It is to be hoped that the unrivalled advantages of Milford Haven will ere long be turned to better account. With its noble fairway, untrammelled by shoal or bar, and deep, land-locked reaches where the whole British Navy might safely ride at anchor, Milford Haven has no compeer along our western seaboard. Given a better system of railway communication, and proper facilities in the way of docks and wharves, Milford should, in days to come, stand _facile princeps_ as a seaport for the magnificent vessels engaged in the great and ever-increasing traffic of the Atlantic 'ferry.' But, meanwhile, time is stealing a march upon us, and the lengthening shadows warn us to depart; so, casting a last glance across the sunlit sea, flecked with white 'mares'-tails' and dotted with brown-sailed trawlers, we retrace our track over the breezy headland. At every step we inhale the healthful smell of wave-washed seaweed, and tread underfoot the flowers that gem the rough, uneven ground--thrift, trefoil, blue sheep's bit and a minute, starlike flower whose name we do not know. Pushing on through the quiet street of Angle, we diverge up a steep, shady lane in search of Bangeston House; which proves to be nothing more than the gaunt, dismantled walls of a vast group of buildings, apparently of early eighteenth-century date, mantled in ivy and overshadowed by sombre trees. The ruins cover a large extent of ground, and appear to have been regarded by the neighbours as a convenient quarry for building materials. Bangeston was, as its name implies, the ancestral home of the Benegers, a family of much consequence in olden times who possessed broad acres hereabouts, but whose very name has long since become extinct. Curious tales of the former occupants of Bangeston still linger amongst the cottagers. A certain Lord Lyon, the Garter King-at-Arms of his time, is said to have dwelt here many years ago; and an ancient graybeard whom we meet volunteers the information that, 'It was a gret plaäce in they times, and I've a-heared tell as there was quare doings when Lord Lyon lived in th' ould marnsion. It was him as drove with a coach and horses, one dirty night, and went right over the clift (they do say), down by Freshwater way, and was never seed again.' Much edified by the yarns of Old Mortality, we now retrace our steps to Eastington Farm; musing meanwhile over these fast-fading fables, and meeting a few belated peasant-folk trudging home through the gray of the gloaming. [Illustration: JESTYNTON.] Eastington, or more properly Jestynton, is traditionally reputed to have been, in days long before the Conquest, the abode of Jestyn, grandson of Howel Ddâ, Prince of South Wales. A descendant of his, whose unpronounceable name we refrain from recording, was married to Sir Stephen Perrot, the first Norman of that name to settle in this county; who by this alliance acquired vast possessions and influence throughout all the countryside.