where the woman lived when she was given the child. Practice, and
putting two things together to find what one means, is the great thing
in our profession. Like its old tenant, the house has got down a deal.
It's on its last legs." Again he consults his watch, and with a
quickened step recrosses the Square, and enters ---- Avenue. Now he
halts before a spacious mansion, the front of which is high and bold,
and deep, and of brown freestone. The fluted columns; the
elegantly-chiselled lintels; the broad, scrolled window-frames; the
exactly-moulded arches; the massive steps leading to the deep, vaulted
entrance, with its doors of sombre and highly-polished walnut; and its
bold style of architecture, so grand in its outlines,--all invest it
with a regal air. The man casts a glance along the broad avenue, then
into the sombre entrance of the mansion. Now he seems questioning within
himself whether to enter or retrace his steps. One-half of the outer
door, which is in the Italian style, with heavy fluted mouldings, stands
ajar; while from out the lace curtains of the inner, there steals a
faint light. The man rests his elbow on the great stone scroll of the
guard-rail, and here we leave him for a few moments.

The mansion, it may be well to add here, remains closed the greater part
of the year; and when opened seems visited by few persons, and those not
of the very highest standing in society. A broken-down politician, a
seedy hanger-on of some "literary club," presided over by a rich, but
very stupid tailor, and now and then a lady about whose skirts something
not exactly straight hangs, and who has been elbowed out of fashionable
society for her too ardent love of opera-singers, and handsome actors,
may be seen dodging in now and then. Otherwise, the mansion would seem
very generally deserted by the neighborhood.

Everybody will tell you, and everybody is an individual so extremely
busy in other people's affairs, that he ought to know, that there is
something that hangs so like a rain-cloud about the magnificent skirts
of those who live so secluded "in that fine old pile," (mansion,) that
the virtuous satin of the Avenue never can be got to "mix in." Indeed,
the Avenue generally seems to have set its face against those who reside
in it. They enjoy none of those very grand assemblies, balls, and
receptions, for which the Avenue is become celebrated, and yet they
luxuriate in wealth and splendor.

Though the head of the ho