Every day on my way home from school I pass old Mrs. Victor’s house. It has looked the samefor as long as I can remember. Someone once said it was even older than Mrs. Victor herself,and she must be about a hundred.I often wonder about Mrs. Victor and that run-down house. They seem so much alike thatthey are almost one thing. I have seen her a few times—walking slowly up the path with her rolling pull-cart containing just one bag of groceries. The walkway that leads to the house isstone but full of cracks—not unlike Mrs. Victor’s face. The wood sides of the home arebuckling and weathered, as is Mrs. Victor’s skin. And what is inside? A lonely empty placewhere no one comes to visit. Yet, there they are—Mrs. Victor and her house—each a livingrelic in a modern world.This morning as I passed by, I saw old Mrs. Victor through the sheer curtains behind whichshe leads her veiled life. She was sitting in a chair, perhaps knitting, perhaps doing nothingat all. She happened to look up and saw me walking by but didn’t really notice me. Am I justanother part of a world she feels left out of? A person moving through time who has left her behind? I felt a pang of sadness for her and right then decided to do something about it.My friend Kerry’s cat had kittens a few weeks ago, and he’s been lookingfor homes for them. After school, I stopped by and asked to “borrow” twoof them. I took them home, fixed up a basket with a big bow, and went toMrs. Victor’s.As I rang her bell, I wondered if I was being presumptuous. Perhaps wewould not be welcome. But, to my delight, when she opened the door andsaw us, her pallid face positively turned to glowing. She accepted my giftand new life seemed to pour into not only Mrs. Victor, but her house as well.