"What was that?" asked Mr. Gray, with renewed alacrity.
"Foolishness—all foolishness on my part," said Wesden; "how could I have acted so? And yet, when it came to being out all night, the fancies turned to truths, it seemed. Ah! no matter now."
"No matter now. Oh! I am very happy. Will you sit down here for awhile, and tell me about Harriet and yourself—and she who was always so kind to me?"
"And thought well of you to the last. We wrangled once or twice about that—the only thing we ever had to quarrel about, Mattie, in all our lives together."
"Sit down and tell me about her—my true mother! You will excuse my father—he is very busy."
"Certainly."
And after his old dreamy stare at Mr. Gray, who appeared to have suddenly and entirely lost all interest in Mr. Wesden, he sat down by the fireside and, talked of old times—the dear old times that Mattie loved to hear about. Mattie was happy that night; her heart was lighter; her character had been redeemed to him who had mistrusted her; he was sitting again by her side—all her love for him had come back as it were, and all his cruel thoughts of her had vanished away for ever.
Mr. Wesden talked more than he used, when one particular subject was dilated on; and to have Mattie full of interest in that better half of him that had gone from life on earth to life eternal, gave brightness to his eyes, vigour to his narrative, and rendered him oblivious to time, till a deep voice behind him broke in upon the dialogue.
"It's getting late."
"Ah! it must be," said Mr. Wesden, rising. "And you'll come now, Mattie? You have forgiven me?"