dried fruits and a few roots from his cell, and spread them before his
guest. He took a bowl of seasoned wood, and hastening to the fountain,
that fell with a murmuring noise down the neighing [sic] rock, he
presented the limpid beverage. "Such," said he, "is my humble fare;
partake it with a contented heart, and it shall be more grateful to thy
taste, than the high flavoured viands of a monarch." In the mean time,
Madoc, pleased with the benevolent pursuit, gathered some bits of dry
wood, and setting them on fire, besought the swain to refresh himself
from the weariness of his travel, and the inclemency of the storm. But
the heart of Edwin was too full to partake of the provisions that his
attentive host had prepared. The chearfulness however of the blazing
hearth and the generous officiousness of the hermit, seemed by degrees
to recover him from the insensibility and lethargy, that for a time had
swallowed up all his faculties.

Madoc had hitherto contemplated his guest in silence. He permitted him
to refresh his wearied frame and to resume his dissipated spirits
uninterrupted; he suppressed the curiosity by which he was actuated, to
learn the story of the woes of Edwin. In the midst of his dejection, he
perceived the symptoms of a nobility of spirit that interested him; and
the anguish of the shepherd's mind had not totally destroyed the traces
of that mild affability, and that manly frankness for which he was
esteemed.

Edwin had no sooner appeared to shake off a small part of his
melancholy, his eye no sooner sparkled with returning fire, than Madoc
embraced the favourable omen. "My son," said he, "you seem to be full of
dejection and grief. Grief is not an inmate of the plain; the hours of
the shepherd are sped in gaiety and mirth. Suspicion and design are
stranger to his bosom. With him the voice of discord is not heard. The