We had now arrived at the passage. The gin-shop was flaring through the fog. A man in a fustian jacket came out of it, and walked slowly down before us, with the clay of the brick-field clinging to him as high as the leather straps with which his trousers were confined, garter-wise, under the knee. The place was quiet. We and the brickmaker seemed the only people in it. When we turned the last corner, he was walking in at the very door where Miss Clare had disappeared. When I told my father that was the house, he called after the man, who came out again, and, standing on the pavement, waited until we came up. "Does Miss Clare live in this house?" my father asked. "She do," answered the man curtly. "First floor?" "No. Nor yet the second, nor the third. She live nearer heaven than 'ere another in the house 'cep' myself. I live in the attic, and so do she." "There is a way of living nearer to heaven than that," said my father, laying his hand, "with a right old man's grace," on his shoulder. "I dunno, 'cep' you was to go up in a belloon," said the man, with a twinkle in his eye, which my father took to mean that he understood him better than he chose to acknowledge; but he did not pursue the figure. He was a rough, lumpish young man, with good but dull features--only his blue eye was clear. He looked my father full in the face, and I thought I saw a dim smile about his mouth. "You know her, then, I suppose?" "Everybody in the house knows _her_. There ain't many the likes o' her as lives wi' the likes of us. You go right up to the top. I don't know if she's in, but a'most any one'll be able to tell you. I ain't been home yet." My father thanked him, and we entered the house, and began to ascend. The stair was very much worn and rather dirty, and some of the banisters were broken away, but the walls were tolerably clean. Half-way up we met a little girl with tangled hair and tattered garments, carrying a bottle. "Do you know, my dear," said my father to her, "whether Miss Clare is at home?" "I dunno," she answered. "I dunno who you mean. I been mindin' the baby. He ain't well. Mother says his head's bad. She's a-going up to tell grannie, and see if she can't do suthin' for him. You better ast mother.--Mother!" she called out--"here's a lady an' a gen'lem'." "You go about yer business, and be back direckly," cried a gruff voice from somewhere above. "That's mother," said the child, and ran down the stair. When we reached the second floor, there stood a big fat woman on the landing, with her face red, and her hair looking like that of a doll ill stuck on. She did not speak, but stood waiting to see what we wanted. "I'm told Miss Clare lives here," said my father. "Can you tell me, my good woman, whether she's at home?" "I'm neither good woman nor bad woman," she returned in an insolent tone. "I beg your pardon," said my father; "but you see I didn't know your name."