point that jutted into Buzzards Bay. Five acres of artificial lawn
and flower-beds of the cemetery and railroad- station school of
horticulture surrounded it, and from the highroad it was protected
by a stone wall so low that to the passerby, of the beauties of
Harbor Castle nothing was left to the imagination. Over this wall
roses under conflicting banners of pink and red fought fiercely.
One could almost hear the shrieks of the wounded. Upon the least
thorny of these I seated myself and in tender melancholy gazed upon
the home of my childhood. That is, upon the home that might-have-
been.

When surveying a completed country home, to make the owner
thoroughly incensed the correct thing to say is, "This place has
great possibilities!"

Harbor Castle had more possibilities than any other castle I ever
visited. But in five minutes I had altered it to suit myself. I had
ploughed up the flower-beds, dug a sunken garden, planted a wind
screen of fir, spruce, and Pine, and with a huge brick wall secured
warmth and privacy. So pleased was I with my changes, that when I
departed I was sad and downcast. The boat-house of which Mrs.
Farrell had spoken was certainly an ideal work-shop, the
tennis-courts made those at the Newport Casino look like a ploughed
field, and the swimming-pool, guarded by white pillars and overhung
with grape-vines, was a cool and refreshing picture. As, hot and
perspiring, I trudged back through Fairharbor, the memory of these
haunted me. That they also tempted me, it is impossible to deny.
But not for long. For, after passing through the elm-shaded streets
to that side of the village that faced the harbor, I came upon the
cottages I had seen from the New Bedford shore. At close range they