she kept silent until he spoke.

"Look, dear Masie," he said at last, drawing her to
him, "see what happens to those who are forced into
traps! It was the big knot that held it back! And
yet it grew on!"

Masie looked up into his thoughtful face. "Do you
think the iron hurts it, Uncle Felix?" she asked with a
sigh.

"I shouldn't wonder; it would me," he faltered.

"But it wasn't the vine's fault, was it?"

"Perhaps not. Maybe when it was planted nobody
looked after it, nor cared what might happen when it
grew up. Poor wistaria! Come along, darling!"


At last they turned into 10th Street, Fudge scurrying
ahead to the very door of the grim building, where
a final dash brought him to Ganger's, his nose having
sniffed at every threshold they passed and into every
crack and corner of the three flights of stairs.

Felix's own nostrils were now dilating with pleasure.
The odor of varnish and turpentine had brought back
some old memories--as perfumes do for us all. A
crumpled glove, a bunch of withered roses, the salt