“Its name is Moel Agrik,” said the lady, addressing me in English.
“Does that mean Agricola’s hill?” said I.
“It does,” said she; “and there is a tradition that the Roman general Agricola, when he invaded these parts, pitched his camp on that moel. The hill is spoken of by Pennant.”
“Thank you, madam,” said I; “perhaps you can tell me the name of the delightful grounds in which we stand, supposing they have a name.”
“They are called Oaklands,” said the lady.
“A very proper name,” said I, “for there are 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 inquired her name.
“Her name is W—s,” said the man, “and a good lady she is.”
“Is she Welsh?” said I.