hysterics，<br > cleaning<br >ople. She<br >uch who-<br >of course<br >specially<br >s always<br >s in the<br >couldn t<br >because<br >te infor-<br >vords<br > House<br > P[~mo.tb street<br > SHE HAD found the house by herself， that cold Octo-<br > ber day in the quiet countryside south of Boston.<br > The two-chimneyed white clapboard house， shut-<br > tered in gray and clearly very old， had a settled air<br > as it stood on its slight rise well back from the road<br > under elms. Mrs. Tyrell did not have the boldness<br > to knock on doors and ask about properties for sale<br > ~ . . but here there was a tall young girl， bundled<br > into a blue parka and raking desultorily under a<br > bronze-gold burn of hickory tree in a corner near<br > the road.<br > Mrs. Tyrell had Bonnet with her， the large Airedale<br > of whom the current babysitter was ridiculously<br > afraid， but not his leash~ She closed the car door<br >against his expectant whiskers and approached the<br >girl， who leaned on the rake and watched her come.<br > For her age， somewhere in the midteens， she had<br >a colorless and surprisingly dreary face. "Hello，" said<br >Mrs. Tyrell， against her will as sprightly as a dental<br >nurse. "My husband and I are house hunting around<br >here--Cresset seems like a very pretty town--and I<br >wondered if by any chance you knew of a place for<br >sale with a few acres?"<br >Q<br >t<br ><br >