While Nan was being fÊted and petted at Longmead, Mattie’s visit was dragging heavily to its close. Since the evening of the tea-party things had been more unsatisfactory than ever.

Archie and Grace were a good deal out. Grace was perpetually at the Friary, and Archie had resumed his old habit of dropping in there for a morning or evening chat. Sir Harry came almost daily, and often spent his disengaged hours with them; but Mattie never saw him for a moment alone. Grace was always in the room, and his conversation was chiefly addressed to her. When Mattie dropped sadly out of the talk, or sat silent in her corner, he did not in his old kind fashion try to include her in the conversation: indeed, he rarely noticed her, except in his brief leave-taking. It hurt Mattie inexpressibly to be thus ignored by her old friend, for from the first his cordiality had had a sunshiny influence over her,—he had been so good to her, so thoughtful for her comfort, before Grace came; but now he seemed to forget sometimes that such a person as Mattie even existed. Was it because Grace’s fair, serious face had bewitched him, or was there anything on his mind? for more than once Mattie thought he seemed absent and ill at ease.

Mattie could not understand it at all. She was not a very acute little person, neither was she over-sensitive by nature, but this sudden coldness on Sir Harry’s part was wounding and perplexing in the extreme. Had she done anything to offend him? Mattie wondered, or was he simply bored by her as most people were?

Once Archie had snubbed her very severely in his presence; something had put him out, and he had spoken to Mattie as though no one were present but their two selves. It was Grace who called him so gently to order, and made him feel ashamed of himself. Sir Harry did not even seem to notice it: he had a paper in his hand, and he went on reading it. But as Mattie 350 left the room she heard him speaking to Grace in his usual way about some political question or other.

Mattie cried bitterly in her room that day. Somehow, she had never taken Archie’s snubbing so much to heart before. How could he speak to her like that, she thought? What would Sir Harry think of her, and of him too? Archie’s conscience pricked him when he saw the traces of tears on Mattie’s face that afternoon, and he was very kind to her all the remainder of the day; but he did not apologize for his words: no one ever did apologize to Mattie. But to his surprise, and Grace’s too, Mattie’s sad face did not clear.

It was her last afternoon but one at the vicarage, and Mattie was sitting alone. All the morning she and Grace had been packing together, for Grace, in her sensible way, had begged her sister not to leave things for the last day. It would tire her for her journey, she said; and the Challoners were coming to spend Mattie’s last evening with her at the vicarage; and there were the Middletons probably coming for an afternoon visit, and so Mattie had better keep herself free for her friends. Mattie had assented to this, and she had been very grateful to Grace for all the help she had given her. Her boxes were ready for cording, and her little parting gifts for the servants laid ready labelled in her drawers, and nothing remained for her busy hands to do.

It was a cold, cheerless afternoon; a cutting north wind and a gray cloudy sky made the fireside all the more tempting by comparison; but Mattie knew there was one duty unfulfilled that she ought to perform. She had promised to call and say good-bye to an old acquaintance of hers who lived at Rock Building.

Mrs. Chamberlain was not a favorite with most people: she was an invalid of somewhat uncertain temper, and most of her friends felt her society an infliction on their patience. Mattie, who was very good-natured, had often done kindly little offices for her, sitting with her for an hour or two at a time, and teaching her some new stitch, to beguile her tedious and often painful days.

Mrs. Chamberlain would feel herself aggrieved if Mattie disappointed her. And she never had stayed at home for the weather; only she was lazy,—tired, perhaps, from her packing,—and reluctant to move.

Sir Harry was in the study, she knew: she had heard his voice some time ago. He often turned in there of his own accord or perhaps Archie had waylaid him and brought him in, for they were excellent friends now; Grace was there, of course, but Mattie had hesitated to join them: none of them wanted her, she said bitterly to herself.

A dim hope that Grace might come in search of her, or that even Sir Henry might saunter in by and by and ask for a cup of tea in his old way, had kept Mattie in her place; but now it 351 was getting a little late, and perhaps after all Grace would ring, and have the tea in there, as she had done once before: and it was no use waiting. And so, when Mattie reached this point, she hurried upstairs and put on her hat and thick jacket, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, opened the study door.

It was just the scene she pictured. Sir Harry was in the big chair in front of the blazing fire, and Grace in her low wicker seat, facing him, with a Chinese screen in her hand. Archie was standing on the rug, with his elbow against the narrow wooden mantelpiece, and all three were talking merrily. Sir Harry stopped in the middle of a laugh, as Mattie entered, and shook hands with her a little gravely.

