On reaching the drawing-room aforesaid I was told whom I should meet. First, there was the Squire--who, by-the-bye, had wanted to have me at the Hall, but the Rector would not hear of it, “though he was painfully well aware that I should be far more comfortable there.” (Laughter and dissent.) The Squire, John Trevor, had been the Rector’s pupil at Oxford; they had kept up their friendship, and the Squire had given him the living; one of the best fellows in the world. With the Squire would come David Williams, Vicar of Llanbedr, formerly at a public-school with the Squire. At Oxford they had parted; David had been tempted by a Welsh scholarship to Jesus College; the Squire and my host were at St. Peter’s. David was another of the best fellows in the world, and also one of the most humorous. Thirdly, Mr. Morgan, the Rector of Llanfair-castanwydd-uwch-y-mynydd, which I might call Llanfair for short, was coming, because he really wanted to see me about his School Board; a most worthy man, and an eminent bard and philologian. Men called him The Druid. And lastly, might he introduce his nephew, Harry, formerly a scholar of St. Peter’s, and now, after taking a degree that satisfied even the President, much engaged in developing the Squire’s slate-quarries. The Rector added no praises of Harry, but it was sufficiently plain that the nephew was the apple of the uncle’s eye. And a more charming “rosy-cheeked apple” I never saw. Had Harry got up the wine as directed? Yes, he had; and in a low voice he recounted his auxiliary forces. There were, he said doubtfully, _two_ of No. 6. Who was coming with the Squire? What, Dafydd Nantgwyn? Ah-h. And he turned to me. Did I know Mr. Williams, Vicar of Llanbedr? I replied that I had met him officially. Why did he call him by some other name? “What, David Nantgwyn? Don’t you know the story? Do you know Nantgwyn Junction, where you change trains, if you want to go to Llanfihangel, you know?” I admitted so much. “Well, you remember, the train waits there for six minutes, while the engine runs on to Llanfihangel with one carriage to pick up passengers, and brings them back to hook on to the train at Nant. There is no refreshment room at Nant Station, but the wary traveller with a thirst knows that there is just time to run 250 yards to the ‘Black Lion,’ to get a glass of beer, to drink it, and to run back to catch the train. David was there last month. He was wary, and thirsty; and he ran to the ‘Lion,’ and shouted ‘Glass of beer, please, Mary _bach_’; but a bagman had outstripped him, and had already ordered his beer. So just as David spoke, the bagman’s beer was served. David banged down his twopence and drank the bagman’s beer joyfully. ‘Sir,’ said the bagman, ‘that was _my_ beer.’ By that time Mary had drawn David’s beer and had put it in front of him.