"Is—is this Connecticut?"
"That's what it is."
I breathed easier. If he had said Pennsylvania it would have meant that we were a hundred and fifty miles from home.
"Do you know of any place called the Glen?"
"Of course; right up ahead a few miles. Where'd you folks come from, anyway? You don't appear to know much about locations."
I side-stepped, thanking him profusely. We were all right, then, but it seemed a narrow escape.
At last we entered the Glen and recognized certain landmarks. It was a somber place now—its aspect weirdly changed since the first days of our coming. Then it had been a riot of summer-time, the cliffs a mat and tangle of green that had shut us in. On this dull December evening, with its vines and shrubs and gaunt trees bare, its pointed cedars and hemlocks the only green, its dark water swirling under overhanging rocks, it had become an entrance to Valhalla, the dim abode of the gods.
How friendly Westbury's lights looked when we crossed the bridge by the mill and turned into the drive, and what gracious comfort there was in his bright fire and warm, waiting supper. We did not go up the hill that night. Good Old Beek found rest and food and society in Westbury's big red barn.