TIME PASSESor a scrap of china in the hemlock, that here oncesome one had lived; there had been a house.

If the feather had fallen, if it had tipped the scale
downwards, the whole house would have plungedto the depths to lie upon the sands of oblivion. Butthere was a force working; something not highlyconscious; something that leered, something thatlurched; something not inspired to go about its workwith dignified ritual or solemn chanting. Mrs. Mc-Nab groaned; Mrs. Bast creaked. They were old;they were stiff; their legs ached. They came withtheir brooms and pails at last; they got to work. Allof a sudden, would Mrs. McNab see that the housewas ready, one of the young ladies wrote: would sheget this done; would she get that done; all in ahurry. They might be coming for the summer; hadleft everything to the last; expected to find things asthey had left them. Slowly and painfully, withbroom and pail, mopping, scouring, Mrs. McNab,Mrs. Bast, stayed the corruption and the rot;rescued from the pool of Time that was fast closingover them now a basin, now a cupboard; fetched upfrom oblivion all the Waverley novels and a tea-setone morning; in the afternoon restored to sun andair a brass fender and a set of steel fire-irons.George, Mrs. Bast’s son, caught the rats, and cutthe grass. They had the builders. Attended with the209
Resize Images  

Select Pane

Berg Materials

View Pane