Here was a young man on whom, at the highest point of lovely

exaltation, there had fallen a blow too sharp to be supported

alone; and not many hundred yards away his greatest friend

was sitting at supper - ay, and even expecting him. Was it

not in the nature of man that he should run there? He went

in quest of sympathy - in quest of that droll article that we

all suppose ourselves to want when in a strait, and have

agreed to call advice; and he went, besides, with vague but

rather splendid expectations of relief. Alan was rich, or

would be so when he came of age. By a stroke of the pen he

might remedy this misfortune, and avert that dreaded

interview with Mr. Nicholson, from which John now shrunk in

imagination as the hand draws back from fire.

Close under the Calton Hill there runs a certain narrow

avenue, part street, part by-road. The head of it faces the

doors of the prison; its tail descends into the sunless slums

of the Low Calton. On one hand it is overhung by the crags

of the hill, on the other by an old graveyard. Between these

two the roadway runs in a trench, sparsely lighted at night,

sparsely frequented by day, and bordered, when it was cleared

the place of tombs, by dingy and ambiguous houses. One of

these was the house of Colette; and at his door our ill-

starred John was presently beating for admittance. In an

evil hour he satisfied the jealous inquiries of the

contraband hotel-keeper; in an evil hour he penetrated into

Tales and Fantasies