"Mattie, dear," he said, "I know that I shall have your prayers for my success--you, who have fought my battles, and been always ready at my side. Pray for our bright future together; it will come now. Whatever happens you and I together in life, my girl, unless, with that month's reflection that I granted you, comes the want of trust in my sincerity!" "Never that, Sidney." "Good-bye." He stooped and kissed her, and Mattie shrank not away from him, though it was the first time in his life that his lips had touched hers. He was going away from that house for ever, perhaps; they might never know each other again; and she loved him too dearly, and felt too happy in those fleeting moments, to feel abashed at this evidence of his affection. So they parted, and Ann Packet, who had heard the story, rushed from the side door to fling a shoe for luck, after the receding carriage. A maniacal act, that the footman--who had _not_ heard the story--was unable to account for, save as a personal insult to himself. "He had gone out of his spear to a place called Peckham," he said afterwards in the servants' hall, "and had had old boots flung at him by the lower horders!" CHAPTER II. MATTIE IS TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE. Sidney's departure made a difference in the house; it was scarcely home without him now. Mattie and Mr. Gray took their usual places after the day's business was over, and looked somewhat blankly at each other. The father had become attached to Sidney, as well as the daughter; he was nervous as to the result of the mysterious system under which his son, by adoption, had placed himself. He had no faith in cures effected by men who were not of the true faith--whatever that might mean in Mr. Gray's opinion--he would have liked to see this Dr. Bario himself, and sound him as to his religious convictions. If he were a Roman Catholic, Sidney's chance of success was very small, he thought. Mattie did not take this narrow view of things; but she was anxious and dispirited. Anxious for Sidney and the result--dispirited at a something else which she could scarcely define. Sidney's last words were ringing in her ears, but there was no comfort in them now; they were meant to encourage, but they only perplexed--all was mystery beyond. She prayed that Sidney would be well and strong again, but she felt that her happiness--her best days--would lie further off when the light came back to him. It might be fancy; the best days might be advancing to her as well as to Sidney Hinchford, but the instinctive feeling of a great change weighed upon her none the less heavily. She did not feel in suspense about a serious result to Sidney; Sidney would get better, she thought, and the shadow of a darker life for him did not fall heavily athwart her musings.