Leaving the looking-place I proceeded, and after one or two turnings, came to another, which afforded a view if possible yet more grand, beautiful and wild, the most prominent objects of which were a kind of devil’s bridge flung over the deep glen and its foaming water, and a strange-looking hill beyond it, below which, with a wood on either side, stood a white farmhouse—sending from a tall chimney a thin misty reek up to the sky. I crossed the bridge, which however diabolically fantastical it looked at a distance, seemed when one was upon it capable of bearing any weight, and soon found myself by the farm-house past which the way led. An aged woman sat on a stool by the door. “A fine evening,” said I in English. “Dim Saesneg,” said the aged woman. “O, the blessing of being able to speak Welsh,” said I; and then repeated in that language what I had said to her in the other tongue. “I dare say,” said the aged woman, “to those who can see.” “Can you not see?” “Very little. I am almost blind.” “Can you not see me?” “I can see something tall and dark before me; that is all.” “Can you tell me the name of the bridge?” “Pont y Glyn blin—the bridge of the glen of trouble.” “And what is the name of this place?” “Pen y bont—the head of the bridge.” “What is your own name?” “Catherine Hughes.” “How old are you?” “Fifteen after three twenties.” “I have a mother three after four twenties; that is eight years older than yourself.” “Can she see?” “Better than I—she can read the smallest letters.” “May she long be a comfort to you!” “Thank you—are you the mistress of the house?” “I am the grandmother.” “Are the people in the house?” “They are not—they are at the chapel.” “And they left you alone?” “They left me with my God.” “Is the chapel far from here?” “About a mile.” “On the road to Cerrig y Drudion?” “On the road to Cerrig y Drudion.”