Painful and agonising as had
been my suspense,--my oscillation between hope and dread,--during my
wanderings with the Lovells, these wanderings had not been without
their moments of comfort, for all of which I had been indebted to
Sinfi. She would sit with me in an English lane, under a hedge or
tree, on a balmy summer evening, or among the primroses, wild
hyacinths, buttercups and daisies of the sweet meadows, chattering
her reminiscences of Winifred. She would mostly end by saying:
'Winnie was very fond on ye, brother, and we shall find her yit. The
Golden Hand on Snowdon wasn't there for nothink. The dukkeripen says
you'll marry her yit; a love like yourn can follow the tryenest
patrin as ever wur laid.' Then she would play on her crwth and say,
'Ah, brother, I shall be able to make this crwth bring ye a sight o'
Winnie's livin' mullo if she's alive, and there ain't a sperrit of
the hills as wouldn't answer to it.'
Of Gorgios generally, however, Sinfi had at heart a feeling somewhat
akin to dread. I could not understand it.
'Why do you dislike the Gorgios, Sinfi?' I said to her one day on
Lake Ogwen, after the return of the Lovells to Wales.
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