his father's place. He meant to do it well and honestly. He had
but to follow. Anthony had broken the trail, only by that time
it was no longer a trail, but a broad and easy way.

Only once or twice did Anthony Cardew give voice to his dreams.
Once he said: "I'll build a house out here some of these days. Good
location. Growth of the city is bound to be in this direction."

What he did not say was that to be there, on that hill, overlooking
his activities, his very own, the things he had builded with such
labor, gave him a sense of power. "This below," he felt, with more
of pride than arrogance, "this is mine. I have done it. I, Anthony
Cardew."

He felt, looking down, the pride of an artist in his picture, of a
sculptor who, secure from curious eyes, draws the sheet from the
still moist clay of his modeling, and now from this angle, now from
that, studies, criticizes, and exults.

But Anthony Cardew never built his house on the cliff. Time was to
come when great houses stood there, like vast forts, overlooking,
almost menacing, the valley beneath. For, until the nineties,
although the city distended in all directions, huge, ugly, powerful,
infinitely rich, and while in the direction of Anthony's farm the
growth was real and rapid, it was the plain people who lined its
rapidly extending avenues with their two-story brick houses; little
homes of infinite tenderness and quiet, along tree-lined streets,
where the children played on the cobble-stones, and at night the
horse cars, and later the cable system, brought home tired clerks
and storekeepers to small havens, already growing dingy from the