For now had come that moment, that hesitationwhen dawn trembles and night pauses, when if afeather alight in the scale it will be weighed down.One feather, and the house, sinking, falling,would have turned and pitched downwards to thedepths of darkness. In the ruined room, picnickerswould have lit their kettles; lovers sought shelterthere, lying on the bare boards; and the shepherdstored his dinner on the bricks, and the tramp sleptwith his coat round him to ward off the cold. Thenthe roof would have fallen; briars and hemlocks wouldhave blotted out path, step, and window; would havegrown, unequally but lustily over the mound, untilsome trespasser, losing his way, could have told onlyby a red-hot poker among the nettles, or a scrap ofchina in the hemlock, that here once some one hadlived; there had been a house.
If the feather had fallen, if it had tipped the scaledownwards, the whole house would have plunged tothe depths to lie upon the sands of oblivion. Butthere was a force working; something not highly con-scious; something that leered, something that lurched;something not inspired to go about its work withdignified ritual or solemn chanting. Mrs. McNabgroaned; Mrs. Bast creaked. They were old; they werestiff; their legs ached. They came with their broomsand pails at last; they got to work. All of a sudden,162
