"'Not I; who has now, I'd like to know? Whatten you want it for?' "'I donnot want it for mysel, tho' we've none to spare. But don ye know Ben Davenport as worked at Carson's? He's down wi' the fever, and ne'er a stick o' fire, nor a cowd potato in the house.' "'I han got no money, I tell ye,' said Barton. Wilson looked disappointed. Barton tried not to be interested, but he could not help it in spite of his gruffness. He rose, and went to the cupboard, (his wife's pride long ago.) There lay the remains of his dinner, hastily put there ready for supper. Bread, and a slice of cold, fat, boiled bacon. He wrapped them in his handkerchief, put them in the crown of his hat, and said—'Come, let's be going.' "'Going—art thou going to work this time o' day?' "'No, stupid, to be sure not. Going to see the fellow thou spoke on.' So they put on their hats and set out. On the way Wilson said Davenport was a good fellow, though too much of the Methodee; that his children were too young to work, but not too young to be cold and hungry; that they had sunk lower and lower, and pawned thing after thing, and that now they lived in in a cellar in Berry-street, off Store-street. Barton growled inarticulate words of no benevolent import to a large class of mankind, and so they went along till they arrived in Berry-street. It was unpaved; and down the middle a gutter forced its way, every now and then forming pools in the holes with which the street abounded. Never was the Old Edinburgh cry of 'Gardez l'eau,' more necessary than in this street. As they passed, women from their doors tossed household slops of _every_ description into the gutter; they ran into the next pool, which overflowed and stagnated. Heaps of ashes were the stepping-stones, on which the passer-by, who cared in the least for cleanliness, took care not to put his foot. Our friends were not dainty, but even they picked their way till they got to some steps leading down into a small area, where a person standing would have his head about one foot below the level of the street, and might, at the same time, without the least motion of his body, touch the window of the cellar and the damp, muddy wall right opposite. You went down one step even from the foul area into the cellar, in which a family of human beings lived. It was very dark inside. The window panes were many of them broken and stuffed with rags, which was reason enough for the dusky light that pervaded the place even at mid-day. After the account I have given of the state of the street, no one can be surprised that, on going into the cellar inhabited by Davenport, the smell was so fetid as almost to knock the two men down. Quickly recovering themselves, as those inured to such things do, they began to