utches at her. At any rate, she
resolved to live a single, devout, and charitable life, and for that
purpose, placed herself under the care and instruction of her uncle,
Breno, a very holy priest.

But it happened that Prince Caradoc, the son of King Alen--who _he_ was
I don't know--saw her, and instantly fell desperately in love with her,
and in the authoritative way which princes have, asked her to be his
wife. Winifred said "no" very decidedly, and then he undertook to
carry her off by force. But she escaped, and ran down the hill toward
her uncle's cell. Caradoc followed, foaming with rage, and with his
drawn sword in his hand. She ran very fast, but he soon overtook her,
and with one blow of his sword cut off her head! The body dropped on
the spot, but the head bounded forward and fell at the feet of Father
Breno, who stood at the door of his cell. The good priest caught it
up, and running to the body, put it on again--being very careful not to
have it twisted toward one shoulder, or what would have been more
awkward still, facing backward.

Immediately Winifred arose, as well as ever, only a little weak from
loss of blood--and with nothing to remember her decapitation by, but a
red line around her neck, which looked like a small string of coral
beads, and was rather pretty than otherwise.

From that day it was settled that Winifred was a Saint, for on the spot
where her head had rested, there bubbled up a spring of pure water, for
the healing of the sick--particularly the crippled and rheumatic.
Believers say that, in the Saint's time, the waters were more powerful
than they are now. Then, after one dip, the palsied stopped shaking,
the paralytic began talking, and cripples flung away their crutches
while the maimed had only to thrust the stumps of arms and legs into
the spring, to have beautiful new hands and feet sprout out before
their eyes!

The part of North Wales through which we passed, is not so mountainous
and picturesque as some other portions of the Principality; but it is
very beautiful, even as seen in flying glimpses, from the railway
carriage. We were very sorry that we could not stop to explore the
lovely vales of Clwyd and Llangollen, and visit the little city of St.
Asaph, where Mrs. Hemans once resided.

I longed to go and pay my respects to some of those grand, old
mountains, that stood afar off, in their stern majesty, clothed with
purple-blossomed heather, flecked with golden s