“Are these Gwyddelod poor?”
“By no means, sir; they make large sums by plundering and other means, with which, ’tis said, they retire at last to their own country or America, where they buy land and settle down.”
“What language do they speak?”
“English, sir; they pride themselves on speaking good English, that is to the Welsh. Amongst themselves they discourse in their own Paddy Gwyddel.”
“Have they no Welsh?”
“Only a few words, sir; I never heard one of them speaking Welsh, save a young girl—she fell sick by the roadside as she was wandering by herself—some people at a farmhouse took her in, and tended her till she was well. During her sickness she took a fancy to their quiet way of life, and when she was recovered she begged to stay with them and serve them. They consented; she became a very good servant, and hearing nothing but Welsh spoken, soon picked up the tongue.”
“Do you know what became of her?”
“I do, sir; her own people found her out, and wished to take her away with them, but she refused to let them, for by that time she was perfectly reclaimed, had been to chapel, renounced her heathen crefydd, and formed an acquaintance with a young Methodist who had a great gift of prayer, whom she afterwards married—she and her husband live at present not far from Mineira.”
“I almost wonder that her own people did not kill her.”
“They threatened to do so, sir, and would doubtless have put their threat into execution, had they not been prevented by the Man on High.”