On I hurried. The voices of children sounded sweetly at a distance
across the wild champaign on my left.
It grew darker and darker. On I hurried along the road; at last I
came to lone, lordly groves. On my right was an open gate and a
lodge. I went up to the lodge. The door was open, and in a little
room I beheld a nice-looking old lady sitting by a table, on which
stood a lighted candle, with her eyes fixed on a large book.
"Excuse me," said I; "but who owns this property?"
The old lady looked up from her book, which appeared to be a Bible,
without the slightest surprise, though I certainly came upon her
unawares, and answered:
"Mr John Wynn."
I shortly passed through a large village, or rather town, the name
of which I did not learn. I then went on for a mile or two, and
saw a red light at some distance. The road led nearly up to it,
and then diverged towards the north. Leaving the road I made
towards the light by a lane, and soon came to a railroad station.
"You won't have long to wait, sir," said a man, "the train to
Holyhead will be here presently."
"How far is it to Holyhead?" said I.
"Two miles, sir, and the fare is only sixpence."
"I despise railroads," said I, "and those who travel by them," and
without waiting for an answer returned to the road.
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