Some say that after many years she was forgiven, and died; but others hold that even to this day you may hear poor Grace’s piteous cries at the dark of night, as she swims her never ending course up and down the surface of Llyn Glasfryn. And if you chance to see this mournful bird you will find that its head is that of a beautiful maiden. They also tell that beneath the surface of the lake lives a mysterious monster called “Old Morgan,” who, perhaps, is he who in those far away days beguiled Grace to forget her duty at the well. “Morgan” is a terrible person, with whom the country children round about are threatened when they misbehave. This pathetic story of Grace and her sad fate is but one of the many that cling about Lleyn. March, the husband of the fair Iseult, had a castle here, and from that grim fortress, Iseult eloped with Tristan. Near Yr Eifl, Vortigern fell a victim to the charms of the beautiful Rowenna, daughter of Hengest, and to win her favour agreed to assign Kent to her Anglo-Saxon father. Cromlechs and other remains of early man are to be found on nearly every hill side. But you must visit this fascinating corner of Wales fully to appreciate its charm and romance. Criccieth or Pwllheli is a good centre. Each is an attractive little town by the sea facing due south and sheltered by mountains from the north or east winds. Noble Snowdon, its summit over 3,500 above sea level, is not far away, and an excursion to the far end of Lleyn, where Bardsey Sound divides remote Bardsey Island from the mainland, takes the visitor through one of the most beautiful--and least known--districts in the whole of our country. For the sportsman there is trout fishing in abundance here, and in season wild fowl shooting of a kind seldom known in more popular parts of the kingdom. For the artist there is the endless variety of rocky coast and mountain scenery, and for the average holiday-maker an unspoilt land swept by mild health-giving air, where he may idle away the days in perfect quietude and restfulness. [Illustration: _Yr Eifl._] [Illustration: A man with halo seeking refuge behind a large rock outcropping.] THE WONDERS OF ST. GOVAN’S CHAPEL. In a ravine that cuts into the rugged cliffs by St. Govan’s Head on the south coast of Pembrokeshire, is a little chapel, once the hermitage of the saint whose name the headland bears. St. Govan was a disciple of St. David, and he had an adventurous life in this lonely part of Wales many hundreds of years ago. The district was harried by pirates from the sea, and savage pagan tribesmen from the interior, and the very rocks and stones of his sea-girt dwelling place had often to come to the rescue of the holy man. But though he has been dead these fifteen hundred years the rocks, they say, still work wonders for the visitor who goes to the little chapel with a believing mind.