“No,” said I. “Besides the man whose birth-place I came to see died poor, leaving nothing behind him but immortality.” “Who was he?” said the miller. “Did you ever hear a sound of Gronwy Owen?” said I. “Frequently,” said the miller; “I have frequently heard a sound of him. He was born close by in a house yonder,” pointing to the south. “O yes, gentleman,” said a nice-looking woman, who holding a little child by the hand was come to the house-door, and was eagerly listening, “we have frequently heard speak of Gronwy Owen; there is much talk of him in these parts.” “I am glad to hear it,” said I, “for I half feared that his name would not be known here.” “Pray, gentleman, walk in!” said the miller; “we are going to have our afternoon’s meal, and shall be rejoiced if you will join us.” “Yes, do, gentleman,” said the miller’s wife, for such the good woman was; “and many a welcome shall you have.” I hesitated, and was about to excuse myself. “Don’t refuse, gentleman!” said both, “surely you are not too proud to sit down with us?” “I am afraid I shall only cause you trouble,” said I. “Dim blinder, no trouble,” exclaimed both at once; “pray do walk in!” I entered the house, and the kitchen, parlour, or whatever it was, a nice little room with a slate floor. They made me sit down at a table by the window, which was already laid for a meal. There was a clean cloth upon it, a tea-pot, cups and saucers, a large plate of bread-and-butter, and a plate, on which were a few very thin slices of brown, watery cheese. My good friends took their seats, the wife poured out tea for the stranger and her husband, helped us both to bread-and-butter and the watery cheese, then took care of herself. Before, however, I could taste the tea, the wife, seeming to recollect herself, started up, and hurrying to a cupboard, produced a basin full of snow-white lump sugar, and taking the spoon out of my hand, placed two of the largest lumps in my cup, though she helped neither her husband nor herself; the sugar-basin being probably only kept for grand occasions. My eyes filled with tears; for in the whole course of my life I had never experienced so much genuine hospitality. Honour to the miller of Mona and his wife; and honour to the kind hospitable Celts in general! How different is the reception of this despised race of the wandering stranger from that of —. However, I am a Saxon myself, and the Saxons have no doubt their virtues; a pity that they should be all uncouth and ungracious ones! I asked my kind host his name. “John Jones,” he replied, “Melinydd of Llanfair.” “Is the mill which you work your own property?” I inquired. “No,” he answered, “I rent it of a person who lives close by.” “And how happens it,” said I, “that you speak no English?” “How should it happen,” said he, “that I should speak any? I have never been far from here; my wife who has lived at service at Liverpool can speak some.” “Can you read poetry?” said I.