he stream is so deep."

They walked on without much speech. She wondered who her companion
might be. She should have known him, if she had seen him among the
strangers at the inn; and yet he spoke English too well to be a
Welshman; he knew the country and the paths so perfectly, he must
be a resident; and so she tossed him from England to Wales and back
again in her imagination.

"I only came here yesterday," said he, as a widening in the path
permitted them to walk abreast. "Last night I went to the higher
waterfalls; they are most splendid."

"Did you go out in all that rain?" asked Ruth, timidly.

"Oh, yes. Rain never hinders me from walking. Indeed, it gives a new
beauty to such a country as this. Besides, my time for my excursion
is so short, I cannot afford to waste a day."

"Then, you do not live here?" asked Ruth.

"No! my home is in a very different place. I live in a busy town,
where at times it is difficult to feel the truth that

There are in this loud stunning tide
Of human care and crime,
With whom the melodies abide
Of th' everlasting chime;
Who carry music in their heart
Through dusky lane and crowded mart,
Plying their task with busier feet,
Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.

I have an annual holiday, which I generally spend in Wales; and often
in this immediate neighbourhood."

"I do not wonder at your choice," replied Ruth. "It is a beautiful
country."

"It is, indeed; and I have been inoculated by an old innkeeper at
Conway with a love for its people, and history, and traditions. I
have picked up enough of the language to understand many of their
legends; and some are very fine and awe-inspiring, others very poetic
and fanciful."

Ruth was too shy to keep up the conversation by any remark of her
own, although his gentle, pensive manner was very winning.

"For instance," said he, touching a long bud-laden stem of fox-glove
in the hedge-side, at the bottom of which one or two crimson-speckled
flowers were bursting from their green sheaths, "I dare say, you
don't know what makes this fox-glove bend and sway so gracefully. You
think it is blown by the wind, don't you?" He looked at her with a
grave smile, which did not enliven his thoughtful eyes, but gave an
inexpressible sweetness to his face.

"I always thought it was the wind. What is it?" asked Ruth,
innocently.

"Oh, the Welsh tell you that this flower is sacred to the fairies,