The three women left behind in that little room remained silent from the shock. They were amazed, perplexed. The sudden excitement of the preacher; the strange questions he had asked Harriet Wesden before the name of Mattie had changed the topic of conversation; the presence of Sidney Hinchford as a witness to all this; his abrupt departure with the preacher—all tended to create doubt, and suggest to one, at least, the presence of danger.
Mattie had not given much thought to Sidney Hinchford's appearance; the preacher's excitement, the return of a far-off thought to her, had rendered all that had followed vague and indistinct—the scene had been even too much for her, and she began to slowly close her eyes.
"I think she has been talked and worried to death too much," cried Ann running to her; "Miss Harriet, I'd go now, if I were you."
"Perhaps I have remained too long," said Harriet, rising.
"No," said Mattie, feebly, "I have been surprised by all that has just happened. You are not the cause."
"I think I would lie on the bed a little while, Mattie," said Harriet.
"Don't go till I feel better."
Mattie lay on the bed as directed; Harriet did not resume her seat, but stood with one arm on the mantel-piece, looking thoughtfully before her, where no fancy pictures lingered now. There was a long silence. Ann Packet placed some smelling salts in Mattie's hand, and then sat at a little distance, watching her. Harriet retained her position until Mattie drew the bed-curtain further back and looked at her.
"I am better now. You will wait till Sidney comes back to fetch you home, Harriet?"
"It is very late. He may not come back."