“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 seal 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.
“May I look at it?” said I.
“Certainly,” said the woman, and placed the book in my hand. It was a magnificent Welsh Bible, but without the title-page.
“That book must be a great comfort to you,” said I to her.
“Very great,” said she. “I know not what we should do without it in the long winter evenings.”
“Of what faith are you?” said I.
“We are Methodists,” she replied.