n to the demand; and that the
march of modern progress would continue to diminish the distance between
his own mouth and that of the bottle, which, as he took it, was the
be-all and end-all of existence.

At present, however, as the Oasis was not open to the public, children
carrying pitchers of beer were often to be seen hurrying to and fro on
their miserable errands. But there were very few children in Minerva
Court, thank God!--they were not popular there. There were frowzy,
sleepy-looking women hanging out of their windows, gossiping with their
equally unkempt and haggard neighbors; apathetic men sitting on the
doorsteps, in their shirt-sleeves, smoking; a dull, dirty baby or two
sporting itself in the gutter; while the sound of a melancholy accordion
(the chosen instrument of poverty and misery) floated from an upper
chamber, and added its discordant mite to the general desolation.

The sidewalks had apparently never known the touch of a broom, and the
middle of the street looked more like an elongated junk-heap than
anything else. Every smell known to the nostrils of man was abroad in
the air, and several were floating about waiting modestly to be
classified, after which they intended to come to the front and outdo the
others if they could.

That was Minerva Court! A little piece of your world, my world, God's
world (and the Devil's), lying peacefully fallow, awaiting the services
of some inspired Home Missionary Society.

In a front room of Number Three, a dilapidated house next the corner,
there lay a still, white shape, with two women watching by it.

A sheet covered it. Candles burned at the head, striving to throw a
gleam of light on a dead face that for many a year had never been
illuminated from within by the brightness of self-forgetting love or
kindly sympathy. If you had raised the sheet, you would have seen no
happy smile as of a half-remembered, innocent childhood; the smile--is
it of peaceful memory or serene anticipation?--that sometimes shines on
the faces of the dead.

Such life-secrets as were exposed by Death, and written on that still
countenance in characters that all might read, were painful ones. Flossy
Morrison was dead. The name "Flossy" was a relic of what she termed her
better days (Heaven save the mark!), for she had been called Mrs.
Morrison of late years,--"Mrs. F. Morrison," who took "children to
board, and no questions asked"--nor answered. She had lived forty-five
years, as m