own in the narrow court
the shades of evening had begun to gather in nooks and corners. I was
due at eight, and, as it still wanted some minutes to the hour, I
sauntered slowly down the court, looking reflectively on the familiar
scene and the well-known friendly faces.

The day's work was drawing to a close. The little shops were putting up
their shutters; lights were beginning to twinkle in parlour windows; a
solemn hymn arose in the old Moravian chapel, and its echoes stole out
through the dark entry that opens into the court under the archway.

Here was Mr. Finneymore (a man of versatile gifts, with a leaning
towards paint and varnish) sitting, white-aproned and shirt-sleeved, on
a chair in his garden, smoking his pipe with a complacent eye on his
dahlias. There at an open window a young man, with a brush in his hand
and another behind his ear, stood up and stretched himself while an
older lady deftly rolled up a large map. The barber was turning out the
gas in his little saloon; the greengrocer was emerging with a cigarette
in his mouth and an aster in his button-hole, and a group of children
were escorting the lamplighter on his rounds.

All these good, homely folk were Nevill's Courtiers of the genuine
breed; born in the court, as had been their fathers before them for
generations. And of such to a great extent was the population of the
place. Miss Oman herself claimed aboriginal descent and so did the
sweet-faced Moravian lady next door--a connection of the famous La
Trobes of the old Conventicle, whose history went back to the Gordon
Riots; and as to the gentleman who lived in the ancient
timber-and-plaster house at the bottom of the court, it was reported
that his ancestors had dwelt in that very house since the days of James
the First.

On these facts I reflected as I sauntered down the court: on the strange
phenomenon of an old-world hamlet with its ancient population lingering
in the very heart of the noisy city; an island of peace set in an ocean
of unrest, an oasis in a desert of change and ferment.

My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in the high wall, and as I
raised the latch and pushed it open, I saw Ruth standing at the door of
the house talking to Miss Oman. She was evidently waiting for me, for
she wore her sombre black cloak and hat and a black veil, and when she
saw me she came out, closing the door after her and holding out her
hand.

"You are punctual," said she. "St. Dunstan's