"Is that in Welsh ?" said I.
"No," replied the woman, "it is the _Bolton Chronicle_, my husband reads it." I sat down in the chimney-corner.

The wind was now howling abroad, and the rain was beating against the cottage panes--presently a gust of wind came down the chimney, scattering sparks all about.

"A cataract of sparks!" said I, using the word Rhaiadr.
"What is Rhaiadr ?" said the woman; "I never heard the word before." "Rhaiadr means water tumbling over a rock," said John Jones--"did you never see water tumble over the top of a rock ?" "Frequently," said she.
"Well," said he, "even as the water with its froth tumbles over the rock, so did sparks and fire tumble over the front of that grate when the wind blew down the chimney.

It was a happy comparison of the Gwr Boneddig, and with respect to Rhaiadr it is a good old word, though not a common one; some of the Saxons who have read the old writings, though they cannot speak the language as fast as we, understand many words and things which we do not." "I forgot much of my Welsh in the land of the Saxons," said the woman, "and so have many others; there are plenty of Welsh at Bolton, but their Welsh is sadly corrupted." She then went out and presently returned with an infant in her arms and sat down.

"Was that child born in Wales ?" I demanded.
"No," said she, "he was born at Bolton, about eighteen months ago--we have been here only a year." "Do many English," said I, "marry Welsh wives ?" "A great many," said she.