“Mewn gardd y cafodd dyn ei dwyllo;
Mewn gardd y rhoed oddewid iddo;
Mewn gardd bradychwyd Iesu hawddgar;
Mewn gardd amdowyd ef mewn daear.”“In a garden the first of our race was deceived;
In a garden the promise of grace he received;
In a garden was Jesus betrayed to His doom;
In a garden His body was laid in the tomb.”
Having finished my glass of “summut” and my translation, I called to the woman and asked her what I had to pay.
“Nothing,” said she, “if you had had a cup of tea I should have charged sixpence.”
“You make no charge,” said I, “for what I have had?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing.”
“But suppose,” said I, “I were to give you something by way of present would you—” and here I stopped. The woman smiled.
“Would you fling it in my face?” said I.
“Oh dear, no, sir,” said the woman, smiling more than before.
I gave her something—it was not a sixpence—at which she not only smiled but curtseyed; then bidding her farewell I went out of the door.
I was about to take the broad road, which led round the hill, when she inquired of me where I was going, and on my telling her to Festiniog, she advised me to go by a by-road behind the house which led over the hill.