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evening. The trees that line the narrow roads of Northport are so thick that they form clusters of forest around the houses. Even going slowly in a car, one is startled by the appearance of these narrow, high-roofed dwellings that seem to pop out of nowhere.
    Most of these houses belong to the eighteenth or nineteenth century, with little odd-shaped windows and peculiar wood carvings decorating the eaves. One of them is shared by three old women, whose portrait bears a marked resemblance to the females that spun the fates of mankind in Greek mythology. Nevertheless, they are all kind enough to share their knowledge about an event that occurred in their town the night of December 16, 1954.
    It was a night full of Christmas cheer and eager anticipation at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Cosgrove. This affluent couple had inherited the family real estate business, enabling them to indulge in all the luxuries of the day: two Cadillacs, a Rolls-Royce, a greenhouse of exotic plants, and a private golf course. These were the trimmings of a magnificent estate furnished with the finest quality furniture and items throughout.
    The Cosgroves were even lucky enough to secure two intelligent and loving people to watch over their children and the house whenever they were gone. Mr. and Mrs. Walden adored the Cosgrove boys, aged five, seven, and nine, and treated them like grandchildren. They knew how to be strict, though, when necessary. The youngest one was forever leaving his toys about, setting up potential booby traps for unsuspecting passersby. Mrs. Walden patiently trained him to pick up after himself. It was Mrs. Walden who had told her employers of the creative playthings she had seen in a Boston store catalog.
    That was why that night Mr. and Mrs. Cosgrove were on their way to Boston on a shopping spree for the children. They had softened the blow of their departure by choosing that day to decorate the whole mansion, inside and out. They had put up the tallest and fullest Christmas tree they could find. Colored lights illuminated trees, bushes, the outside of the house, and a special Santa Claus display on the roof.
    The three little boys were not in a mood for early bedtime, so Mr. and Mrs. Walden read the boys’ favorite stories until they nodded off to sleep. The substitute grandparents lifted the children out of their slumbering positions into their beds and retired themselves. That was the last peaceful moment in the lives of these five people.
    An hour later found them choking and gasping for air, as they battled the smoke and flames of a fire that ripped through the large house and crumbled it to the ground. It left nothing but two chimneys, some badly warped household appliances, and a set of iron lawn chairs and table.
    Firemen and neighbors fought the blaze for hours, saving the house next door, but they were too late to do anything about the two adults and their young charges. The charred remains of Mrs. Walden and the children lay in the southeastern corner of the foundation with those of Mr. Walden twenty feet away. Mr. and Mrs. Cosgrove came home to a graveyard instead of a holiday house. They could only stare in mute grief at the sole remnant of their little boys’ world: a toy sailboat resting unharmed, on the iron table.
    No one knew the cause of the fire. It could have been the furnace or could have been a faulty electrical system. What everyone did realize was that money isn’t everything. A wonderful life of comforts and riches had been reduced to ashes in a matter of minutes.
    The saddened parents moved away, and the land passed on to a multimillionaire from Chicago, and then to a Texas oil man who married a local girl. Neither party built over the location of the catastrophe. They both left the stubble of a chimney standing in a field of its own and constructed tennis courts and other buildings up the hill from it.
    The “Three Fates” look over their coffee cups and caution to beware of the