It was an address to Snowdon, and ran something like this--
Mountain-wild Snowdon for me!
Sweet silence there for the harp,
Where loiter the ewes and the lambs
In the moss and the rushes,
Where one's song goes sounding up!
And the rocks re-echo it higher and higher
In the height where the eagles live.
In this manner about six weeks slid away, and Winnie's visit to her
father came to an end. I ask, how can people laugh at the sorrows of
childhood? The bitterness of my misery as I sat with that child on
the eve of her departure for Wales (which to me seemed at the extreme
end of the earth) was almost on a par with anything I have since
suffered, and that is indeed saying a great deal. It was in Wynne's
cottage, and I sat on the floor with her wet cheeks close to mine,
saying, 'She leaves me alone.' Tom tried to console me by telling me
that Winifred would soon come back.
'But when?' I said.
'Next year,' said Tom.
He might as well have said next century, for any consolation it gave
me.
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