“We do,” said he of the hat. “You speak Welsh very well, considering you were not born in Wales. It is really surprising that the men of Llydaw should speak the iaith so pure as they do.” “The Welsh, when they went over there,” said I, “took effectual means that their descendants should speak good Welsh, if all tales be true.” “What means?” said he of the hat. “Why,” said I, “after conquering the country they put all the men to death, and married the women, but before a child was born they cut out all the women’s tongues, so that the only language the children heard when they were born was pure Cumraeg. What do you think of that?” “Why, that it was a cute trick,” said he of the hat. “A more clever trick I never heard,” said he of the cap. “Have you any memorials in the neighbourhood of the old Welsh?” said I. “What do you mean?” said the man of the hat. “Any altars of the Druids?” said I; “any stone tables?” “None,” said the man of the hat. “What may those stones be?” said I, pointing to the stones which had struck my attention. “Mere common rocks,” said the man. “May I go and examine them?” said I. “O yes,” said he of the hat, “and we will go with you.” We went to the stones, which were indeed common rocks, and which, when I reached them, presented quite a different appearance from that which they presented to my eye when I viewed them from afar. “Are there many altars of the Druids in Llydaw?” said the man of the hat. “Plenty,” said I; “but those altars are older than the time of the Welsh colonists, and were erected by the old Gauls.” “Well,” said the man of the cap, “I am glad to have seen a man of Llydaw.” “Whom do you call a man of Llydaw?” said I. “Whom but yourself?” said he of the hat. “I am not a man of Llydaw,” said I in English, “but of Norfolk, where the people eat the best dumplings in the world, and speak the purest English. Now a thousand thanks for your civility. I would have some more chat with you, but night is coming on, and I am bound to Holyhead.” Then leaving the men staring after me, I bent my steps towards Holyhead. I passed by a place called Llan something, standing lonely on its hill. The country around looked sad and desolate. It is true night had come on when I saw it. On I hurried. The voices of children sounded sweetly at a distance across the wild champaign on my left. It grew darker and darker. On I hurried along the road; at last I came to lone, lordly groves. On my right was an open gate and a lodge. I went up to the lodge. The door was open, and in a little room I beheld a nice-looking old lady sitting by a table, on which stood a lighted candle, with her eyes fixed on a large book. “Excuse me,” said I; “but who owns this property?” The old lady looked up from her book, which appeared to be a Bible, without the slightest surprise, though I certainly came upon her unawares, and answered: “Mr. John Wynn.”