Harriet answered in the affirmative for Mattie. She had assumed her character and could not escape. She had resolved to go away, and make no sign to him of her propinquity; he cared not for her now; he dismissed her with a passing nod; it was all Mattie--Mattie in whom he believed and trusted, and on whose support in the future he built upon from that day! She knew how the story would end for him and Mattie--a peaceful and happy ending, and what both had already thought of, perhaps--let it be so, she was powerless to act, and it was not her place to interfere. Mattie had deceived her; it was natural--but she saw no longer darkly through the glass; beyond there was the successful rival, whom Sidney Hinchford would marry out of gratitude! Sidney continued to dilate upon the prospects in life before him. Harriet had risen, and was standing with her hand upon the door, watching her opportunity to escape. "Who would have dreamed of a man becoming resigned to an utter darkness, Mattie? Who would have thought of me in particular, cut out for a man of action, with no great love for books, or for anything that fastened me down to the domesticities?" "You are resigned, then?" "Well--almost." "I am very glad." "Why are you standing by the door, Mattie? Why don't you sit down and talk a little of this business of ours?" "Presently." "Now--just for a little while. Leave Ann Packet to the lower regions--I'm as talkative to-day as an old woman of sixty. Why, you will not balk me, Mattie?" "No." "Read this for me--I have been trying if I can write in the dark--my first attempt at a benighted penmanship." He held a paper towards her, and Harriet left her post by the door to receive it from his hands. The writing was large and irregular, but distinct. She shivered as she read the words. The story she had seen so plainly, was more evident than ever. "_Sidney Hinchford_," she read, "_saved from shipwreck by Mattie Gray!_" "And Mattie Gray here at my side accounts for my resignation," said he, laying his hand upon Harriet's. "Mattie, the old friend--after all, the best and truest!" Harriet did not reply; she shrank more and more, cowering from him as though he saw her there, the unwelcome guest who had forced herself upon him. "You are going out," he said, noticing the glove upon the hand he had relinquished now. "Yes, for a little while." "Don't be long. Where are you going that I cannot accompany you?" "On business--I shall be back in an instant." "Very well," he said, with a half-sigh; "but remember that you have chosen yourself to be my protector, sister, friend, and that I cannot bear you too long away from me. I wish I were more worthy of your notice--that I could return it in some way or fashion not distasteful to you. Sometimes I wish----" "Say no more!" cried Harriet, with a vehemence that startled him; "I am going away."