of an orphanage,’ he said, thereby putting Glenys’s back up, for she resented any criticism of the home which had taken her in.

However, she spoke calmly. ‘Well, the orphanage saw me through college and supported me until I got my first job. Then, when I met Jimmy and Mo and we talked over what would be best to do, I told them that I, too, wanted to trace my Welsh relatives so that the children should not feel that I was only coming here for their sake.’

‘That was very good of you,’ he said. ‘You must know that unless you have a name, the chances of your tracing anyone who by now must be in her mid-forties at least are pretty slight. Obviously nobody tried to claim you, so for all you know she might have moved far from Wales, or even out of Great Britain altogether. So where will you go when you leave this area, Miss Trent?’

Glenys shrugged. ‘I don’t mind where I go so long as I can find a teaching post which will pay me enough to keep body and soul together,’ she admitted. She looked up at him again, this time with a twinkling smile. ‘So don’t be afraid that I shall hang around here or make any claims on Mr and Mrs Weather or on you. If I can’t find work in Rhyl, or perhaps Llandudno, I suppose I shall have to try Liverpool or London. I’m very independent, you see.’

Sam squeezed her hand. ‘I’m certainly not afraid that you’ll stay in the area – the children would be delighted – but suppose I could find you a job? Or perhaps it would be better to say that I would like you to consider living at Weathercock Farm until you find something more to your taste. ‘I don’t like to think of you trudging round the countryside searching for work, when you’ve saved my children’s lives . . . no, don’t deny it. But for you they might have fallen into the wrong hands and believe me, I’m grateful.’ He squeezed her hand again. ‘You did what I should have done and because I’m ashamed of my behaviour I’ve been very rude to you. But all that’s over, so can we call friends?’