After practising to his utmost to astonish Wat with the riches and vast consideration of his “friend” Sir George, Twm very conceitedly observed, “Well Wat, were he ten times as rich and powerful, I should never envy him anything he possessed, but one lovely piece of property.” “And what might that be?” asked Wat. “Why,” replied the other, “could I once forget poor Gwenny Cadwgan, which I never can, I should envy him the possession of his charming young wife, the beautiful lady of Ystrad Fîn—the finest, the handsomest, and cleverest woman I ever saw! and although now married to a second husband, she is little more than three-and-twenty years of age. But I was asking of my old sweetheart Gwenny, poor Gwenny Cadwgan.”—“Poor Gwenny Cadwgan indeed!” sighed Wat, interrupting him. The pathetic and mysterious manner in which the mole-catcher spoke this, alarmed our hero and produced an instant change in his manner; “What of her Wat,” cried he eagerly, “is any thing the matter? tell me quickly, for heaven’s sake!” Wat answered in a tone of greater feeling than any one would have believed him to possess, “She is dead, Twm—dead, and in her cold grave, these four months past. God forgive you, if you have sent her to it, but you alone have the blame of it at Tregaron.” This intelligence was a thunderbolt to our hero; his agony appeared insupportable, as he sat on the road side to indulge it, till tears came to his relief, which at length flowed abundantly. It was not till after they were lodged for the night at Hungerford that Twm found himself capable of questioning his friend further on this unhappy subject, when he was informed that the fair Gwenny Cadwgan had declined in health from day to day, pining, it was said, with secret grief, the cause of which she refused to discover, even to her father; but it soon came out, for Death hastened to her relief, and she died a mother: a premature mother, it is true, and her infant was buried in the same grave with its ill-used broken-hearted, youthful parent. Hitherto, mental suffering had never been a long guest with our hero; but now, in proportion to his affection for the departed fair one, was his remorse, his self-accusing reflections for his neglect of the fond heart he had won, and the ruin he had brought on one whom he had found so happy. He became ill, and incapable of pursuing his journey the next day, when Wat left him, expressing a hope that he would soon be able to overtake him, that they might enter London together.