Mattie moved like an automaton towards her, and the two went out together arm-in-arm, down the broad staircase to the hall, from the hall to the street, where Maurice's cab still waited for them. "I am faint and ill, Mattie," said Harriet, sinking back. "Will you rest awhile?" "No--let us get home at once. How coldly and quietly you take this news, Mattie!" she said, looking intently at her; "ah! if you had only loved him like me all your life!" "If I had!" murmured Mattie, "_this_ would have broken my heart!" "Hearts don't break with joy, Mattie, or I should not see another morning." "No. You are right--not with joy!" CHAPTER V. STRUGGLING. Had Harriet Wesden been less disturbed by all the trials of that day, she might have wondered more at Mattie's manner, and have guessed more shrewdly at the truth. But she had suspected unjustly; and feeling now that Sidney loved her, and had always loved her, there were dissipated for ever all bitter memories. It was Mattie's turn to change, but Harriet did not notice it at that time; Mattie had become distant, grave; in the first shock of the real truth--though Mattie had seen it advancing, and thought herself prepared to meet it--it was impossible to smile and feel content. Harriet was anxious that the old friend should stay with her at Camberwell for awhile, but Mattie was firm in her refusal. "I must get home--I am very weary!" she murmured. So they had parted, and Mattie had returned home to offer the great news concerning Sidney, and then escape to her room and be seen no more that night. What happened on that night--what resolves, what struggles, we need not dwell on here; she was one who had been injured--the best of women come in for the greatest injuries at times--and it was not a night's thought or struggle which could set her right. She was a heroine, but she was a woman--and women brood on matters which affect the heart for a long, long time after we have been deceived by their looks. Mattie did not blame Sidney; she saw how far he had been led to deceive himself, and how far pity and gratitude had betrayed him; she knew that he considered himself bound to her still, and that only her word could release him from his. She felt that he was miserable like herself, and she fretted impatiently for the day when she could let him go free to his sphere, and to the only woman whom he had loved. But the change had not been good for her; she was not resigned yet; her heart was in rebellion. Life before her seemed a dreary vista--a blankness on which no light could shine; ever in the world ahead, she traced her figure plodding onwards without a motive in life, or a hope that had not been lost in it--from first to last, only in various disguises, and on different roads, ever the Stray!