hide even more. It was never half lighted, and there was
a passage in which fear dwelt--wild were the gallopades
from attic to cellar in the early nightfall, when every
young Murchison tore after every other, possessed, like
cats, by a demoniac ecstasy of the gloaming. And the
garden, with the autumn moon coming over the apple trees
and the neglected asparagus thick for ambush, and a casual
untrimmed boy or two with the delicious recommendation
of being utterly without credentials, to join in the rout
and be trusted to make for the back fence without further
hint at the voice of Mrs Murchison--these were joys of
the very fibre, things to push ideas and envisage life
with an attraction that made it worth while to grow up.

And they had all achieved it--all six. They had grown up
sturdily, emerging into sobriety and decorum by much the
same degrees as the old house, under John Murchison's
improving fortunes, grew cared for and presentable. The
new roof went on, slate replacing shingles, the year Abby
put her hair up; the bathroom was contemporary with
Oliver's leaving school; the electric light was actually
turned on for the first time in honour of Lorne's return
from Toronto, a barrister and solicitor; several rooms
had been done up for Abby's wedding. Abby had married,
early and satisfactorily, Dr Harry Johnson, who had
placidly settled down to await the gradual succession of
his father's practice; "Dr Harry and Dr Henry" they were
called. Dr Harry lived next door to Dr Henry, and had a
good deal of the old man's popular manner. It was an
unacknowledged partnership, which often provided two