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.