would be and thus would they do in the house. Probabilities were
outraged, obstacles vaulted.

Castles that are builded in the air spring into being quicker than
Aladdin's palace--bricks and mortar, beams and stones are
featherweight when handled in the clouds; every piece is so
dovetailed, marked and numbered that like magic there springs before
the eye the shining whole--pinnacled, turreted, embattled.

Disaster arrives when the work is completed. "There!" we say, standing
back, a little flushed and out of breath with the excitement of the
thing. "There! There's a place in which to live! Could any existence
be more glorious?" And then we advance a step and lean against the
walls to survey the surrounding prospect. It is the fatal action. The
material body touches the aerial structure and down with a crash the
castle comes--back we pitch into the foundations, and thwack, bump,
thwack, comes the masonry tumbling about us, bruising, wounding.



VI.

George had built the castle. Mary had sat by twittering and clapping
her hands for glee as higher and higher it rose. He knew for a fact,
he told her, that his uncle had not expended upon his education much
more than half the money left him for the purpose. He was convinced
that by hook or by crook he could obtain the 400 pounds that would buy
him the practice at Runnygate of which the Dean had told him. They
would have a little house there--the town would thrive--the practice
would nourish--in a year--why, in a year they would likely enough have