ts....

Powell Street, that happy hunting-ground of my youth, had changed its
character, become contracted and unfamiliar, sooty. The McAlerys and
other older families who had not decayed with the neighbourhood were
rapidly deserting it, moving out to the new residence district known as
"the Heights." I came to the Willett House. That, too, had an air of
shabbiness,--of well-tended shabbiness, to be sure; the stone steps had
been scrupulously scrubbed, but one of them was cracked clear across, and
the silver on the polished name-plate was wearing off; even the act of
pulling the knob of a door-bell was becoming obsolete, so used had we
grown to pushing porcelain buttons in bright, new vestibules. As I waited
for my summons to be answered it struck me as remarkable that neither
Nancy nor her father had been contaminated by the shabbiness that
surrounded them.

She had managed rather marvellously to redeem one room from the
old-fashioned severity of the rest of the house, the library behind the
big "parlour." It was Nancy's room, eloquent of her daintiness and taste,
of her essential modernity and luxuriousness; and that evening, as I was
ushered into it, this quality of luxuriousness, of being able to shut out
the disagreeable aspects of life that surrounded and threatened her,
particularly impressed me. She had not lacked opportunities to escape. I
wondered uneasily as I waited why she had not embraced them. I strayed
about the room. A coal fire burned in the grate, the red-shaded lamps
gave a subdued but cheerful light; some impulse led me to cross over to
the windows and draw aside the heavy hangings. Dusk was gathering over
that garden, bleak and frozen now, where we had romped together as
children. How queer the place seemed! How shrivelled! Once it had had the
wide range of a park. There, still weathering the elements, was the
old-fashioned latticed summer-house, but the fruit-trees that I recalled
as clouds of pink and white were gone.... A touch of poignancy was in
these memories. I dropped the curtain, and turned to confront Nancy, who
had entered noiselessly.

"Well, Hugh, were you dreaming?" she said.

"Not exactly," I replied, embarrassed. "I was looking at the garden."

"The soot has ruined it. My life seems to be one continual struggle
against the soot,--the blacks, as the English call them. It's a more
expressive term. They are like an army, you know, overwhelming in their
relentless invasion. Well, d