yellow and orange blossom which they had called "butter and eggs." There was also a vague scent of strawberries, wholesomely exotic in nostrils attuned to tropical gardens.
A black dog, scandalized by Paul's English tweeds, came running out to protest against his existence, and Paul could only concur, which sent the dog away in snorting disgust. The faces of the small girl and boy who admonished him with unheeded orders of "Lie down, Smut," were dimly familiar. Finally he placed them as "some of the Hornbys." Perhaps Miss Hornby had got married and "had" them!
His heart beat fast and his hands grew cold as he approached the end of the road. Then suddenly it stood before him: a square house, sadly in need of repair, set far back in an unkempt garden. A sentinel elm—the one in which his kite had fouled—had been struck by lightning, and a dead bough hung, half severed. Tears blurred his sight, but consternation dried them. For this house was almost little, and for thirteen years he had thought of it as "Aunt Verona's big, bare house." Bare it most assuredly was—but, oh, pitifully, not big!
Only one tiger lily was left to bear witness to the old profusion, and long grass grew to the very walls. Windows were boarded up, fences half rotted.
He walked to the side of the house and was surprised to see a neat pile of cordwood and other signs of habitation. The face of a woman whom he recognized as the village yeastmaker appeared at the kitchen window.
He knocked and learned that Mrs. Barker was employed to live in two rooms as caretaker for the owner, who was in foreign parts.
"Paul Minas?" he suggested, and she agreed that that was "the party."
"Did Dr. Wilcove place you in charge?" he asked.
"No. I come after the doctor died. The other trustee,
