before him.

"Look here," he said, when I had finished; "come with me to
my room; I have something I would like to say to you there."

I followed Barbel to his room. It was at the top of a very
dirty and well-worn house, which stood in a narrow and lumpy
street, into which few vehicles ever penetrated, except the ash
and garbage-carts, and the rickety wagons of the venders of stale
vegetables.

"This is not exactly a fashionable promenade," said Barbel,
as we approached the house, "but in some respects it reminds me
of the streets in Italian towns, where the palaces lean over
toward each other in such a friendly way."

Barbel's room was, to my mind, rather more doleful than the
street. It was dark, it was dusty, and cobwebs hung from every
corner. The few chairs upon the floor and the books upon a
greasy table seemed to be afflicted with some dorsal epidemic,
for their backs were either gone or broken. A little bedstead in
the corner was covered with a spread made of New York "Heralds"
with their edges pasted together.

"There is nothing better," said Barbel, noticing my glance
toward this novel counterpane, "for a bed-covering than
newspapers; they keep you as warm as a blanket, and are much
lighter. I used to use `Tribunes,' but they rattled too much."

The only part of the room which was well lighted was one