This was a rather pretentious two-
story brick structure, in the old solid, square architecture,
surrounded by a small orchard, some hickories, and a garden. Orde's
father had built it when he arrived in the pioneer country from New
England forty years before. At that time it was considered well out
in the country. Since then the town had crept to it, so that the
row of grand old maples in front shaded a stone-guttered street. A
little patch of corn opposite, and many still vacant lots above,
placed it, however, as about the present limit of growth.
Jack Orde was the youngest and most energetic of a large family that
had long since scattered to diverse cities and industries. He and
Grandpa and Grandma Orde dwelt now in the big, echoing, old-
fashioned house alone, save for the one girl who called herself the
"help" rather than the servant. Grandpa Orde, now above sixty, was
tall, straight, slender. His hair was quite white, and worn a
little long. His features were finely chiselled and aquiline. From
them looked a pair of piercing, young, black eyes. In his time,
Grandpa Orde had been a mighty breaker of the wilderness; but his
time had passed, and with the advent of a more intensive
civilisation he had fallen upon somewhat straitened ways.
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