e abode of fevers and diseases of all
sorts.

As they whirled past it, Lawyer Ed waved his whip towards it in
disgust. "That place is a disgrace to Algonquin," he blustered. "We
boast of our town being the most healthful and beautiful in Ontario,
and it's got the ugliest and the most unsanitary spot just right there
that you'd find in Canada. If J. P. gets to be mayor next year he'll
fix it up. He's having it drained already. I hope you'll get
interested in municipal affairs, Rod. I tell you it's great. I'm so
glad I'll have more time for town affairs now that you're here. But
you must get going there too. There's nothing so bad for a
professional man as to get so tied down to his work that he can't see
an inch beyond it. You can't help getting interested in this place.
It's going ahead so. Now, the lake front there--"

Lawyer Ed was off on his pet scheme, the beautifying of that part of
the lake front that was now made hideous by factory and mill and
railroad track and rows of tumble-down boathouses.

And Roderick listened half-heartedly, interested only because it
interested his friend. They passed along the Jericho Road, with its
sweet-smelling pines; the soft mists of early autumn clothed Lake
Algonquin in a veil of amethyst. The long heavy grass by the roadside,
and masses of golden-rod shining dimly in the evening-light told that
summer had finished her task. She was waiting the call to leave.

Lawyer Ed was not half through with the esplanade along the lake front
when they reached Peter McDuff's home. It was a forlorn old
weather-beaten house with thistles and mullen and sturdy burdocks
growing close to the doorway. An old gnarled apple-tree, weary and
discouraged looking, stood at one side of the house, its blackened
branches touching the ground. At the other lay a broken plow, on top
of a heap of rubbish. A sagging wood-pile and a sorry-looking pump
completed the dreariness.

And yet there were signs of a better day. The dilapidated barn was
well-built, the fences had once been strong and well put together, and
around the house were the struggling remains of an old garden, with
many a flower run wild among the thistles. The history of the home had
followed that of its owner. Peter Fiddle had once been a highly
respected man, with not a little education. His wife had been a good
woman, and when their boy came, for a time, the father had given up his
wild ways and his drinking and had