"Once upon a time, about sixty-seven years and nine months ago,
there was a young man in England that was rich and handsome and
brave and good, and his name was--Oh, give us a name for him,
Poll."
"Mortimer Vincent Augustin Thome," responded Polly promptly. "I
think that's a lovely name."
"Too long," objected Alan. "Something shorter, not but one."
"Malcolm, then; will that suit?" asked Florence, from the other
side of the room.
"Yes, that's good. Well, his name was Malcolm, and he fell in love
with a girl named--"
"Gertrude," suggested Jean, without waiting to be asked.
"No, Margaret," said Polly. "That's ever so much better."
"All right, call her Margaret," said Alan; "but if you girls don't
keep still, I never can tell you any story. Malcolm loved Margaret
and wanted her to be his bride, but she was kept a captive in a
tower, by a wicked uncle who had gone on a crusade to the Holy
Land."
"But they didn't go on crusades sixty-seven years ago," said Jean,
whose strong point was history.
"Will you keep still, Jean?" said Polly. "This isn't a true story,
and he has as good a right to poetical license as you had in the
play."
"The Holy Land," resumed Alan, not noticing the interruption; "and
he had taken the keys to the tower in his pocket, so Malcolm
didn't really know just what to do.
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