artake of some of thy fare." "I should
be very happy if you would," said I. "Doubt not but we shall," said
Peter; "Winifred shall have some of thy flitch cooked for dinner. In the
meantime, sit down, young man, and breakfast at our expense--we will dine
at thine."

On the evening of that day, Peter and myself sat alone beneath the oak.
We fell into conversation; Peter was at first melancholy, but he soon
became more cheerful, fluent, and entertaining. I spoke but little; but
I observed that sometimes what I said surprised the good Methodist. We
had been silent some time. At length, lifting up my eyes to the broad
and leafy canopy of the trees, I said, having nothing better to remark,
"What a noble tree! I wonder if the fairies ever dance beneath it?"

"Fairies!" said Peter, "fairies! how came you, young man, to know
anything about the fair family?"

"I am an Englishman," said I, "and of course know something about
fairies; England was once a famous place for them."

"Was once, I grant you," said Peter, "but is so no longer. I have
travelled for years about England, and never heard them mentioned before;
the belief in them has died away, and even their name seems to be
forgotten. If you had said you were a Welshman, I should not have been
surprised. The Welsh have much to say of the Tylwyth Teg, or fair
family, and many believe in them."

"And do you believe in them?" said I.

"I scarcely know what to say. Wise and good men have been of opinion
that they are nothing but devils, who, under the form of pretty and
amiable spirits, would fain allure poor human beings; I see nothing
irrational in the supposition."

"Do you believe in devils then?"

"Do I believe in devils, young man!" said Peter, and his frame was shaken
as if by convulsions. "If I do not believe in devils, why am I here at
the present moment?"

"You know best," said I; "but I don't believe that fairies are devils,
and I don't wish to hear them insulted. What learned men have said they
are devils?"

"Many have said it, young man, and, amongst others, Master Ellis Wyn, in
that wonderful book of his, the 'Bardd Cwsg.'"

"The 'Bardd Cwsg,'" said I; "what kind of book is that? I have never
heard of that book before."

"Heard of it before! I suppose not; how should you have heard of it
before! By the bye, can you read?"

"Very tolerably," said I; "so there are fairies in this book. What do
you call it--the 'Bardd Cwsg'?"

"Yes,