Savage did not touch that eager little hand, but lifting his hat with haughty coldness, walked on, leaving her chilled with dismay. She turned and looked after him with a cry of surprised pain, scarcely kept back from the parted lips which closed slowly, and seemed freezing into marble as his stern, unyielding footsteps bore him further and further away. Then, just as he was turning a corner, the cry broke from her, “Oh, come back! Come back!” and turning wildly, she ran a few steps after him, till she was checked on the pavement, her face so wildly pale, coming suddenly opposite that of young Ward, who seized one of her hands, and asked what it was that had frightened her so. That moment Savage turned the corner and looked back. CHAPTER XV. A HARD-HEARTED VILLAIN. Ward attempted to draw Anna’s hand through his own, but she resisted him, and at last tore it away in passionate anger. “Mr. Ward,” she said, “this is unkind—it is rude. You have no right to take such liberties with me.” There was fire enough in those eyes, then, and a world of scorn on the lovely mouth. She turned one look in the direction which Savage had taken, saw that he was gone, and turned fiercely upon Ward again. “You are wicked—you are cruel!” she said. “Knowing how helpless I am, you persecute me horribly!” “I persecute you, sweet one—the idea! Is it in this way you mistake my adoration?” Anna’s red lips curved with scorn; her eyes flashed, her whole form trembled. “Great heavens!” she exclaimed, “I never knew what a terrible thing poverty was before. But for that you could not have forced yourself under the same roof with a poor, helpless girl; but for that you dare not have spoken to me.” “Do not accuse poverty for the acts which spring out of love, sweet one.” Anna heard no more; but gathering her shawl about her with the haughty grace of an empress, she turned away from him and walked quickly into the house. The young gambler followed her, laughing; the excitement of her anger charmed him. Quickly as he walked, Anna had mounted the third flight of stairs before he entered the passage. He just caught a glimpse of her dress on the upper landing, and that was all. But he went up stairs, smiling to himself and humming a tune, conscious of his power to see her almost when he pleased. Old Mrs. Burns was busy darning the only tablecloth in that poor establishment, when Anna came in, all on fire with wounded affection and outraged pride. “Grandmother,” she said, “we must move; this house is no place for us. Let us go to-night—this hour!” The old lady was holding up the tablecloth between her eyes and the light, searching for more broken threads. She dropped it suddenly as her granddaughter spoke, and gazed at her a moment in anxious wonder. “What is it, Anna? Who has troubled you, dear?”