In the course of the conversation which passed between them, the stranger told Powis that he was travelling merely for amusement, and preferred walking to any other mode of conveyance, as affording him better opportunities of exploring the romantic scenery with which Wales abounds; but this the farmer imagined was the language of a man, who, although he was poor, did not wish to be thought so. He said he was so much pleased with what he had seen of the country round Llanwyllan, that it was his intention to remain there a few days, if he found tolerable accommodations at the inn; and Powis gave him a pressing invitation to rest whenever he pleased at his house, and to partake of his dinner or supper; for in that retired spot, where fraud and deceit were almost unknown, suspicion was equally a stranger, nor arose to check that frank hospitality man should naturally afford to man. The stranger said he had left his portmanteau at Carnarvon, and should send a man to fetch it the next day, if he determined on remaining at the village. Powis mentioned several points of view which he said were thought fine, though he professed not to understand the business much. As the stranger, with his little Welsh guide, passed through the trees which grew round the house, just where the shadow was deepest, he discerned the flutter of the white or light-coloured garments of two girls, and heard youthful voices in chat, and laughing; yet not rudely or with vulgarity, but with native gaiety and mirth of heart. He could just distinguish that one of the females was taller than the other, and heard a soft harmonious voice articulate in good English, and with very little of the Welsh accent: "Good night, dear Joanna; come to-morrow, and stay with me all day: good night; love to Charles." The other replied at a few paces distant: "Ah, poor Charles! how vexed he will be that he staid so late; well, good night, Ellen." "These, I suppose," thought the stranger, "are Powis's daughter and her friend Joanna Ross. I am glad I missed them. I hate country-girls. Charles I imagine is the lover of one. Happy creatures who can yet fancy felicity in love, and dream I know not what of constancy and bliss!--Falsehood, jealousy, revenge!--dreadful, dreadful words! to them are unknown: but what have I to do with thoughts like these? Why, even in the stillness of this calm retreat, do such shocking images haunt my mind?" He hurried on as if fatigue had no longer power over him, insomuch that his young guide could hardly keep up with him, till he reached the village inn, where, as Powis had said, a cleanly though homely bed was soon prepared for him. CHAP. II. Her form was fresher than the morning rose, When the dew wets its leaves, unstain'd and pure As is the lily, or the mountain snow. The modest virtues mingled in her eyes. THOMSON.