“How comfortable you all look!” faltered Mattie. The words came in spite of her efforts not to say them.

“Then come and join us,” returned Archie, with unusual affability. “Grace was just wondering what you were doing.”

“I was in the drawing-room alone. No, I cannot sit down, Archie, thank you. I am just going to bid old Mrs. Chamberlain good-bye: she is expecting me, and I must not disappoint her.”

“Oh, but it is not fit for you,” remonstrated Grace. “Sir Harry says the wind is piercing. Do put off your visit until to-morrow, Mattie, and we will go together.”

“Fie, Miss Grace! never put off until to-morrow what can be done to-day,” observed Sir Harry, in his joking voice. “What is it the copy-books say?—is it procrastination or money that is the root of all evil?”

“Sir Harry is quite right, and I must go,” stammered Mattie, made quite desperate by this joke; he knew how the wind was sweeping over the gray sea, and yet he had not said a word about her remaining. Poor Mattie! a miserable choking feeling came into her throat, as she closed the door on another laugh and struggled along in the teeth of the wind. Another time she would not have minded it, for she was hardy by nature; but now the cold seemed to freeze her very heart; she looked quite blue and pinched when she entered Mrs. Chamberlain’s drawing-room. It seemed to Mattie as though hours had passed before she brought her visit to a close, and yet she had been sitting there only three quarters of an hour before she took her leave. The old lady was very gracious this afternoon; she pressed Mattie again and again to wait a little until Sallie brought up the tea and a nice hot cake she was baking. But Mattie steadily refused even these tempting delicacies: she was not cold any longer, she said; but it was growing late, or the afternoon was darker than usual. And then she wished her old friend good-bye,—oh, good-bye for such a long time, Mattie thought,—and sallied forth bravely into the wind gain.

It had lulled a little, but the scene before her was very desolate; just the gray expanse of sea, with the white line of surge breaking into the shore; and here and there a wave tossing 352 up its foamy head in the distance. The air seemed full of that continuous low rolling and splashing of breakers on the beach: a sea-gull was flying inland; the Parade looked white and wind-bleached,—not a creature in sight but a coast-guard on duty, moving backwards and forwards in a rather forlorn manner, except––Here Mattie turned her head quickly: yes, a little beyond there was a man in a rough pilot’s coat, looking out seaward,—a nautical man, Mattie thought, by the way he stood, as though summer gales were blowing about his ears.

Mattie passed quite close to him, for the wind drifted her a little as she did so. He turned coolly round and confronted her.

“Sir Harry! Oh, I did not know you in the least,” faltered Mattie, standing still in her surprise.

“I dare say not,” he replied, quietly: “you have never seen me in this costume before, and I had my back turned towards you. I saw you coming, though, walking as unsteadily as a duck in a storm. What a time you have been, Miss Mattie! You ladies are so fond of a gossip.”

“Were you waiting for me?” she asked, rather breathlessly, and then colored painfully at her question. How absurd! Of course he was not waiting for her; his hotel was just opposite, and he was probably taking a constitutional before his dinner. “Mrs. Chamberlain pressed me to take tea with her,” she went on, by way of saying something, “but I told her I would rather go home.”

“Miss Grace was just ringing for tea when I left,” he returned. “No wonder you look cold or like a starved robin, Miss Mattie. Why are you walking so fast? there is no hurry, is there? I think you owe me some amends for keeping me standing for an hour in this bitter wind. There! why don’t you take my arm and hold on, or you will be blown away?”

Mattie always did as she was bidden, and Sir Harry’s tone was a little peremptory. He had been waiting for her, then; he had not quite forgotten her. Mattie began to feel a little less chilled and numb. If he would only say a kind word to her, she thought, she could go away more happily.

“I am thinking about that rejected cup of tea,” he said, suddenly, when they had walked for a moment in silence: “it will be all cleared away at the vicarage, and you do look so cold, Miss Mattie.”

“Oh, no, not very,” she corrected.

“But I say that you do,” he persisted, in quite a determined manner: “you are cold, and tired, and miserable,—there!”

“I—I am not particularly miserable,” but there were tears in Mattie’s voice, as she uttered this little fib. “I don’t quite like going away and saying good-bye to people.”

