"Oh! he must not know it--he must never know it!" exclaimed Harriet; "he is weaker in mind--more excitable, suspicious--what would he think of me, keeping the name of Maurice Darcy from him all my life?" "Harriet, promise me never to tell him--I am not frightened at the truth, but of their perversion of it, destroying for ever your good name--promise me!" "But why promise _you_, who----" "Promise it. I am very, very anxious, for your own sake and for mine." "I promise--I promise faithfully." "Whatever happens?" "Yes--whatever happens!" "I will tell you why now. In the first place, I have found out that the world will never accept _your_ statement, but believe the very worst of you." Harriet shuddered; her own trustfulness in others--her vanity, perhaps, allied thereto--had led her to the verge of the abyss--and "miraculous escapes" are only for penny-a-liners, and romancists. She thought that Mattie was right in binding her solemnly to secrecy, and she repeated her promise even more solemnly than before. "And in the second place----" Mattie paused; she recoiled from the explanation, the trial of another parting with this girl for whose happiness she was about to sacrifice herself, and the good name for which she had struggled. Harriet looked ill and worn now, and she could not tell her all the news, her heart was too full. "I would bathe my hands and face, and go down-stairs as soon as possible. It will prevent suspicion, and you _must_ stand up against the fatigue for awhile." "Yes, yes, I can do that." "Nothing can be helped now by confession; remember _that_ when the truth would leap to your lips in a generous impulse, of which hereafter you would be sorry. Good-bye now." Mattie stooped and kissed her--the quivering lips, the tear-brimming eyes, suggested a new trouble, and Harriet detected it at once. "There is something new, Mattie--don't deceive me!" "Very little--you will know all when you get down-stairs--be on your guard--God bless you!" And Mattie, feeling her voice deserting her, hurried away. She went at once to Mr. Hinchford's room. Mr. Hinchford was becoming fidgety about his breakfast, and walking up and down discontentedly. "They'll tell me I'm late again," he was muttering, when Mattie, _sans ceremonie_, made her appearance. "Mr. Hinchford, will you let Miss Harriet have that letter at once? She's waiting for it." "And I'm waiting for my breakfast, Mattie--it's really too bad!" "I'll tell Ann; and--and the letter?" "You're an odd girl; I'll get it you." He went into the next room, returning with a letter in his hand. "There!" Mattie dashed at it in her impatience, and tore it into twenty pieces, which she thrust into the pocket of her dress, lest a fragment of the news should remain as evidence of Harriet Wesden's want of judgment. "I say, my girl, that's not your letter, it's----" "It's better torn to pieces. Harriet wished it, sir." "She--she hasn't had a quarrel with my boy?"