That was the turning-point of Mattie's life; after that, a little woman with an eye to business; a small female costermonger with a large basket before her suspended by a strap--troubled and kept moving on by policemen--but earning her fair modicum of profit; quick with her eyes, ready with her answers, happy as a queen whose business was brisk, and lodging away from Mother Watts and old Simes, whose acquaintance she had quietly dropped. Mattie still watched Harriet Wesden from a distance; still felt the same strange interest in that girl, one year her senior, growing up so pretty whilst she became so plain and weather-beaten; experiencing still the same attraction for that house in particular; knowing each of its inmates by heart, and feeling, since the brooch defalcation, a part of the history attached to the establishment. When the Wesdens made up their minds to send Harriet to boarding-school, by way of a finish to her education, Mattie learned the news, and was there to see the cab drive off; Mattie even told Ann Packet, servant to the Wesdens, and regular purchaser of Mattie's "green stuff," that she should miss her werry much, and Suffolk Street wouldn't be half Suffolk Street after she was gone--which observation being reported to Mrs. Wesden, directed more attention to the stray from that quarter, and made one more friend at least. _One more_--for Mattie had found a friend in the tall, stiff-backed, stern-looking old gentleman of the name of Hinchford. The lodger's philosophy had all gone wrong; his knowledge of human nature had been at fault; his prophecies concerning Mattie's ingratitude had proved fallacious, and her steady application to business had greatly interested him. He was a sterling character, this old gentleman, for he confessed that he had been wrong; and he now held forth Mattie's industry as an example of perseverance in the world to his son, just as in the past he had intended her as a striking proof of the world's ingratitude. The climax was reached two years after his dialogue with Mattie on the stairs--when Mattie was thirteen years of age, and Master Hinchford sixteen--when Mattie still hawked goods in Suffolk Street--quite a woman of the world, and deeply versed in market prices--one who had not even at that time attained to the dignity of shoes and stockings. Mr. Wesden, the quiet man of business, was in his shop as usual, when Mattie walked in, basket and all. Mr. Wesden regarded her gravely, and shook his head. Onions and some sweet herbs had been speculated in that morning, and no further articles were required at that establishment. "If you please, I don't want you to buy, Mr. Wesden--" said she, "but will you be good enough to send that up to Master Hinchford?" Mr. Wesden looked at the small, dirty piece of paper in which something was wrapped, and then at Mattie. "It's honestly come by, sir," said Mattie. "I never said it wasn't," he responded.