the same time, active and indolent.

In about the centre of the garden, flopped and tinkled a weak-minded
little fountain. The shrubbery partly hid it from view of the balcony,
but the small, irregular sound of its continuous fall was audible in the
quiet of the summer afternoons. Weak-minded though it was, Professor
Valeyon loved to listen to it. It suited him better than the full-toned
rush and splash of a heavier water-power; there was about it a human
uncertainty and imperfection which brought it nearer to his heart.
Moreover, weak and unambitious though it was, the fountain must have
been possessed of considerable tenacity of purpose, to say the least,
otherwise, doing so little, it would not have been persistent enough to
keep on doing it at all. It was really wonderful, on each recurring
year, to behold this poor little water-spout effecting neither more nor
less than the year before, and with no signs of any further aspirations
for the future.

A flight of five or six granite steps led up from the garden to the
balcony, and, although they were quite as old as the rest of the house,
they looked nearly as fresh and crude as when they were first put down.
The balcony itself was strongly built of wood, and faced by a broad and
stout railing, darkened by sun and rain, and worn smooth by much leaning
and sitting. Overhead spread an ample roof, which kept away the blaze
of the noonday sun, but did not deny the later and ruddier beams an
entrance. On either side the door-way, the windows of the dining-room
and of the professor's study opened down nearly to the floor. Every
thing in the house seemed to have some reference to the balcony, and,
in summer, it was certainly the most important part of all.

From the balcony to the front door extended, as has already been said,