I soon found Number 32, a dirty, tumble-down, one-story hovel, the blinds tied together with selvedges of red flannel, and a rickety bell that gave a certain style to the door, though it had long ceased to ring. A knock brought a black-haired, beetle-browed person to the window. "Does Mrs. Kennett live here?" "No, she don't. I live here." "Oh! then you are not Mrs. Kennett?" "Wall, I ruther guess _not_!" This in a tone of such royal superiority and disdain that I saw in an instant I had mistaken blue blood for red. "I must have been misinformed, then. This is Number 32?" "Can't yer see it on the door?" "Yes," meekly. "I thought perhaps Anna Street had been numbered over." "What made yer think Mis' Kennett lived here?" "A little girl brought me her name written on a card,--Mrs. Kennett, 32 Anna Street." "There!" triumphantly, "I might 'a knowed that woman 'd play some common trick like that! Now do you want ter know where Mis' Kennett re'ly doos live? Wall, _she lives in the rear_! Her number's 32-1/2, 'n I vow she gits more credit o' livin' in the front house 'n I do, 'n I pay four dollars more rent! Ever see her? I thought not! I guess 'f you hed you wouldn't think of her livin' in a house like this!" "Excuse me. I didn't expect to make any trouble"-- "Oh, I've nothin' agin _you_, but just let me ketch her puttin' on airs 'n pertendin' to live like her betters, that's all! She's done it before, but I couldn't never ketch her at it. The idee of her keepin' up a house like this!" and with a superb sniff like that of a battle-horse, she disappeared from the front window of her ancestral mansion and sought one at the back which might command a view of my meeting with her rival. I slid meekly through a side gate, every picket of which was decorated with a small child, stumbled up a dark narrow passage, and found myself in a square sort of court out of which rose the rear houses so objectionable to my Duchess in the front row. It was not plain sailing, by any means, owing to the collection of tin cans and bottles through which I had to pick my way, but I climbed some frail wooden steps, and stood at length on the landing of Number 32-1/2. The door was open, and there sat Patsy, "minding" the Kennett baby, a dull little lump of humanity, whose brain registered impressions so slowly that it would play all day long with an old shoe without exhausting its possibilities. Patsy himself was dirtier than ever, and much more sullen and gloomy. The traces of tears on his cheeks made my heart leap into my throat. "Oh, Patsy," I exclaimed, "I am so glad to find you! We expected you all day, and were afraid you weren't well." Not a word of response. "We have a chair all ready for you; it is standing right under one of the plant-shelves, and there are three roses in bloom to-day!" Still not a word. "And I had to tell the dog story without you!"