CHAPTER LXXIII
Breakfast—The Freckled Maid—Llan uwch Llyn—The Landlady—Llewarch Hen—Conversions to the Church.
Awaking occasionally in the night I heard much storm and rain. The following morning it was gloomy and lowering. As it was Sunday I determined to pass the day at Bala, and accordingly took my prayer-book out of my satchel, and also my single white shirt, which I put on.
Having dressed myself I went to the coffee-room and sat down to breakfast. What a breakfast! pot of hare; ditto of trout; pot of prepared shrimps; dish of plain shrimps; tin of sardines; beautiful beef-steak; eggs, muffin; large loaf, and butter, not forgetting capital tea. There’s a breakfast for you!
As the little freckled maid was removing the breakfast things I asked her how old she was.
“Eighteen, sir, last Candlemas,” said the freckled maid.
“Are your parents alive?”
“My mother is, sir, but my father is dead.”
“What was your father?”
“He was an Irishman, sir! and boots to this inn.”