And a genial, jovial little heart it is, and an honest, kindly little heart too, with warm life-blood within.  So it looked that night, with every window red with comfortable light, and a long stream of glare pouring across the road from the open door, gilding the fir-tree tops in front:  but its geniality only made him shudder.  He had been there more than once, and knew the place and the people; and knew, too, that of all people in the world, they were the least like him.  He hurried past the doorway, and caught one glimpse of the bright kitchen.  A sudden thought struck him.  He would go in and write his letter there.  But not yet—­he could not go in yet; for through the open door came some sweet Welsh air, so sweet, that even he paused to listen.  Men were singing in three parts, in that rich metallic temper of voice, and that perfect time and tune, which is the one gift still left to that strange Cymry race, worn out with the long burden of so many thousand years.  He knew the air; it was “The Rising of the Lark.”  Heavens! what a bitter contrast to his own thoughts!  But he stood rooted, as if spell-bound, to hear it to the end.  The lark’s upward flight was over; and Elsley heard him come quivering down from heaven’s gate, fluttering, sinking, trilling self-complacently, springing aloft in one bar, only to sink lower in the next, and call more softly to his brooding mate below; till, worn out with his ecstasy, he murmured one last sigh of joy, and sank into the nest.  The picture flashed through Elsley’s brain as swiftly as the notes did through his ears.  He breathed more freely when it vanished with the sounds.  He strode hastily in, and down the little passage to the kitchen.

It was a low room, ceiled with dark beams, from which hung bacon and fishing-rods, harness and drying stockings, and all the miscellanea of a fishing inn kept by a farmer, and beneath it the usual happy, hearty, honest group.  There was Harry Owen, bland and stalwart, his baby in his arms, smiling upon the world in general; old Mrs. Pritchard, bending over the fire, putting the last touch to one of those miraculous soufflets, compact of clouds and nectar, which transport alike palate and fancy, at the first mouthful, from Snowdon to Belgrave Square.  A sturdy fair-haired Saxon Gourbannelig sat with his back to the door, and two of the beautiful children on his knee, their long locks flowing over the elbows of his shooting jacket, as, with both arms round them, he made Punch for them with his handkerchief and his fingers, and chattered to them in English, while they chattered in Welsh.  By him sat another Englishman, to whom the three tuneful Snowdon guides, their music-score upon their knees, sat listening approvingly, as he rolled out, with voice as of a jolly blackbird, or jollier monk of old, the good old Wessex song:—­

  “My dog he has his master’s nose,
  To smell a knave through silken hose;
  If friends or honest men go by,
  Welcome, quoth my dog and I!