Alas! said Devereux, old and blind and full of sorrows, with feelings yet alive to every pang they give him, what accumulated misery must his be! Heavy enough, I should conceive, must be his loss, who cannot see the beauties of this lovely spot, nor gratify his senses with the scenery, that nature in the wantonness of her luxuriance spreads around him. But doubtless it is to the bounty of the heir of the Ap Owens, that he owes these comforts, this asylum for old age to rest in, till Providence shall graciously be pleased to terminate his sorrows, and close those eyes in death, that are already merged in darkness and despair. ’Tis natural, John replied, that you should so conjecture: but no Ap Owen gave him that asylum. To whom then does he owe it? No answer was given to this question; and now the notes of the harp, accompanied by the voice, caused them to stop and listen at the wicket of the little plat of grass, that for a few yards ran sloping down from the cottage. The harmony was of the most pathetic, sad and solemn cast, delicately touched by the hand of the master, but of the words they could distinguish few, expect that by a passage more strongly given out than the rest, they concluded it to be the lamentation of a father at the funeral of his child. He ceased and all was silent in the house--’Tis exquisite, said Devereux; but pray don’t ask him to repeat it. I should not like to see him, and to hear him at the same time--John walked up to the house-door, opened it gently, and entered the room, followed by Devereux. The old man had replaced himself in his elbow chair; his son Robert had put away his harp, and in a corner of the room apart sate a young woman, who held her white apron to her eyes, and appeared to be weeping. As soon as Robert announced Mr. John De Lancaster Ap Rees rose from his seat, and with his claspt hands pressed upon his bosom, bowed his head and exclaimed--The Providence of Heaven be with you, my most honoured benefactor! Are you come to visit your poor beadsman? Oh, that I could see you! With the benevolence of an angel in your heart I am sure you must have the divinity of an angel in your countenance. Robin, said the youth, do not address me in those terms. Call me your friend; for such I really am. The gratification I receive in giving comfort to a man like you, if indeed you are comforted, is full repayment; I deserve no praise. Now tell me sincerely; what is there besides that I can do to put you at your ease? Nothing is wanting, he replied: Man can do no more for man than you have done for me. I have my son yet left; thanks to your bounteous goodness for the blessing! she in the corner, Sally Gwynne by name, a kinswoman of my late wife, is a good girl and waits upon me kindly: she was the beloved friend of my poor Nancy, and has been much affected by my mournful dirge: I did not know it, else I would have stopped. But sure I hear the footsteps of another in the room.