ion of the Metropolitan Railway, and only a few minutes'
walk from the British Museum. Number Thirty-eight is the last but one on
the east side of the street. When I first saw it, there was a sign in the
window, "Apartments," and back of this fresh cambric curtains. Then the
window had been cleaned, too, for a single day of neglect in London tells
its tale, as does the record of crime on a rogue's face. I paused and
looked the place over with interest. I noted that the brass plate with the
"No. 38" on it had been polished until it had been nearly polished out of
sight, like a machine-made sonnet too much gone over. The steps had been
freshly sanded, and a little lemon-tree nodding in one of the windows made
the rusty old house look quite inviting. A stout little woman with a big
market-basket, bumped into me and apologized, for I had stepped backwards
to get a better look at the upstairs windows. The stout little woman set
down her basket on the steps, took a bunch of keys from a pocket under her
big, white, starched apron, selected one, turned to me, smiled, and asked,
"Mebbe, Sir, you wasn't looking for apartments, I dunno?" Then she
explained that the house was hers, and that if I would step in she would
show me the rooms. There were two of 'em she could spare. The first floor
front was already let, and so was the front parlor--to a young barrister.
Her husband was a ticket-taker at Euston Station, and didn't get much
since last cutdown. Would I care to pay as much as ten shillings, and
would I want breakfast? It would only be ninepence, and I could have
either a chop or ham and eggs. She looked after her boarders herself, just
as if they were her own folks, and only took respectable single gentlemen
who came well recommended. She knew I would like the room, and if ten
shillings was too much I could have the back room for seven and six.

I thought the back room would answer; but explained that I was an American
and was going to remain in London only a short time. Of course the lady
knew I was an American: she knew it from my hat and from my foreign accent
and--from the red book I had in my hand. And did I know the McIntyres that
lived in Michigan?

I evaded the question by asking if she knew the Rossettis who once lived
in this house. "Oh, yes; I know Mr. William and Miss Christina. They came
here together a year ago, and told me they were born here and that their
brother Dante and their sister, too, were born here. I