CHAPTER XI.
Welsh Farm-House--A Poet's Grandson--Hospitality--Mountain Village--Madoc--The Native Valley--Corpse Candles--The Midnight Call.
My curiosity having been rather excited with respect to the country beyond the Berwyn, by what my friend, the intelligent flannel-worker, had told me about it, I determined to go and see it.

Accordingly on Friday morning I set out.

Having passed by Pengwern Hall I turned up a lane in the direction of the south, with a brook on the right running amongst hazels, I presently arrived at a small farm-house standing on the left with a little yard before it.

Seeing a woman at the door I asked her in English if the road in which I was would take me across the mountain--she said it would, and forthwith cried to a man working in a field who left his work and came towards us.

"That is my husband," said she; "he has more English than I." The man came up and addressed me in very good English: he had a brisk, intelligent look, and was about sixty.