We found the master of the gate, his wife and son
seated on a bench before the door. The woman had a large book on
her lap, in which she was reading by the last light of the
departing orb. I gave the group the sele of the evening in
English, which they all returned, the woman looking up from her
book.
"Is that volume the Bible?" said I.
"It is, sir," said the woman.
"May I look at it?" said I.
"Certainly," said the woman, and placed the book in my hand. It
was a magnificent Welsh Bible, but without the title-page.
"That book must be a great comfort to you," said I to her.
"Very great," said she. "I know not what we should do without it
in the long winter evenings."
"Of what faith are you?" said I.
"We are Methodists," she replied.
"Then you are of the same faith as my friend here," said I.
"Yes, yes," said she, "we are aware of that. We all know honest
John Jones."
After we had left the gate I asked John Jones whether he had ever
heard of Rebecca of the toll-gates.
"Oh, yes," said he; "I have heard of that chieftainess."
"And who was she?" said I.
"I cannot say, sir; I never saw her, nor any one who had seen her.
