“Well!” he mutters to himself, resuming his seat, and again facing to the west, “this ere business of ourn is a great book of life-’tis that!  Finds us in queer places; now and then mixed up curiously.”  He rises a second time, advances to a gas-light, draws a letter from his pocket, and scans, with an air of evident satisfaction, over the contents.  “Umph!” he resumes, and shrugs his shoulders, “I was right on the address-ought to have known it without looking.”  Having resumed his seat, he returns the letter to his pocket, sits with his elbow upon his knee, and his head rested thoughtfully in his right hand.  The picture before him, so calm and soft, has no attractions for him.  The dusky hues of night, for slowly the scene darkens, seem lending a softness and calmness to the foliage.  The weeping branches of the willow, interspersed here and there, as if to invest the picture with a touching melancholy, sway gently to and fro; the leaves of the silvery poplar tremble and reflect their shadows on the fresh waters; and the flitting gas-lights mingle their gleams, play and sport over the rippled surface, coquet with the tripping star-beams, then throw fantastic lights over the swaying foliage; and from beneath the massive branches of trees, there shines out, in bold relief, the marble porticoes and lintels of stately—­looking mansions.  Such is the calm grandeur of the scene, that one could imagine some Thalia investing it with a poetic charm the gods might muse over.

“It is not quite time yet,” says the man, starting suddenly to his feet.  He again approaches a gas-light, looks attentively at his watch, then saunters to the corner of Fourth and Thompson streets.  An old, dilapidated wooden building, which some friend has whitewashed into respectability, and looking as if it had a strong inclination to tumble either upon the sidewalk, or against the great trunk of a hoary-headed tree at the corner, arrests his attention.  “Well,” he says, having paused before it, and scanned its crooked front, “this surely is the house 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.