“Won’t your people be kind to you?” Then changing his tone, “I tell you what, Miss Mattie, no one is in a hurry for 353 you at home, and I don’t see why we should not enjoy ourselves. You remember my old friend Mrs. Sparsit, who lives up at Rose Cottage,—you know I saved her poodle from drowning one rough day, when some boys got hold of it: well, Mrs. Sparsit and I are first-rate friends, and I will ask her to give us some tea.”

“Oh, no,” faltered Mattie, quite shocked at this; for what would Grace say? “I only know Mrs. Sparsit a very little.”

“What does that matter?” returned Sir Harry, obstinately: “I am always dropping in myself for a chat. Now, it is no use your making any objection, Miss Mattie, for I have got a lot to say to you, and I don’t mean to part with you yet. They will only think you are still at Rock Building, and I suppose you are old enough to act without Miss Grace’s advice sometimes.”

Mattie hung her head without replying to this. What a feeble, helpless sort of creature he must think her! his voice seemed to express a good-humored sort of contempt. Well, he was right; she was old enough to do as she pleased, and she would like very much to go with him to Mrs. Sparsit’s. It was rather a reckless proceeding, perhaps; but Mattie was too down and miserable to argue it out, so she walked beside Sir Harry in a perfectly unresisting manner. Perhaps this was the last time she would enjoy his company for a long time: she must make the most of it.

“We need not walk quite so fast,” he said, checking her, for she was hurrying again. “Look here, Miss Mattie, I want to ask you a queer sort of question, if only this confounded wind will let me make myself heard. Please don’t laugh; I don’t want to be laughed at, for I am quite in earnest. But have you any special objection to red hair?—I mean, do you particularly dislike it?”

Mattie opened her eyes rather widely at this. “No, I rather like it,” she returned, without a moment’s hesitation, and quite in the dark as to his possible meaning.

“Oh, that is all right,” he returned, cheerfully. “You won’t believe it, Miss Mattie, but, though I am such a great big fellow, I am as bashful as anything; and I have always had a fancy that no one would have me because of my red hair.”

“What an idea!” observed Mattie, with a little laugh, for she thought this so droll, and had not the dimmest idea of his real purpose in asking her such a question.

“Don’t laugh, please,” he remonstrated, “for I am quite serious; I never was more serious in my life; for this sort of thing is so awkward for a fellow. Then, Miss Mattie, you won’t say ‘No’ to me?”

Mattie stared; but Sir Harry’s face, red and embarrassed as it was, gave her no clue to his meaning.

“I don’t think you understand me,” he said, a little impatiently; “and yet I am sure I am putting it very plainly. You 354 don’t object to me, do you, Miss Mattie? I am sure I will do my best to make you happy. Gilsbank is a pretty place, and we shall have Aunt Catherine and the girls near us. We shall all be as merry as larks, if you will only promise to marry me, for I have liked you from the first; I have indeed, Miss Mattie.”

Sir Harry was a gentleman, in spite of his rough ways. He understood in a moment, when Mattie’s answer to this was a very feeble clutch at his arm, as though her strength were deserting her. What with the sudden surprise of these words, and the force of the wind, the poor little woman felt herself reeling.

“Stand here for a moment, and I will shelter you from the wind. No, don’t speak; just hold on, and keep quiet: there is no hurry. No one shall scold you, if I can help it. I am afraid”—speaking as gently as to a child—“that I have been a little rough and sudden with you. Do you feel faint? I never saw you look so pale. What a thoughtless brute I have been!”

“No,—oh, no,” panted Mattie; “only I am so giddy, and—so happy.” The last words were half whispered, but he caught them. “Are you sure you really mean this, Sir Harry?”

“As sure as that the wind blows,” he returned, cheerfully. “Well, that’s settled. You and I are to be in the same boat for good and all,—eh, Miss Mattie? Now let us walk on; and I won’t say another word until we reach Mrs. Sparsit’s.”

Perhaps he had taken this resolution because he saw that Mattie found speech impossible. Her very footsteps tottered as she struggled against the opposing wind. Only the arm on which she leaned seemed to give her strength; and yet Mattie no longer shivered in the cutting blast. She was no longer cold, and numb, and desolate. Something wonderful and incredible and altogether unreal had befallen her,—something that had turned her dizzy with happiness, and which she could not in the least believe. All she knew was that he had told her that no one should scold her now.

