“Peter and his wife.”
“And who are they?” said I.
“Do you not know?” said the girl; “you came with them.”
“They found me ill by the way,” said I; “and they relieved me: I know nothing about them.”
“I thought you knew everything,” said the girl.
“There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one of them. Who are they?”
“Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?”
“Never,” said I.
“Well,” said the girl, “this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a nice person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a preacher as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, having never heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine, and doing all the good they can. They frequently come here, for the mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old friend of both, and then they take up their abode in the cart beneath the old oaks down there by the stream.”
“And what is their reason for doing so?” said I; “would it not be more comfortable to sleep beneath a roof?”