m passed the old farmhouse slowly. It was used for a storehouse
for quarry supplies now. Yet it still was beautiful. Two great elms
still shaded the wide portico. The great eaves still sheltered many
paned windows. The delicate balustrade still guarded the curving
staircase. The dream of Little Jim's life was to live in that great,
hospitable mansion.

He passed with a boy's deliberation down the long street that led toward
the cottage where the Mannings now lived. The street was heavily shaded
by gigantic elms. It was lined on either side by fine Colonial houses,
set in gardens, some of which still held dials and bricked walks; wide,
deep gardens some of which still were ghostly sweet. But the majority of
the mansions had been turned into Italian tenement houses. The gardens
were garbage heaps. The houses were filthy and disheveled. The look of
them clutched one's heart with horror and despair, as if one looked on a
once lovely mother turned to a street drabble.

Little Jim looked and thought with a sense of helpless melancholy that
should not have belonged to fourteen. When he reached the cottage, his
mother, taking the bucket from him, caught the look in the clear gray
eyes that were like her own. She had no words for the look. Nevertheless
she understood it immediately. Mrs. Manning was nervous and energetic,
with the half-worried, half-wistful face of so many New England women.

"Jimmy," she said, "Phil Chadwick just whistled for you. He went to the
swimming hole."

The words were magic. They swept that intangible look from Jim's face
and left it flushed and boyish.

"Gee!" he exclaimed, "he's early today. Can I have my dinner right off?"

"Yes," replied his mother, "but remember not to go in until three
o'clock. I'm sure I don't see what keeps all you boys from dying! And
how you can stand the blood suckers and turtles up there in that mud
hole! Goodness! Come, dear, I've cooled off your soup so you can hurry.
I knew you'd want to."

Will Endicott dropped in at the Mannings' that evening. Will was a
short, florid man, younger than Big Jim. Little Jim, his hair still damp
and his fingers wrinkled from water soak, laid down his _Youth's
Companion_. Usually when Will Endicott came there were some lively
discussions on the immigration question and the tariff. Even had Little
Jim wanted to talk, he would not have been allowed to do so. Among the
New Englanders in Exham the old maxim still obtained, "Children are