Harriet Wesden, not much impressed by so matter-of-fact event as a robbery, was anxious to return to the subject which more closely affected herself; the parcel, after all, was of no great value; the police were doubtless looking for the thief; let the matter be passed over for the present, and the great distress of her unsettled mind be once more gravely dwelt upon! This was scarcely selfishness--for Harriet Wesden was not a selfish girl--it was rather an intense craving for support in the hard task of shattering another's hopes. They had tea together in that little back parlour, and Harriet found it difficult work to keep Mattie's thoughts directed to the subject upon which advice had been given before the theft. "You will not think of me," she said at last, reproachfully; "and what does it matter about that rubbishing parcel?" "What can I do for you, more?" asked Mattie, wearily. Her head ached very much with all the excitement of that day, and she was inwardly praying for the time to pass, and the boy to put the shutters up. The robbery was _not_ of great importance, and she wondered why it troubled her so much, and rendered her anxiety for others, just for a while, of secondary interest. Did she see looming before her the shadow of her coming trial; was there foreknowledge of all in store for her, stealing in upon her that dark December's night? She was superstitions enough to think so afterwards, when the end had come and life had wholly changed with her! After tea, Mattie's impression became less vivid, for Harriet's nervousness was on the increase. The stern business of life gave way to the romance--stern enough also at that time--of Harriet Wesden. It was close on seven o'clock, and every minute might bring the well-known form and figure home. "I shan't know what to say," said Harriet; "it seems out of place to ask him in here, and coolly begin at once to tell him not to think of me any more, just as he comes home from business, tired and weary, too, poor Sid! Shall I write to him?--I'll begin the letter now, and leave it here for you to give him. Oh! I can't face him--I shall never be able to face him, and tell him how fickle-minded I am!" "Write to him if you wish then, Harriet; perhaps it is best, and will spare you both some pain." "Yes, yes, I'll write," said Harriet, opening Mattie's desk instantly, and sending its neatly arranged contents flying right and left; "it _is_ much the better way--why make a scene of it?--I hate scenes! And I'm not fickle-minded, Mattie," suddenly reverting to her self-accusation of a moment since; "for I had a right to think for myself, and choose for myself--we were not to be engaged till next month; and I did like him once--I do now, somehow! If _he_ will only think well of me afterwards, and not despise me, poor fellow, and believe that I had a right to turn away from him, if my heart said that I was not suitable for him at the last. If he--Mattie, _where_ do you keep your pens?"