"You'll hear _their_ story, and I can't tell you mine. I can only say that since I have been here, there's not a bad thought had a place in my mind, and not a good one which I did not try, for _their_ sakes as well as my own, to cling to. I can only ask you, Ann--you who have always thought well of me--to keep your faith strong, for poor Mattie's sake." Ann Packet gave vent to a howl at this--wrung her fat red hands together, and then fell upon Mattie's box, as though our heroine had shot her. "You shan't pack up no more!" she screamed; "you can speak to them as to me, and they'll believe you, or they're made of stone. Why, it's a drefful shame to turn you off like this, as though you'd been found out in all that's bad." "Hush! you'll wake Miss Harriet, I daresay she--she's asleep still!--you will go now, Ann, please. I'm not unhappy--why, here's one to begin with who will always think the best of _me_!" "The very best--as you've been the very best and the goodest to me, who used to snap you so at first, and feel jealous like, because they put you over me--but you won't mind that now?" "No--no." "And, Mattie, you don't want to go away and see nobody any more--to be quite alone and hear nothing of anybody? I may come and see you?" "Yes--to be sure." "And you'll write and tell me directly where you are." "Ah! where I am. Yes, you shall know that first. And when I can prove to him that I have always been honest and true, I'll see him and his again, _not before_." "And I shall call and tell you all the news--listen at all the keyholes to hear what they've got to talk about." "I hope not. But get up now, Ann, and go down-stairs, or they'll suspect something. I'll send for the box presently, when I'm settled." Ann rose with clenched hands and swollen eyes. "If I had the settling of _him_! I--I almost feel to hate him. He's a brute!" And before Mattie had time to reprove the faithful Ann for the outburst, Miss Packet had left the room, and gone down-stairs to cry afresh over the breakfast she had to prepare for Mr. Hinchford. Mattie passed into the other room, and found Harriet Wesden asleep, as she had fancied. The toil of yesternight, the excitement and suspense, had brought their reaction, and Harriet had flung herself, dressed as she was, upon the bed, where she had dropped off into slumber. Mattie stood for a moment irresolute whether to wake her or no; had it been simply to say "good-bye," she would have hesitated longer, though she might have awakened her at last. "Harriet--Harriet!" she whispered, as she bent over her. The fair girl started up and looked at Mattie. "What's happened now, dear?" "Nothing very important," said Mattie, who had determined how to proceed. "I have been thinking of our next step together concerning last night. Your father is down-stairs."