The Old House in the City by Agnes Giberne

IT was an old old house, situated somewhere near the central parts of London. The street was narrow and gloomy, branching off at right angles from a frequented thoroughfare, and the lofty uppermost stories, rising tier above tier, and closing in overhead, left but a narrow strip of heaven's blue visible to those below, even on the brightest and sunniest of days. It was neither bright nor sunny now, for twilight shrouded the giant city, and already its myriad lights twinkled through the gloom, in preparation for the coming hours of darkness. Dull indeed was this confined alley, with its old-fashioned buildings on either side, in the midst of which, on the right hand, at the farthest corner, stood the aged house already mentioned.

It had not always been so old. Once, in long past days, it had been a stately mansion of no small pretensions, forming the home of some wealthy city merchant, or, a little farther back, it may be, even of a nobleman himself. But that was over now. Noblemen and city merchants had alike been swept away in the hurrying tide westward, and the old mansion had sunk many grades in the scale of society.