d squares--the
dead house-carcasses that waited in vain for the vivifying human
element to animate them with the breath of life--every creature that I
saw, every object that I passed, seemed to answer with one accord: The
deserts of Arabia are innocent of our civilised desolation--the ruins
of Palestine are incapable of our modern gloom!

I inquired my way to the quarter of the town in which Mrs. Catherick
lived, and on reaching it found myself in a square of small houses, one
story high. There was a bare little plot of grass in the middle,
protected by a cheap wire fence. An elderly nursemaid and two children
were standing in a corner of the enclosure, looking at a lean goat
tethered to the grass. Two foot-passengers were talking together on
one side of the pavement before the houses, and an idle little boy was
leading an idle little dog along by a string on the other. I heard the
dull tinkling of a piano at a distance, accompanied by the intermittent
knocking of a hammer nearer at hand. These were all the sights and
sounds of life that encountered me when I entered the square.

I walked at once to the door of Number Thirteen--the number of Mrs.
Catherick's house--and knocked, without waiting to consider beforehand
how I might best present myself when I got in. The first necessity was
to see Mrs. Catherick. I could then judge, from my own observation, of
the safest and easiest manner of approaching the object of my visit.

The door was opened by a melancholy middle-aged woman servant. I gave
her my card, and asked if I could see Mrs. Catherick. The card was
taken into the front parlour, and the servant returned with a message
requesting me to mention what my business was.

"Say, if you please, that my business relates to Mrs. Catherick's
daughter," I replied. This was the best pretext I could think of, on
the spur of the moment, to account for my visit.

The servant again retired to the parlour, again returned, and this time
begged me, with a look of gloomy amazement, to walk in.

I entered a little room, with a flaring paper of the largest pattern on
the walls. Chairs, tables, cheffonier, and sofa, all gleamed with the
glutinous brightness of cheap upholstery. On the largest table, in the
middle of the room, stood a smart Bible, placed exactly in the centre
on a red and yellow woollen mat and at the side of the table nearest to
the window, with a little knitting-basket on her lap, and a wheezing,
ble