It appeared scarcely more than a lane; the old wheel-ruts were hidden between green weedy ridges, the bordering stone-walls looked like long green barrows, being overgrown with poison-ivy vines and rank shrubs.

For a long way there was no house except Sylvia Crane's.

There was one cellar where a house had stood before Barney could remember.

There were a few old blackened chimney-bricks still there, the step-stone worn by dead and forgotten feet, and the old lilac-bushes that had grown against the front windows.

Two poplar-trees, too, stood where the front yard had met the road, casting long shadows like men.