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between Knightsbridge on the north, and Brompton Road on the south, lies a quiet, old-fashioned square, which the organ-grinder and brass band are no longer permitted to disturb. Everything is so still that it is difficult to realise that it is within a few minutes' walk from a busy, noisy thoroughfare. So near and yet so far from London's "madding crowd." In summer time when the ancient trees, which are said never to have been disturbed for generations, are in full leaf, the little square might indeed be a slice out of the country itself; and even now, with bare and leafless branches, it presents a peaceful, rural appearance, for the hear frost has covered every bough and shrub with a million of glittering particles, which sparkle like diamonds in the wintry sunshine. In the centre of the north side of Montpelier Square is Mrs. Lovett Cameron's home, a cheerful-looking little house, gay with window boxes, and fleecy muslin curtains draped with bright coloured ribbons. An application at the brass horse-shoe knocker is promptly responded to, and you are admitted into the hall and vociferously greeted by “Nancy," a handsome fox-terrier, the pet of the house, a treasure-trove from the Dogs' Home