“Here we are!” exclaimed Sir Harry, stopping at a trim little cottage, with a side-view of the sea; “and, by Jove, there is the poodle himself at the window. How do you do, Mrs. Sparsit?” as a pleasant, wrinkled dame appeared on the threshold. “You know Miss Drummond, I believe? though not as well as you know me. How is Popples? Oh, there you are, old fellow,—ready to give me your paw, as usual! Look at him, Miss Mattie! Now, Mrs. Sparsit,” in a coaxing voice, “this lady is dreadfully tired; and I know your kettle is boiling––” but here Mrs. Sparsit interrupted him:

“Oh, yes, indeed, Sir Harry; and you shall have some tea directly. Dear me, Miss Drummond, you do look poorly, to be sure! Let me stir the fire a little, and draw out the couch. Bettie has gone out to see her sick mother, Sir Harry; but if you don’t mind my leaving you a minute, while I just brew the 355 tea––” And without waiting for his answer, the worthy creature bustled off to her tiny kitchen, leaving Popples to entertain her guests.

Sir Harry closed the door, and then he helped Mattie to divest herself of her warm jacket, and placed her in a snug corner of the old-fashioned couch.

“You will be all right directly,” he said, as he sat down beside her. “The wind was too strong; and I was a little sudden: wasn’t I, Mattie?” And now the color began to come into Mattie’s face.

Sir Harry found plenty to tell her as Mrs. Sparsit brewed the tea and prepared the hot buttered cakes.

Mattie shed tears of pure happiness when she heard from his own lips how good and unselfish and amiable he thought her, and how he had liked her from the first in a sort of way,—“not quite the right way, you know,” explained Sir Harry, candidly; “but every one was so hard on you, and you bore it so well, and were such a good little woman, that I quite longed to stand your friend; and we were friends,—were we not, Mattie? And then somehow it came to me what a nice little wife you would make; and so––” but here Mattie timidly interrupted him:

“But Grace,—I thought you liked Grace best!”

Sir Harry laughed outright at this; but he had the grace to look ashamed of himself:

“So I did like her very much; but I was only trying you, Mattie. I was not sure how much you liked me; but you seemed such a miserable little Cinderella among them all that I could hardly keep it up. If they snub you now, they will have to answer to me.” And at this moment Mrs. Sparsit entered with the tea-tray.

Dinner was nearly over at the vicarage when Mattie’s step was heard in the hall. Archie, who was the soul of punctuality, frowned a little when the sound reached his ear.

“This is too bad of Mattie,” he said, rather fretfully. “She has no right to put us to such inconvenience. I suppose we must have the fish up again?”

“Miss Drummond desires that you will go on with your dinner, sir,” observed the maid, entering at that moment. “She has had a late tea, and will not require anything more.”

“Very strange!” fumed Archie; but he was a little pacified by the message. But Grace slightly elevated her eyebrows with an expression of surprise. Such independence was new in Mattie.

The brother and sister had adjourned to the drawing-room, and Archie was about to ring for his coffee, before Mattie made her appearance.

Grace uttered a little exclamation when she saw her sister:

“My dear Mattie, we have no visitors coming in this evening! Why have you put on your best gown? You extravagant 356 child!” for Mattie had come into the room rustling in her green silk dress, and her little dark face glowing from the wind. “She looked almost pretty,” as Grace said afterwards; but at her sister’s quizzical observation Mattie blushed and seemed confused.

“It is no use saving it,” she began. “Sir Harry is coming in by and by. And, oh, Archie! he told me to say it, but I don’t know how to do it.” And then, to Archie’s intense surprise,—for she had never done such a thing in her life,—she suddenly threw her arms round his neck. “Oh, Archie! he says you are never to scold me again,—any of you,” she sobbed, “because I belong to him now. And he—Sir Harry, I mean—is so good to me; and I am so happy. And won’t you wish me joy, both of you? And what—what will mother say?” finished Mattie, as though this were the climax of everything.

“Good heavens, Mattie!” gasped Archie; but he did not shake her off: on the contrary, he kissed her very kindly. “Do you mean you are going to marry Sir Harry Challoner?”

“He means to marry me,” returned Mattie, smiling, in spite of her tears; and then Grace came forward, and took her in her arms.

“I am so glad, dear Mattie,” she whispered, soothingly. “Of course we none of us expected it; and we are all very much surprised. Oh, dear! how happy mother will be!”

“I tell you what,” exclaimed Archie, in great excitement, “I will take you down myself to Lowder Street, and see what she says. They will all be out of their senses with joy; and, upon my word, Mattie, I never was so pleased about anything in my life. He is a right-down good fellow, I am sure of that; and you are not such a bad little thing yourself, Mattie. There!”