eal of
trouble, too, in the courts with damage cases."...

We came to a brighter, more spacious, well-to-do portion of the town,
where the residences faced the river. In a little while the waters
widened into a lake, which was surrounded by a park, a gift to the city
of the Hutchins family. Facing it, on one side, was the Hutchins Library;
on the other, across a wide street, where the maples were turning, were
the Hutchinses' residences of various dates of construction, from that of
the younger George, who had lately married a wife, and built in bright
yellow brick, to the old-fashioned mansion of Ezra himself. This, he told
me, had been good enough for his father, and was good enough for him. The
picture of it comes back to me, now, with singular attractiveness. It was
of brick, and I suppose a modification of the Georgian; the kind of house
one still sees in out-of-the way corners of London, with a sort of
Dickensy flavour; high and square and uncompromising, with small-paned
windows, with a flat roof surrounded by a low balustrade, and many
substantial chimneys. The third storey was lower than the others,
separated from them by a distinct line. On one side was a wide porch.
Yellow and red leaves, the day's fall, scattered the well-kept lawn.
Standing in the doorway of the house was a girl in white, and as we
descended from the surrey she came down the walk to meet us. She was
young, about twenty. Her hair was the colour of the russet maple leaves.

"This is Mr. Paret, Maude." Mr. Hutchins looked at his watch as does a
man accustomed to live by it. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Paret, I have
something important to attend to. Perhaps Mr. Paret would like to look
about the grounds?" He addressed his daughter.

I said I should be delighted, though I had no idea what grounds were
meant. As I followed Maude around the house she explained that all the
Hutchins connection had a common back yard, as she expressed it. In
reality, there were about two blocks of the property, extending behind
all the houses. There were great trees with swings, groves, orchards
where the late apples glistened between the leaves, an old-fashioned
flower garden loath to relinquish its blooming. In the distance the
shadowed western ridge hung like a curtain of deep blue velvet against
the sunset.

"What a wonderful spot!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, it is nice," she agreed, "we were all brought up here--I mean my
cousins and myself. There are dozens of us.