There is not a single dwelling near, or within sight of, that old toll-house, lonely by the wayside at the edge of a dark plantation: and the life of the old man who lives there rent-free on a small weekly allowance must be dull indeed. It would be lonelier and duller still were it not for the tramps, whose footsteps can be heard stealthily crawling round the house and trying the doors and the shuttered windows at all hours of the night. They add a little spice of excitement to life in such a place; but an occupant who had anything to lose would be nervous. One night the old man discovered two navvies and a woman in his garden, preparing to camp out there. As they seemed to be genuine travellers on the way to a job of work, he brought them in, warmed them at his fire, and let them sleep by the hearth. Early in the morning they prepared to go, and made their breakfast before he rose. “God bless you, Daddy!” said the woman as they went, “we’ve left you something”; and he found a pound of sugar, a loaf, and some tea. At the “Bridge Inn,” where the old road comes down in a steep bank, all ruts and loose stones, to meet the new, the Ceiriog foams and splashes in its ravine. Across the bridge that spans it, and we are in Denbighshire and Wales. In Wales, after a fashion; but the steep road winding upwards to Chirk has to be traversed before the narrow opening into the valley of the Dee and the Vale of Llangollen is gained; and there were those at this strategic point in olden days who saw to it that unauthorised passengers did not pass. For as the village of Chirk crowns the plateau, so also does the Castle of Chirk command a cleavage in the hills, where Castell Crogen stood in days before the existing fortress and the Norman builders of it were thought of.