inued musing
in this manner until the handmaid made her appearance with a tray, on
which were covers and a decanter, which she placed before me. "What is
that?" said I, pointing to a decanter.

"Only a pint of sherry, sir," said she of the white dress and ribbons.

"Dear me," said I, "I ordered no sherry, I wanted some ale--a pint of
ale."

"You called for a pint, sir," said the handmaid, "but you mentioned no
ale, and I naturally supposed that a gentleman of your appearance"--here
she glanced at my dusty coat--"and speaking in the tone you did, would
not condescend to drink ale with his chop; however, as it seems I have
been mistaken, I can take away the sherry and bring you the ale."

"Well, well," said I, "you can let the sherry remain; I do not like
sherry, and am very fond of ale, but you can let the wine remain; upon
the whole I am glad you brought it--indeed I merely came to do a good
turn to the master of the house."

"Thank you, sir," said the handmaid.

"Are you his daughter?" said I.

"Oh no, sir," said the handmaid reverently; "only his waiter."

"You may be proud to wait on him," said I.

"I am, sir," said the handmaid, casting down her eyes.

"I suppose he is much respected in the neighbourhood?" said I.

"Very much so, sir," said the damsel, "especially amidst the connection."

"The connection," said I. "Ah, I see, he has extensive consanguinity,
most Welsh have. But," I continued, "there is such a thing as envy in
the world, and there are a great many malicious people in the world, who
speak against him."

"A great many, sir, but we take what they say from whence it comes."

"You do quite right," said I. "Has your master written any poetry
lately?"

"Sir!" said the damsel staring at me.

"Any poetry," said I, "any pennillion?"

"No, sir," said the damsel; "my master is a respectable man, and would
scorn to do anything of the kind."

"Why," said I, "is not your master a bard as well as an innkeeper?"

"My master, sir, is an innkeeper," said the damsel; "but as for the
other, I don't know what you mean."

"A bard," said I, "is a prydydd, a person who makes verses--pennillion;
does not your master make them?"

"My master make them? No, sir; my master is a religious gentleman, and
would scorn to make such profane stuff."

"Well," said I, "he told me he did within the last two hours. I met him
at Dyffrin Gaint, along with another man, and he took me into the
public-house, whe