Indiana Avenue is one of those rare spots in the neighborhood of New York where a measure of beauty is still reserved for the relatively poor. The heights are too high for the railways to scale, too inconvenient for factories. The not-very-well-to-do can find shelter there, as the mediæval peoples of the Mediterranean coast found it in the rock towns where the pirates couldn’t follow them. It is hardly conceivable that industry will ever climb to this uncomfortable perch, or that much competition will put up rents. Too inaccessible for the social rich, and too isolated for the still more social poor, Pemberton Heights is the refuge of those who don’t mind the trouble of getting there for the sake of the compensation. The compensation is largely in the way of air and panorama. Both have a tendency to take away your breath. You would hardly believe that so much of New York could be visible all at once. The gigantic profile of Manhattan is sketched in here with a single stroke, while the river is thronged like a busy street seen from the top of a tower. City smoke rolls up and ocean mist rolls in while you are looking on. Sunrise, moonrise; moonset, sunset; stars in the heaven and lights along the darkened waterway, afford to the not-very-well-to-do, cooped up all day in kitchens, offices, and factories, a morning and evening glimpse into the ecstatic. Number Eleven was somewhat withdrawn from all this toward the middle of the plateau. Built at a period when an architect’s ambition was chiefly to do something singular, it had a great deal of sloping roof, with windows where you would not expect them. Pemberton Heights being held up bravely to rain and snow, the color of the house was a weatherbeaten brown. Two hydrangea trees, shaped like open umbrellas, and covered now with white blossoms fading to rose, stood one on each side of the front door in the center of two tiny grassplots. There was a piazza, of course, where most of the family leisure was passed, and in the yard behind the house there stood a cherry tree. All up and down the street for the length of about half a mile were similar little houses, each with its piazza and its architectural oddity, homes of the not-very-well-to-do, content with their relative poverty. Among themselves they formed a society as distinct and as active as that of Marillo Park, and out of it they got as much pleasure as the Sidebottoms and Collinghams from their more exclusive forgatherings.