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"My grandfather had the bed sawed to his own length," he explained; "did you ever hear the story?" "No," she said; "I ain't been here long. They kept the house shut up till this year." "Well, I'll tell you when I come down," and Van Alen opened his bag with a finality that sent the old woman to the door. "Supper's ready," she told him, "whenever you are."
Otto Brand was waiting for him, a little curious as to what had taken him out so late, but, getting no satisfaction, he followed Van Alen up-stairs, and built a fire for him in the big bedroom. And presently, in the light of the leaping flames, the roses on the canopy of the bed glowed pink. "Ain't you goin' to sleep in the bed?" Otto asked, as he watched Van Alen arrange the covers on the couch.
With a sense of revolt, Van Alen left him, and, undressing in the room with the canopy bed, he called up vaguely the vision of a little girl who had visited them in the city. She had had green eyes and freckles and red hair. Beyond that she had made no impression on his callowness. And her name was Mazie Wetherell.
The leaders of the latter section, and, according to a trustworthy witness, the only men in authority who favoured the campaign against the Pope were Browne, Alen, the Master of the Rolls, Brabazon, the Vice-Treasurer, and one or two others, amongst whom might be reckoned Aylmer the Chief Justice.
"How rude you must think me," she said; "but I have been so interested in dissecting your grandfather that I forgot you " Van Alen was moved by an impulse that he could not control, a primitive impulse that was not in line with his usual repression. "I am tempted to make you remember me," he said slowly, and after that there was a startled silence. And then she went away.
Off toward Wrexham are the ruins of another castle, known as Caergwrle, or "the camp of the giant legion." This was of Welsh origin, and commanded the entrance to the Vale of Alen; the English called it Hope Castle. Adjoining Flintshire is Denbigh, with the quiet watering-place of Abergele out on the Irish Sea. About two miles away is St.
Van Alen could not enter into their technical objections. He hoped it would not rain, because he wanted to take a book to Mazie Wetherell, and he had not brought a rain-coat. But it did rain, and he went without a rain-coat! The house, as he neared it, showed no light, and under the thick canopy of the trees there was no sound but the drip, drip of the rain.
I have never forgotten." Neither had Van Alen forgotten. It had been a great feat for his little strength. There had been other boys there, bigger boys, but he had offered, and had been saved humiliation by her girlish slimness and feather weight. "I was a strong little fellow then," was his comment: "I am a strong little fellow now." She turned on him reproachful eyes.
With all of them, he could not compete with this fair young god, who used a rough towel and a tin basin on the kitchen bench. "Maybe I'd better go," the boy offered. "You'll want to go to bed." But Van Alen held him. "I always smoke first," he said, and, wrapped in his dressing-gown, he flung himself into a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace.
At that moment Van Alen hated him that Hop-o'-my-Thumb of another age, founder of a pigmy race, who, by his braggart will, had that night brought upon this one of his descendants the scorn of a woman. And even as he thought of her, she came in, with the yellow flare of a candle lighting her vivid face. "I thought you might need a light," she said; "it grows dark so soon."
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