deemed much too valuable to be left. Another portrait by the same artist is of Cromwell's mother, and her last words rose in my mind as I saw it. She was ninety-four and dying when her son the Protector was sent for, and him, one of the strongest men of all time, she blessed, calling on the Lord to comfort him in all his troubles, "My dear son, I leave my heart with thee. Goodnight." It seems incredible to read what was done to the old body by the savage Jingoes of the time, and Pepys records the meeting of the still smoking limbs of Colonel Jones in London's streets. Another picture, probably French, seemed to me a very fine one; it is of an old man aged eighty-three, and is dated 1628.

There is an oaken staircase, oaken rafters, oaken panelling. Chairs that were made to last for ages, not to sell. Weapons of war, trophies of the chase, but where are the instruments of music, for this should have been a place for the inspiration of the bards? Its glamour steals over us as the daylight dies. The diamond-paned windows are deeply set, the trees above cast greyish flickering shadows on the walls, while the giant hills encircle and look down on all. It is indeed a ghostly place. Does the fair Nesta come again to see the home of her captivity? Does reckless Owen moan for the delusive joys he ne'er shall have again? Who sleeps in Llewelyn's bed? He was said to be the eagle who never slept, "the Devastator of England," the roar of whose coming was as the waves on the shore, whose red helm and long red lance towered above men in the day of battle. Cromwell's mother haunts me now in broad daylight; her eyes follow me round the room; and that other hoary head, who is he? Hush; what is that mysterious humming sound all around us and up above? Is it the wind? or some lost spirit's moan, or swarms of bees in drowsy hum? In whispering tones X tells me this is just the place where he would like to live and die and to be buried in the mountains--his life

long dream. Can we sleep here to-night, or any time, or have tea with Nesta? How good that honey would be if we could get it fresh from one side of the wall as the bees brought it in at the other. But the living Nesta objects, and we must dream elsewhere.

A

Downstairs, in the kitchen, where we get milk, is her household God, warranted to keep ghosts away, Gladstone reading the lessons in church. If some poor wandering spirit came by him, how he would confound it with quotations from the early fathers, or pour such a torrent of eloquence over it that it would shrivel up and silently fade away. There is a path up the mountain where there is a stone that we should see, and Nesta will escort us. Actively she skips over boulders or bramble. The little stream gets less and less, and a tiny pool by the yard of the house might be a store pool for trout, as the water is "fairly stiff" with them. little higher up and a very big fish will be soon left dry. I ask Nesta if she ever tickles any. Tkl," she clucks, "what that?" She did not know the meaning of the word, though she may have often done the deed. The path needs climbing, amid the trees and bracken, and darkness is coming dense in the woods; but here is a modern stone which tells us that traditions say, up this path Owen, son of Cadogan, son of Breddyn ab Cynvyn, King of North Wales and Powys, led his men to war when he burned Pembroke Castle and carried away Nesta, the wife of Gerald de Windsor, and in 1116 was slain heading his men against seven to one. This last bit differs from my former tale, but tales will vary in much less than eight hundred years.

Slowly and sadly we turn to go, for the sun is sinking and the shades of night creep up the mountain sides. What a romantic spot it is with its thousand years of history! Legends may be more or less mythical, but to-day the place might be the home of a captive princess dropt out of fairyland, and how strange that the

portraits of the Cromwells should have rested here secure. We drove downhill in the twilight, with the precipices of the Eglwyseg rocks on our left hand for miles, and on our right was open country stretching to the glories of the setting sun. In the gathering gloom I could have fancied that our way was paved with the bones of the English dead, but perhaps it was only strewn with the waste paper that the latest comers had left behind them. We tried to talk with our charioteer, who, when cautioned not to let the horse get its head down if he were going to gallop downhill, said as before, "No feah foteffah; him stiff and tired now." So we got back to the town in the dark, and when X tipped the driver it was evident they were both very thankful the journey was safely over. At the hotel they told us we could have anything we liked for supper, but when I ordered oatmeal porridge they seemed shocked. There had been a table-d'hôte dinner-we could have anything or everything, they said: "cotelettes d'agneau aux concombres," alias lamb chops and cucumber. Oh!

Then we sat out in the garden by the river in the dark, and I asked X which of the families of the fair Nesta he had come from, and what was the good of coming from any of those breeds. X said it wasn't his fault he couldn't help it. She was a beautiful woman, and they did not trouble about marriage in those days. Besides, her King's son was made a duke, and that would cover anything, even a multitude of sins. Perhaps X's pedigree will get back to Noah some day now that he is becoming mixed up with the semi-mythical heroes and gods of Wales. If he does, he will be the first Englishman of my acquaintance to surpass our exMayor who descended from the Evangelist.

The hotel folks did not like us to sleep in the garden, so we had to go to sultry bedrooms, but not to sleep, for the long hot day with its hard work and pleasure had been too much for us, and under my window women