"I beg your pardon—I only asked. It was wrong."
"Well, there, I forgive you; but you are so tiresome, and old-fashioned. I can't make you out—I never shall—you're not like other girls."
"Was I brought up like other girls, you know?" was the sad question.
"No, no—I forgot that—I beg your pardon, Mattie; I didn't mean it for a taunt."
"God bless you, I know that. What are you doing?"
"Getting rid of these," thrusting the letters in the candle flame as she spoke. "I can trust you, but not them, Mattie."
"I'd hold them over the fire-place, then. If they drop on the toilet-table, we shall have the house a-fire."
Harriet took the advice proffered, and removed her combustibles to the place recommended. Mattie, on her knees by the box, watched the process.
"And there's an end of them," Harriet said at last, in a decisive tone.
"And of him—say of him?"