Time passed on, and no Sidney's return. The nights drew in closer yet, and with their lengthier darkness deepened the shadows round the lives of all our characters. Sidney had stated his intention to write no letters, but they were expected nevertheless, and Harriet began to fancy that it was a little strange--as strange as her interest in Sidney and his movements, now that she had given him up for ever! A letter for herself, from Miss Eveleigh, diverted her attention somewhat--it had been sent to Camberwell and posted on by her father. "Miss Eveleigh is very anxious to see me for a few minutes," said Harriet. "She and her mother think of getting up some private theatricals at New-Cross, and they want my assistance and advice." "Private theatricals!--that's playing at being actors and actresses, isn't it, Miss Harriet?" "Oh! yes. Such capital fun!" "For the people who come to see you as well?" asked Mattie, guessing by intuition where the shoe must pinch. "To be sure," responded Harriet; "they wouldn't come if they did not like, my dear; and the change will do me good, and I think I'll go." Mattie detected a heightened colour in Harriet's cheek. "You will see Mr. Darcy there?" "Well--perhaps I shall," said Harriet; "and I have a right to think about him now, or let him think about me, if he will. Mattie, you don't mind me going?" "Mind!--why have I a right to stop you?" "No; only I shall leave you all alone with that wearisome old man." "He'll not weary me. Old friends never do." "That sounds like a reproach, but you don't mean it, Mattie," said Harriet; "and, after all, I shall not be very long away. I shall take the train from London Bridge, and be there and back by eight o'clock." Harriet hurried away to dress for her expedition; she came down in a flutter of high spirits, a very different being from the despondent, lackadaisical girl of a few weeks since. She had made up her mind to begin life and love afresh; uncertainty was over with her, and she was as gay and bright as the sunshine. But hers was a nature fit only for sunshine--the best and most loveable of girls when the shadows of every-day life were not cast on her track. "By eight o'clock, Mattie; good-bye, my dear. Any advice?" she asked, pausing, with a saucy look about her mouth. "Yes. Don't fall too deeply in love with Mr. Darcy, before you are sure that he is falling in love with you!" "I can bring him to my feet with a look," she said; "bring him home here with a chain round his neck, like an amiable terrier." "Let me have an opportunity of admiring your choice soon--we're all in the dark at present." "Yes, father and mother too, until poor Sid," suddenly becoming grave, "breaks the seal of that letter it gave me grey hairs to write. Upon my word, Mattie, I found two in my head when I had finished it. I was _so_ dreadfully shocked!" "Well, the troubles are over."