"I don't despair of getting over most things," he said, with a forced lightness that did not deceive his observer; "there's only one thing in the way that bothers me." He said it more to himself than Mattie, who cried, instinctively-- "What's that, sir?" "Why, that's my secret," he responded, shutting up on the instant; "and I shall keep it till the last." He had turned very stern and rigid; Mattie felt that she had crossed the line of demarcation, and withdrew into herself and her needlework with a sigh. Sidney Hinchford shook himself away from that dark thought instanter. "You're as curious as ever, Mattie--you'll be a true woman. I would not be your husband for the world." Mattie felt herself crimson on the instant, and a strange wild commotion in her heart ensued, more unaccountable than the mystery which had deepened around her. They were light, idle words of his, but they made her cheeks flush and her bosom heave; he spoke in jest, almost in sarcasm, but the words rang in her ears as though he had thundered them forth with all the power of his lungs. When all this Suffolk Street life was over; when she and he, when she and they whom she loved had gone their separate ways, when she was an old woman, she remembered Sidney Hinchford's words. Still she flashed back the jesting reply--or whatever it was--with a quickness that was startling. "You'll wait till you're asked," she said. At this moment some one knocked at the outer-door. "Hollo!--a late customer like me," said Sidney, opening the door as he was nearer to it, and then staring with surprise at the person who had arrived--no less a person than Mr. Wesden himself. "Hollo!" he said again; "nothing wrong, sir, I hope?" "Not at home," was the dry response. "Is anything wrong here?" "Oh! no." He entered, took the door-handle from Sidney, and closed the door himself, turned the key in the lock, and drew the bolts to. Sidney Hinchford thought Mr. Wesden looked very nervous that evening--very different from his usual stolid way. "You're quite sure--quite sure that it's all right, sir?" asked Sidney, his thoughts flashing to Harriet again. "I said so; I never tell an untruth, Sidney. Good night" "Good night, sir. Oh!" turning back, "the letter-paper, Mattie--I had forgotten." Mr. Wesden watched the transfer of the writing paper from the drawer to Sidney Hinchford's hands, glanced furtively from Sidney to Mattie, gradually unwinding a woolen comforter from his neck meanwhile. When Sidney had withdrawn, very much perplexed, but too dignified to ask any more questions, Mr. Wesden turned to Mattie. "What's he doing down here at this time of night, Mattie?" "He came for writing paper--he's very busy." "What are _you_ sitting up for?" "To see to the gas-burners in the drawing-room." "Turn the gas off at the meter, and leave him in the dark next time," said Mr. Wesden. "You can go to bed now. I'll sit up for a little while; I'm going to sleep here to-night."