outstretched arm marking the cadence of its rhythm, he read aloud from
a book of old poems. "There's poetry for you, girl! There's a
description of Nature! Where will you find such real poetry amongst
modern bards? No, no! the bards are dead, Valmai!"

"Well, I don't know much about it, uncle; but isn't it a modern bard
who writes:

"'Come and see the misty mountains
In their grey and purple sheen,
When they blush to see the sunrise
Like a maiden of thirteen!'"

That seems very pretty, whatever."

"Very pretty," growled the man's voice, "very pretty; of course it
is--very pretty! That's just it; but that's all, Valmai. Pwff! you
have put me out with your 'blushing maiden' and your 'purple sheen.'
Let us shut up Taliesin and come to 'Drych y Pryf Oesoedd.' Now, you
begin at the fifth chapter."

There was a little sigh, which Cardo heard distinctly, and then the
sweet voice began and continued to read until the sun sank low in the
west.

"It's getting too dark, uncle. Will I go and see if the cakes are
done?"

"No, no!" said the old man, "Gwen will look after the cakes; you light
the candle, and come on with the book."