"Nevill's Court," said Mrs. Jablett, "is a alley,
and you goes into it through a archway. It turns out on Fetter Lane on
the right 'and as you goes up, oppersight Bream's Buildings."

I thanked Mrs. Jablett and went on my way, glad that the morning round
was nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of a growing appetite and of
a desire to wash in hot water.

The practice which I was conducting was not my own. It belonged to
poor Dick Barnard, an old St. Margaret's man of irrepressible spirits
and indifferent physique, who had started only the day before for a
trip down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the currant
trade; and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyage
of geographical discovery.

I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow arched opening,
bearing the superscription "Nevill's Court," arrested my steps, and
here I turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait for
the traveler in London by-ways. Expecting to find the gray squalor of
the ordinary London court, I looked out from under the shadow of the
arch past a row of decent little shops through a vista full of light
and color--a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved by
sunlit foliage. In the heart of London a tree is always a delightful
surprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers.
The narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with their
wooden palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaint
and sober rusticity; and even as I entered, a bevy of workgirls, with
gaily-colored blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened up
the quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summer
hedgerow.

In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved with
what looked like circular tiles, but which, on inspection, I found to
be old-fashioned stone ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I was
meditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener who had
thus adorned his habitation--a law-writer perhaps or an author, or
perchance even a poet--when I perceived the number that I was seeking
inscribed on a shabby door in a high wall. There was no bell or
knocker, so, lifting the latch, I pushed the door open and entered.

But if the court itself had been a surprise, this was a positive
wonder, a dream. Here, within earshot of the rumble of Fleet Street, I
was in an old-fashioned garden enclosed by high walls and,