IN THE VALLEY OF THE DWYFOR 215 



those familiar with religious work in Great Britain, 

 one figure stands out, giant-like, whenever the 

 name of that island is heard. Here Christmas 

 Evans prayed and preached, turning many hun- 

 dreds from sin to righteousness under the sway 

 of his matchless eloquence. Farther on we passed 

 Carnarvon Castle where, according to a tradition 

 now generally discredited, Edward II, first Prince 

 of Wales, was born. 



Night had fallen when we reached the Garn 

 station, a mile or more from the village which 

 straggles up the side of one of the foot-hills of the 

 Snowdon range. A cheerful fire was blazing in 

 the open fire-place when we entered the house, and 

 it seemed a symbol of the warm and generous 

 hospitality extended to the American stranger. 

 There is something indescribably attractive about 

 one of these Welsh homes. Perhaps " hominess " 

 describes it best. The absence of ceremony and the 

 presence of a spirit of kindliness and cordiality put 

 the stranger at his ease from the first. The days 

 spent under that roof passed all too swiftly, and, 

 as we look back upon them, they set the heart to 

 glowing. Since then the master of the house has 

 passed into the great silence, but no change that 

 time works can efface the memory of his gracious 

 and considerate hospitality. 



Sunday in North Wales is a day for rest and 

 worship, not for golf and picnics. It was on a 

 Saturday evening that we reached Garn, and it 



