This exactly fitted in with the thoughts and projects that had suddenly come to me, and it was arranged that we should start for the encampment next morning.

As we were leaving the bungalow the next day, I said to Sinfi, ’You are not taking your crwth.’

‘Crwth! we sha’n’t want that.’

’Your people are very fond of music, you know.  Your father is very fond of a musical tea.’

‘So he is.  I’ll take it,’ said Sinfi.

IV

When we reached the camping-place on the Carnarvon road we found a very jolly party.  Panuel had had some very successful dealings, and he was slightly market-merry.  He said to Videy, ’Make the tea, Vi, and let Sinfi hev’ hern fust, so that she can play on the Welsh fiddle while the rest on us are getting ourn.  It’ll seem jist like Chester Fair with Jim Burton scrapin’ in the dancin’ booth to heel and toe.’

Sinfi soon finished her tea, and began to play some merry dancing airs, which set Rhona Boswell’s limbs twittering till she spilt her tea in her lap.  Then, laughing at the catastrophe, she sprang up saying, ‘I’ll dance myself dry,’ and began dancing on the sward.

After tea was over the party got too boisterous for Sinfi’s taste, and she said to me, ’Let’s slip away, brother, and go up the pathway, and I’ll show you Winnie’s favourite place.’

This proposal met my wishes entirely, and under the pretence of going to look at something on the Carnarvon road we managed to escape from the party, Sinfi still carrying her crwth and bow.  She then led the way up a slope green with grass and moss.  We did not talk till we had passed the slate quarry.

The evening was so fine and the scene was so lovely that Sinfi’s very body seemed to drink it in and become intoxicated with beauty.  After we had left the slate quarries behind, the panorama became more entrancing at every yard we walked.  Cwellyn Lake and Valley, Moel Hebog, y Garnedd, the glittering sea, Anglesey, Holyhead Hill, all seemed to be growing in gold and glory out of masses of sunset mist.

When at last we reached the edge of a steep cliff, with the rocky forehead of Snowdon in front, and the shining llyns of Cwm y Clogwyn below, Sinfi stopped.

‘This is the place,’ said she, sitting down on a mossy mound, ’where Winnie loved to come and look down.’

After Sinfi and I had sat on this mound for a few minutes, I asked her to sing and play one or two Welsh airs which I knew to be especial favourites of hers, and then, with much hesitancy, I asked her to play and sing the same song or incantation which had become associated for ever with my first morning on the hills.

‘You mean the Welsh dukkerin’ gillie,’ said Sinfi, looking, with an expression that might have been either alarm or suspicion, into my face.

‘Yes.’