IT was not because life was not good enough that Ellen Melville
was crying as she sat by the window. The world， indeed， even
so much of it as could be seen from her window， was extrava-
gantly beautiful. The office of Mr. Mactavish James， Writer
to the Signet， was in one of those decent grey streets that lie
high on the northward slope of Edinburgh New Town， and
Ellen was looking up the side-street that opened just opposite
and revealed， menacing as the rattle of spears， the black rock
and bastions Gf the Castle against the white beamless glare of
the southern sky. And it was the hour of the clear Edinburgh
twilight， that strange time when the world seems to have for-
gotten the sun though it keeps its colour ; it could still be seen
that the moss between the cobblestones was a wet bright green，
and that a red autumn had been busy with the wind-nipped
trees， yet these things were not gay， but cold and remote as
brightness might be on the bed of a deep stream， ，fathoms beneath
the visitation of the sun. At this time all the town was ghostly，
and she loved it so. She took her mind by the arm and marched
it up and down among the sights of Edinburgh， telling it that
to be weeping with discontent in such a place was a scandalous
turning up of the nose at good mercies. Now the Castle Es-
planade， that all day had proudly supported the harsh， virile
sounds and colours of the drilling regiments， would show to the
slums its blank surface， bleached bone-white by the winds that
raced above the city smoke. Now the Cowgate and the Canon-
gate would be given over to the drama of the disorderly night ;
the shim-dwellers would foregather about the rotting doors of
dead men s mansions and brawl among the not less brawling
ghosts of a past that here never speaks of peace， but only of
blood and argument. And Holyrood， under a black bank sur-
mounted by a low bitten cliff， would lie like the camp of an
invading and terrified army She stopped and said， \"Yon
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