But she was not to speak of either of them to her grandfather.

Lily was not born in the house on lower East Avenue.

In the late eighties Anthony built himself a home, not on the farm,
but in a new residence portion of the city. The old common, grazing
ground of family cows, dump and general eye-sore, had become a park
by that time, still only a potentially beautiful thing, with the
trees that were to be its later glory only thin young shoots, and on
the streets that faced it the wealthy of the city built their homes,
brick houses of square solidity, flush with brick pavements, which
were carefully reddened on Saturday mornings. Beyond the pavements
were cobble-stoned streets. Anthony Cardew was the first man in the
city to have a rubber-tired carriage. The story of Anthony Cardew's
new home is the story of Elinor's tragedy. Nor did it stop there.
It carried on to the third generation, to Lily Cardew, and in the
end it involved the city itself. Because of the ruin of one small
home all homes were threatened. One small house, and one undying
hatred.

Yet the matter was small in itself. An Irishman named Doyle owned
the site Anthony coveted. After years of struggle his small grocery
had begun to put him on his feet, and now the new development of the
neighborhood added to his prosperity. He was a dried-up, sentimental
little man, with two loves, his wife's memory and his wife's garden,
which he still tended religiously between customers; and one
ambition, his son. With the change from common to park, and the
improvement in the neighborhood, he began to flourish, and he, too,
like Anthony, dreamed a dream. He would make his son a gentleman,
and he would get a shop assistant and a horse and wagon. Poverty