With a gesture of passionate grief Savage turned from the door of Georgie’s room, which he had almost opened, and hurried down stairs. Miserable, jealous, and burning with fierce indignation, he followed a passionate instinct, and went directly into the neighborhood where Anna Burns lived. He had formed no positive design, but went blindly to work, fearing that every step he took would tear that dear image from his heart, yet eager to seize upon the bitter truth. Following the scent of fried ham, which came to him on the stairs, he knocked at an ill-fitting door, through which a hissing sound bespoke the fair progress of some meal, and was told by a loud voice to come in. It was the room which we have once described, and the same coarse, repulsive woman presided in it. But this time she was busy over a cooking-stove, turning some slices of ham in a short-handled frying-pan, where they hissed and sent off steam, as if she were torturing them with her knife. A basket, crowded full of slop-work, stood in one corner of the room, and a little side-thimble lay upon the narrow window-sill, close by a cushion of scarlet cloth, bristling all over with coarse needles and crooked pins. When Savage entered the room, the woman turned her face, which flamed out, hot and red, from its cloud of steam, and stood, with her knife half suspended, waiting for him to speak. “Madam, are you the mistress of this house?” he said, lifting the hat from his head. “I believe they generally call me so,” she answered, bending the point of her knife against the stove. “Wont you walk in and help yourself to a chair?” “No, thank you. I come to inquire for a gentleman who has a room here, I think—Mr. Ward.” “Oh! that’s it, is it?” exclaimed the woman. “Didn’t know but it might be another big-bug struck with a liking for the house. Suppose it must be because they’ve took sich a fancy to me all at once. Anna Burns has nothing to do with it. Oh, no!” Here the woman thrust her knife under a slice of ham and turned it over with emphasis, laughing a low, disagreeable laugh, and shaking her head, as if greatly enjoying her own words. “You want to see Mr. Ward?” she said at last, coming out of her laugh. “Jest mount the next stairs, and you’ll find his room on the left, right under their’n. I shouldn’t wonder if he ain’t at home, though. Never had a more uncertain person under this roof. But then I never had a genuine big-bug afore. Wait a minute, and I’ll show you the way.” “No, thank you, I can find it,” answered Savage, turning away white and faint. Until that moment he had hoped that something might arise to refute Miss Eliza’s slander—but bitter confirmation met him at every step. He made no effort to see Ward; indeed, had no intention of meeting him from the first. His name had only been used as an excuse for questioning that fiery-faced woman, who was cross and coarse, but not bad at heart.