“Very,” said she.
I gave them each a trifle, and the poor old lady thanked me with tears in her eyes.
I asked whether the children could read; she said they all could, with the exception of the two youngest. The eldest she said could read anything, whether Welsh or English; she then took from the window-sill a book, which she put into my hand, saying the child could read it and understand it. I opened the book; it was an English school book treating on all the sciences.
“Can you write?” said I to the child, a little stubby girl of about eight, with a broad flat red face and grey eyes, dressed in a chintz gown, a little bonnet on her head, and looking the image of notableness.
The little maiden, who had never taken her eyes off me for a moment during the whole time I had been in the room, at first made no answer; being, however, bid by her grandmother to speak, she at length answered in a soft voice, “Medraf, I can.”
“Then write your name in this book,” said I, taking out a pocket-book and a pencil, “and write likewise that you are related to Gronwy Owen—and be sure you write in Welsh.”
The little maiden very demurely took the book and pencil, and placing the former on the table wrote as follows:
“Ellen Jones yn perthyn o bell i gronow owen.”
That is “Ellen Jones belonging from afar to Gronwy Owen.”
When I saw the name of Ellen I had no doubt that the children were related to the illustrious Gronwy. Ellen is a very uncommon Welsh name, but it seems to have been a family name of the Owens; it was borne by an infant daughter of the poet whom he tenderly loved, and who died whilst he was toiling at Walton in Cheshire,—