When Judge Whipple had finished, Tom rose. He awoke Mr. Brice from a trance.
"Stephen," said he, "of course you're going to the Brinsmade's."
Stephen shook his head.
"Why not?" said Tom, in surprise. "Haven't you a costume?"
"Yes," he answered dubiously.
"Why, then, you've got to come with me," says Tom, heartily. "It isn't too late, and they'll want you. I've a buggy, and I'm going to the Russells' to change my clothes. Came along"
Steven went.
CHAPTER XIII
AT MR. BRINSMADE'S GATE
The eastern side of the Brinsmade house is almost wholly taken up by the big drawing-room where Anne gave her fancy-dress ball. From the windows might be seen, through the trees in the grounds, the Father of Waters below. But the room is gloomy now, that once was gay, and a heavy coat of soot is spread on the porch at the back, where the apple blossoms still fall thinly in the spring. The huge black town has coiled about the place the garden still struggles on, but the giants of the forest are dying and dead. Bellefontaine Road itself, once the drive of fashion, is no more. Trucks and cars crowd the streets which follow its once rural windings, and gone forever are those comely wooded hills and green pastures,—save in the memory of those who have been spared to dream.