Close to, you see the scarlet leaves of the
crane's-bill, and the tufts of purple heather,
which fill up every cleft and cranny; but in
the distance you see only the general effect of
infinite richness of colour, broken here and
there by great masses of ivy. At the foot of
these rocks come a rich verdant meadow or
two; and then you are at Pen-Morfa. The
village well is sharp down under the rocks.
There are one or two large sloping pieces of
stone in that last field, on the road leading to
the well, which are always slippery; slippery
in the summer's heat, almost as much as in
the frost of winter, when some little glassy
stream that runs over them is turned into a
thin sheet of ice. Many, many years back
a lifetime ago there lived in Pen-Morfa a
widow and her daughter. Very little is
required in those out-of-the-way Welsh villages.
The wants of the people are very simple.
Shelter, fire, a little oat-cake and buttermilk,
and garden produce; perhaps some pork and
bacon from the pig in winter; clothing, which
is principally of home manufacture, and of the
most enduring kind: these take very little
money to purchase, especially in a district
into which the large capitalists have not yet
come, to buy up two or three acres of the
peasants; and nearly every man about Pen-
Morfa owned, at the time of which I speak,
his dwelling and some land beside.

Eleanor Gwynn inherited the cottage (by the
road-side, on the left hand as you go from
Trê-Madoc to Pen-Morfa), in which she and her
husband had lived all their married life, and
a small garden sloping southwards, in which
her bees lingered before winging their way
to the more distant heather. She took rank
among her neighbours as the possessor of a
moderate independence—not rich, and not
poor. But the young men of Pen-Morfa
thought her very rich in the possession of a
most lovely daughter. Most of us know how
very pretty Welsh women are; but from all
accounts, Nest Gwynn (Nest, or Nesta, is the
Welsh for Agnes) was more regularly beautiful
than any one for miles around. The Welsh
are still fond of triads, and " as beautiful as a
summer's morning at sun-rise, as a white sea-
gull on the green sea-wave, and as Nest
Gwynn," is yet a saying in that district. Nest
knew she was beautiful, and delighted in
it. Her mother sometimes checked her in
her happy pride, and sometimes reminded her
that beauty was a great gift of God (for the
Welsh are a very pious people); but when she
began her little homily, Nest came dancing to
her, and knelt down before her and put her
face up to be kissed, and so with a sweet
interruption she stopped her mother's lips.
Her high spirits made some few shake their
heads, and some called her a flirt and a
coquette; for she could not help trying to
please all, both old and young, both men and
women. A very little from Nest sufficed for
this; a sweet glittering smile, a word of kindness,
a merry glance, or a little sympathy, all
these pleased and attracted; she was like the
fairy-gifted child, and dropped inestimable
gifts. But some, who had interpreted her
smiles and kind words rather as their wishes
led them than as they were really warranted,
found that the beautiful, beaming Nest could
be decided and saucy enough, and so they
revenged themselves by calling her a flirt.
Her mother heard it and sighed; but Nest
only laughed.

It was her work to fetch water for the
day's use from the well I told you about.
Old people say it was the prettiest sight in
the world to see her come stepping lightly
and gingerly over the stones, with the pail of
water balanced on her head; she was too
adroit to need to steady it with her hand.
They say, now that they can afford to be
charitable and speak the truth, that in all her
changes to other people, there never was a
better daughter to a widowed mother than
Nest. There is a picturesque old farm-house
under Moel Gwynn, on the road from Trê-
Madoc to Criccaeth, called by some Welsh
name which I now forget; but its meaning in
English is "The End of Time;" a strange,
boding, ominous name. Perhaps the builder
meant his work to endure till the end of time.
I do not know; but there the old house
stands, and will stand for many a year. When
Nest was young, it belonged to one Edward
Williams; his mother was dead, and people
said he was on the look-out for a wife. They
told Nest so, but she tossed her head and
reddened, and said she thought he might look
long before he got one; so it was not strange
that one morning when she went to the well,
one autumn morning when the dew lay heavy
on the grass, and the thrushes were busy
among the mountain-ash berries, Edward
Williams happened to be there on his way
to the coursing match near, and somehow his
greyhounds threw her pail of water over in
their romping play, and she was very long
in filling it again; and when she came home
she threw her arms round her mother's neck,
and in a passion of joyous tears told her that
Edward Williams of The End of Time, had
asked her to marry him, and that she had
said " Yes."

Eleanor Gwynn shed her tears too; but
they fell quietly when she was alone. She
was thankful Nest had found a protector—
one suitable in age and apparent character,
and above her in fortune; but she knew she
should miss her sweet daughter in a thousand
household ways; miss her in the evenings by
the fire-side; miss her when at night she
wakened up with a start from a dream of her
youth, and saw her fair face lying calm in
the moonlight, pillowed by her side. Then
she forgot her dream, and blessed her child,
and slept again. But who could be so selfish
as to be sad when Nest was so supremely
happy? She danced and sang more than
ever; and then sat silent, and smiled to
herself: if spoken to, she started and came