We now descended the eastern side of the hill till we
came to a singular looking stone, which had much the appearance of a
Druid's stone. I inquired of my guide whether there was any tale
connected with this stone.

"None," he replied; "but I have heard people say that it was a strange
stone, and on that account I brought you to look at it."

A little farther down he showed me part of a ruined wall.

"What name does this bear?" said I.

"Clawdd yr Afalon," he replied. "The dyke of the orchard."

"A strange place for an orchard," I replied. "If there was ever an
orchard on this bleak hill, the apples must have been very sour."

Over rocks and stones we descended till we found ourselves on a road, not
very far from the shore, on the south-east side of the hill.

"I am very thirsty," said I, as I wiped the perspiration from my face;
"how I should like now to drink my fill of cool spring water."

"If your honour is inclined for water," said my guide, "I can take you to
the finest spring in all Wales."

"Pray do so," said I, "for I really am dying of thirst."

"It is on our way to the town," said the lad, "and is scarcely a hundred
yards off."

He then led me to the fountain. It was a little well under a stone wall,
on the left side of the way. It might be about two feet deep, was fenced
with rude stones, and had a bottom of sand.

"There," said the lad, "is the fountain. It is called the Fairies' Well,
and contains the best water in Wales."

I lay down and drank. Oh, what water was that of the Fairies' Well! I
drank and drank, and thought I could never drink enough of that delicious
water; the lad all the time saying that I need not be afraid to drink, as
the water of the Fairies' Well had never done harm to anybody. At length
I got up, and standing by the fountain repeated the lines of a bard on a
spring, not of a Welsh but a Gaelic bard, which are perhaps the finest
lines ever composed on the theme. Yet MacIntyre, for such was his name,
was like myself an admirer of good ale, to say nothing of whiskey, and
loved to indulge in it at a proper time and place. But there is a time
and place for everything, and sometimes the warmest admirer of ale would
prefer the lymph of the hill-side fountain to the choicest ale that ever
foamed in tankard from the cellars of Holkham. Here are the lines most
faithfully rendered:--

"The wild wine of nature,
Honey-like in its taste,
The genial, fair, t