“Have you any English?” said I, addressing the boy in Welsh. “Dim gair,” said the boy; “not a word; there is no Saesneg near here.” “What is the name of this place?” “The name of our house is Helyg.” “And what is the name of that hill?” said I, pointing to the hill of the precipice. “Allt y Gôg—the high place of the cuckoo.” “Have you a father and mother?” “We have.” “Are they in the house?” “They have gone to Capel Curig.” “And they left you alone?” “They did. With the cat and the trin-wire.” “Do your father and mother make wire-work?” “They do. They live by making it.” “What is the wire-work for?” “It is for hedges to fence the fields with.” “Do you help your father and mother?” “We do; as far as we can.” “You both look unwell.” “We have lately had the cryd” (ague). “Is there much cryd about here?” “Plenty.” “Do you live well?” “When we have bread we live well.” “If I give you a penny will you bring me some water?” “We will; whether you give us the penny or not. Come, sister, let us go and fetch the gentleman water.” They ran into the house and presently returned, the girl bearing a pan of water. After I had drunk I gave each of the children a penny, and received in return from each a diolch or thanks. “Can either of you read?” “Neither one nor the other.” “Can your father and mother read?” “My father cannot, my mother can a little.” “Are there any books in the house?” “There are not.” “No Bible?” “There is no book at all.” “Do you go to church?” “We do not.” “To chapel?” “In fine weather.” “Are you happy?” “When there is bread in the house and no cryd we are all happy.” “Farewell to you, children.” “Farewell to you, gentleman!” exclaimed both. “I have learnt something,” said I, “of Welsh cottage life and feeling from that poor sickly child.” I had passed the first and second of the hills which stood on the left, and a huge long mountain on the right which confronted both when a young man came down from a gulley on my left hand, and proceeded in the same direction as myself. He was dressed in a blue coat and corduroy trowsers and appeared to be of a condition a little above that of a labourer. He shook his head and scowled when I spoke to him in English, but smiled on my speaking Welsh and said: “Ah, you speak Cumraeg: I thought no Sais could speak Cumraeg.” I asked him if he was going far. “About four miles,” he replied. “On the Bangor road?” “Yes,” said he; “down the Bangor road.”