n a great city, harassed by many duties, troubled by enemies open
and concealed. There was the drear emptiness of poverty in my pocket,
present anxiety in my heart, and little hope in the outlook. But I had
work--I did not know in my dream what that work was--only that it
sufficed to keep body and soul together, but after it was done I was
weak and weary, a kind of unsatisfied despondency gnawing at my heart.

Then I got loose for an hour or so from my unknown tasks. My path lay
across a kind of open place into which many narrow streets ran, while
some dived away into the lower deeps of the city. People went their ways
as I was doing mine, dejected and sad. But always, as I crossed toward
the opening of a wide new street, where against the sky were tall
scaffoldings and men busy with hod and mortar, I saw Irma coming towards
me. She was neat and youthful, but dressed poorly in plain
things--homespun, and in my dream, I judged, also home-made.

I saw her afar off, and the heart within me gave a great leap. She came
towards me smiling, and lo! I seemed to stand still and worship the
lithe carriage and elastic step. The world grew all sweet and gay. The
lift above became blue and high. The sun shone no longer grey and
brown, but smiling and brilliant--as--as the face of Irma.

Strangely enough she did not greet me nor hold out her hand as
acquaintances do. She came straight up to me as if the encounter were
the merest matter-of-course, while as I stood there, with the hunger and
the wretchedness all gone out of me, the weariness and misery melted in
the grace of that radiant smile, she uttered just these words, "I have
found the Little House Round the Corner!"

Now I will tell of a strange thing--so strange that I have consulted
Irma about it, whether I should write it down here or keep it just for
ourselves.

And she said, "It is true--so why not set it down?" Well, this is what
happened. One day I had arranged to meet Irma at the corner of the
quaint little village of Laurieston, which, as all the world knows,
looks down on the saughs of the Meadows and out upon the slopes of
Bruntsfield where, among the whins, the city golfers lose their balls.

At that time, as all the world knows, there was undertaken a certain
work of opening out that part of the ancient wall which runs westward
from Bristo Port at the head of the Potter Row. Some great old houses
had gone down, and I mind well that I was greatly attracted by th