Ward did not rise; but sat balancing his hat by the rim between both hands. He evidently wished to prolong the interview; but the old lady stood quietly as if she expected him to go, and he could not muster hardihood enough to brave her even with a shower of extra politeness. All this time, Anna had not spoken a word; but sat by the window, looking out like one in a dream. Even the intrusion of this strange man could not drive her from the heaven of her thoughts. Ward arose, almost awkwardly, for the gentle breeding of that sweet old lady had been a severe rebuke to the audacious ease with which he had entered the room. “Then I will take leave,” he said, glancing at Anna, who was far away in her first love-dream, and did not even see him. “Of course, I am disappointed; but will hope better success when I call again.” No one answered him; and the young man went his way crest-fallen and bitterly annoyed. He had certainly found out where the young girl lived, still nothing but humiliation had come out of it. Gould, too, had almost snubbed him that morning. The thousand dollar note was some compensation for that; but these people in the garret, poor and proud—how should he avenge himself on them? How debase the pride that had so humbled him? As he went down stairs, a paper on one side of the outer door attracted his attention. A room to let—that was all; but it struck the young man with a most wicked idea. “Inquire in the front room, first story,” he muttered. “Yes, I’ll do it now; that will give me a right to go in and out when I please.” He went into the front room, first story, and came out with a key in his hand, remounted the stairs, and entered a room directly beneath that occupied by the Burns family. It was a mean room, scantily furnished, looking out on the chimneys and back yards, which have already been described. But the glimpse of blue sky and a rich sunset, which could be obtained from the upper window, was broken up by flaunting clothes-line and bare walls here. A more lonely place could not well have been found. But young Ward cared nothing for this. A paltry lie had secured him a legal foothold in the house. How he would use that privilege would be developed in the future. He had vague ideas, but no plans. The people up stairs had attempted to freeze him from the house, and he would teach them that it could not be done. That was about all he calculated on at the time. Ward went back into the front room, first story, where he found a tall, gaunt woman seated in a Boston rocking-chair, working vigorously on some woollen garment which she called slop-work. She wore no hoop, and her scant dress fell short at the ankles, revealing a pair of men’s slippers, which had once been red-morocco, and a glimpse of coarse yarn stockings.