to stone just when they
had assembled to tread a minuet. And the fair Glaslyn flowed past their
feet with a swing and sweep, as though the crystal flood kept time to
dance music which our ears were not attuned to catch.

Quickly we flashed by more than one beautiful lake, too; a jewel hidden
among mountains, found by our eyes unexpectedly, only to be lost again.
And all the while Cader Idris and Snowdon drew hoods of mist over their
heads, pulling them down tightly and firmly. Not once had we caught a
glimpse of either mountain, though we were almost near enough to knock
our noses or Apollo's bonnet against their sharp elbows; but we were too
happy to care much--at least, one of us was!--and we cared even less
when rain came on again. I still kept my place beside Sir Lionel, who
was repentant for having made me cry over the dreadful, agonizing,
too-tragic story of Gelert. I won't repeat it to you, because it's
wickedly sad, and grayhound Gelert was so much nobler than most people.

Sheets of spun glass shimmered and waved before us, as we rushed on
through the mountains, past the beautiful place of Gelert's grave, up
toward Pen-y-gwrd. And the tinkling swish of the rain on the glass
sounded to me as the Welsh names had begun to sound. I wish you could
hear them spoken, for the spelling gives no idea of their pronunciation,
or the pleasant, muffled music of them. But all I can tell you is, that
when you come into Wales you will feel they are characteristic of the
country; mysterious, sympathetic, rather secretive.

Sir Lionel was happy in the thought of Pen-y-gwrd, because some of the
best memories of his boyhood are associated with that little spot in the
mountain-land of Wales. He used to come, and climb with an old friend a
few years older than himself, a Colonel O'Hagan, who is in Bengal now,
and who--he thinks--will like me. Not much chance of our ever meeting!

Just as Sir Lionel finished quoting Charles Kingsley on Pen-y-gwrd, we
drew up in front of a low gray stone building; and Kingsley's merry
words rang in my ears as the door of the hotel opened. You know I can
always remember a verse after having once heard it.

"There is no Inn in Snowden which is not awful dear,
Excepting Pen-y-gwrd (you can't pronounce it, dear)
Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three;
One is the Vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me;
One goes to Capel Curig, and I can't mind its name;
And one, i