"Well, not yet awhile. I think," dashing a rebellious tear from her dark eyes, "that I can bear more than this before I leave you all. And if things do look a little dark just now, I shall live them down, with God's help!"
"There's nothing dark—it's three-fourths fancy. Think of my sorrows, Mattie, and thank heaven that you have never been in love!"
"Dreadful sorrows yours are, Miss Harriet, I must say!"
"People never think much of other people's sorrows," remarked Harriet, sententiously.
Thus it came about that Harriet Wesden and Mattie were thrown into closer companionship for awhile, and that Mattie began to think that the constant presence of the girl she loved most in the world made ample amends for the suspicions which had placed her there, for the absence of Sidney Hinchford, and the mystery by which it had been characterized.
"It's astonishing how I miss Mr. Sidney," Mattie said, confidently, to Harriet, "though we did not say much more than 'good morning,' and 'good evening,' from one week's end to another—but he has been so long here, and become so long a part of home, that it does seem strange to have the place without him."
"And the letter—he never got the letter, after all," sighed Harriet.
"There it is, on the drawing-room mantel-piece," said Mattie; "bad news awaiting his return. I see it every morning there, and think of his coming disappointment."
"He'll soon get over it—men soon get over it," replied Harriet, "they have so much to do in the world, and so many things therein to distract them. It's not like us poor girls, who think of nothing else but whom it is best to love, and who will love us best."
"Speak for your own romantic self, Miss Harriet," said Mattie, laughing.