Everything was going wrong with our characters, when Harriet Wesden broke through the ice one night with that impulsiveness which she had not lived down or grown out of. It was strange that she always broke down in Mattie's presence; that only in the company of the stray did she feel the wish to avow all, and seek counsel in return. To Harriet Wesden the impulse was incomprehensible, but it was beyond her strength, at times, and carried her away. She loved Mattie; she saw in her the faithful friend rather than the servant; she knew that the child's passionate love for her had grown with Mattie's growth, and absorbed her being. But love was but half the reason with Harriet, and she would not own--which was the secret--that the weak and timid nature sought relief from a mind that had grown strong and practical in a rough school. A need of sympathy, a perplexity becoming greater every day, allied to a love for the confidante, brought about the truth, which escaped in the old fashion. She had been paying her visit--an afternoon one in this instance--to Mattie at the shop; it was a dull season, and no business stirring; the December gloom preyed upon the spirits of most people abroad that day; it affected Harriet more than usual, or the pressure of the old thoughts reduced her to subjection at last. The two girls were sitting by the fireside, Mattie with her face turned to the shop door, when Harriet Wesden laid both her hands suddenly on our heroine's. "Mattie," she cried, "look me in the face a moment!" "Come round to the little light there is left, then." "There!" Harriet Wesden set her pretty face, pale and anxious then, more into the light required. Mattie regarded it attentively. "Isn't it a false face?" asked Harriet, in an excited manner--"the face of one who brings sorrow and wrong to all who know her?" "I hope not." "It is!" she asserted. "Oh! Mattie, I am in distress, and terrible doubt--I have been foolish, and acted inconsiderately--I am in a maze, that becomes more tangled with every step I take--tell me what to do!" "You ought to know best, dear--you should not have any troubles which you are afraid to confess to your father and mother, and--and Mr. Hinchford." "Yes, yes, but not to them first of all," she cried. "Oh! Mattie, I am not a wicked girl, God knows--I have never had a thought of wickedness--I would like everybody in the world to be as happy as I was once myself." "Once!" repeated Mattie. "Oh! I won't have that." "I don't think," she added, very thoughtfully regarding the fire, "that I shall be ever happy again. Now, Mattie dear, I'm going to swear you to secrecy, and then ask what you would do in my place." "You're very kind to trust in me--but is there no one else?--Miss Eveleigh, for instance." "She's a worse silly than I am!" "Your mother." "I should frighten her to death--she and father are both weak, and altering very much. Oh! Mattie, if they should die and leave me alone in the world!"