“They are called Oaklands,” said the lady.
“A very proper name,” said I, “for there is plenty of oaks growing about. But why are they called by a Saxon name, for Oaklands is Saxon?”
“Because,” said the lady, “when the grounds were first planted with trees they belonged to an English family.”
“Thank you,” said I, and, taking off my hat, I departed with my guide. I asked him her name, but he could not tell me. Before she was out of sight, however, we met a labourer of whom John Jones enquired her name.
“Her name is W---s,” said the man, “and a good lady she is.”
“Is she Welsh?” said I.
“Pure Welsh, master,” said the man. “Purer Welsh flesh and blood need not be.”
Nothing farther worth relating occurred till we reached the toll-bar at the head of the hen ffordd, by which time the sun was almost gone down. We found the master of the gate, his wife and son seated on a bench before the door. The woman had a large book on her lap, in which she was reading by the last light of the departing orb. I gave the group the sele of the evening in English, which they all returned, the woman looking up from her book.
“Is that volume the Bible?” said I.
“It is, sir,” said the woman.