At half-past eight, Mattie went to the door to watch her coming up the street, a habit with nervous people who would expedite the arrival of the loved one by these means. The action reminded her of Mr. Hinchford, when Sidney was late, and when a few rain drops were blown towards her by a restless wind abroad that night, the remembrance of waiting for Sidney Hinchford startled her. "Just such a night as this when we sat up for him, and he came home at last, so wild and stern--when we had almost given up the hope of coming home at all--what a strange coincidence!" thought Mattie. When the rain came suddenly and heavily down, the coincidence was more remarkable; and when the clock scored nine, then half-past, then ten, it was the old suspense again. "What nonsense!" thought Mattie; "she's stopping up for the rain. It is not very late, and I am only fanciful as usual. Nothing can be wrong--it's not likely!" Those customers who strayed in still, wondered why she looked so often at the clock, and stared so vacantly at them when they expressed their verdict on the weather; and the policeman on duty outside observed her frequent visits to the door, and her wild gaze down the street towards the Borough. Yes, the old story over again--an absent friend, an anxious watcher, a night of wind and rain in Suffolk Street. The boy came to close the shop as usual, the door was shut _en regle_, and now it was Harriet's time to come back, rain or no rain, mystery or no mystery with her, and end the story _à la Sidney Hinchford_. Mattie consulted a Bradshaw from the window, and found that the New Cross trains ran as late as twelve o'clock to London; this relieved her; Harriet was only waiting for the rain to clear up after all. But even midnight dragged its way towards her; and then the time passed in which she should have returned, and still no Harriet. At one o'clock Mattie went to the door and looked out; the pavement was glistening yet, but the rain had abated, and the clouds were breaking up overhead. There had been nothing to stop her--even if Mattie had believed for a moment that Harriet would have stayed away for the rain. When she gave her up--when it was close on two o'clock--the stars were shining brightly again, although the air felt damp and cold. "She'll never come back any more!" moaned Mattie; "she has met with danger--I am sure of it! She has come to harm, and I am powerless to help her. I should not feel like this, if something had not happened!" "Two," struck the clock of St. Georges, Southwark; in the stillness of the streets it echoed towards her, and sounded like a death-bell. Mattie covered her face with her hands, and prayed silently for help, for one away from home. Then she sprung up again, piled some more coals on the fire, stirred it, and sat down before it. "I'll not believe any of these horrible things yet a while. It will all be explained--she'll be back presently, to laugh at me for this foolishness!" CHAPTER X.