reet can hardly expect to enjoy immortality in the Cemetery,
nevertheless, no one can take from them the satisfaction of being the
neighbours of the oldest families who are doing so. Property is steadily
rising in High Street, accordingly, and now Assistant Professors and
their wives do well indeed to settle there.

Tutors' Lane is not particularly wide for such an important
thoroughfare. Two vehicles can pass without difficulty, but it is well
for them not to rush by. If they are in a hurry, they had better take
either Meadow Street, which skirts the athletic field, or High Street,
which is wide and oiled and designed for heavy traffic. Tutors' Lane is
not oiled, and heaven forfend that it ever should be, for its
foundations go far back into the past, farther perhaps than any one
dreams. No less a person than old Mrs. Baxter is authority for the
statement that it follows the course of an old Roman road. It is
incredible, of course, and opens up a vista of pre-Columbian discovery
more astonishing than any to be found in the Book of Mormon, but Mrs.
Baxter was a noted controversialist in her day and, true or false, she
succeeded in handing down the story to the present generation.

People who think of an ordinary row of city houses have no conception of
Faculty Row. For one thing, the lots are of widely different sizes.
Some, like the one owned by the Misses Forbes, daughters of the
geologist, are modest affairs with forty-foot fronts. Others, like Dean
Norris's, cover two acres. Those built before 1800 have their
birth-years painted carefully over their doorways, and it is an
unwritten law that younger houses may not claim this privilege. Many are
sheltered by box hedges, and none but has its garden--in which flowers
other than hollyhocks, mignonette, larkspur, stock, and bachelor's
buttons are considered slightly _nouveaux venus_.

As to the occupants of these houses, volumes many times the size of this
one might be written. Suffice it for the present, however, that they are
quite superior to the general indifference of the outside world, and
that, like the dwellers in Cranford, though some may be poor, all are
aristocratic.

To Tom Reynolds, walking along Tutors' Lane in the dusk of a March
afternoon, the scene was considerably different from the verdant one
just sketched. Instead of peeping out behind their holly hocks and
vines, the houses were still defensively wrapped up against the ice
which besieged their wa