She had only to go below, she was greeted in the quick tones of their speech all along the street of the slate-roofs.
But none loved the castle, and she as little, saving the one room in it where her boy lay.

The grey of Welsh history knew a real castle beside the roaring brook frequently a torrent.

This was an eighteenth century castellated habitation on the verge of a small wood midway up the height, and it required a survey of numberless happy recollections to illumine its walls or drape its chambers.

The permanently lighted hearth of a dear home, as in that forsaken unfavoured old white house of the wooded Austrian crags, it had not.

Rather it seemed a place waiting for an ill deed to be done in it and stop all lighting of hearths thereafter.
Out on the turf of the shaven hills, her springy step dispersed any misty fancies.