The sun was hastening towards the west as I passed a little cascade on the left, the waters of which, after running under the road, tumbled down a gully into the river. Shortly afterwards meeting a man I asked him how far it was to Caerfili.
“When you come to the Quakers’ Yard, which is a little way further on, you will be seven miles from Caerfili.”
“What is the Quakers’ Yard?”
“A place where the people called Quakers bury their dead.”
“Is there a village near it?
“There is, and the village is called by the same name.”
“Are there any Quakers in it?”
“Not one, nor in the neighbourhood, but there are some, I believe, in Cardiff.”
“Why do they bury their dead there?”
“You should ask them, not me. I know nothing about them, and don’t want; they are a bad set of people.”