Meanwhile Mattie, the stray, must absorb our attention for awhile. In following the fortunes of the Hinchfords, we have omitted to watch closely the progress of our heroine. Yes, our heroine—if we have not called attention to that fact before—and with many first-class "heroinical" qualities, which would do credit to the high-born damsels of our old-fashioned novels. She had been heroine enough to make a sacrifice for Harriet Wesden; to take an unfair share of blame for Harriet's sake, and, therefore, she ranks as "first-lady" in this romance of business-life. She had made the sacrifice of her good name—for it amounted to that—with a sharp struggle; but then she would have given up her life for those to whom her better nature had taught her to be grateful. The girl's love for all who had rescued her from the evil of the past was ever intense, led her to strange actions, kept her hovering in the distance round the friends she had had once. Hers was a nature strangely susceptible to affection, and that affection was not uprooted because ill-report set its stigma upon her. Hers was a forgiving nature, also, and she thought even kindly of Mr. Wesden when the first shock was over, and she had judged him by that true character which she understood so well.

In her new estate Mattie was not happy; she was alone in the world, and we know that she was partial to society, and not always disinclined to hear the sound of her own musical voice. But she was not disconsolate; she made the best of her bad bargain, and set to work, in her humble way, with something of that doggedness of purpose, for which her friend Sidney was remarkable. She had struggled hard for a living, but had never given way. She had met obstacles in her path, which would have crushed the energy out of most women, but which she surmounted, not without wounds and loss of strength, and even health, and then went on again. She was matter-of-fact and honest, and those who had doubted her at first—for she had chosen her dwelling-place but a very little way from Great Suffolk Street, and the rumours of a lying tongue followed her, and set her neighbours and fellow-lodgers against her—soon understood her, for the poor are great observers and good judges of character.

In the poor neighbourhood wherein she had settled down, she asked for advice as to the best method of leading an honest life, and received it from her landlady. She turned dress-maker, and when customers came not with a grand rush to Tenchester Street, she asked if she might learn her landlady's business, artificial flower-making, and offered her services gratuitously, until it pleased her mistress to see that she was the handiest "help" she possessed. Then her health failed, for she worked hard, lived hard, and had hard thoughts to contend with; and when the doctor told her sedentary pursuits would not agree with her, she went a step lower for awhile, and even sold play-bills at the doors of a minor theatre to keep the wolf from her door.

Mattie had one fear of seeing her money melt away to the last farthing, and being left in the world penniless and friendless, as in the days of her desolate childhood. She had no fear of temptation besetting her in her poverty—for ever she was above that—but she did not wish to die poor, to seek the workhouse, or to be reminded in any way of her past estate. She would be above that; she was ever hoping to show Mr. Wesden that she was honest and respected, she struggled vehemently against the tide, and earned her own living at least, varying the mode very often as her quick wits suggested; but never idle, and rising or sinking with the seasons, as they proved fair or sharp ones with the working classes.

It had been a fair season when she called on Mr. Hinchford last, and she had even found courage to give Ann Packet her address; the sharp season set in after that, and, though Ann Packet in her monthly visits was deceived by Mattie's manner, yet it became another struggle for bread with our heroine. For the season was not only sharp, but Mattie gave way in health over her work for a rascally waistcoat-maker, who drove hard bargains, and did not believe in Charity covering a multitude of sins. And with an opposition clothier over the way, who sported a glass chandelier, and sold fancy vests for three and sixpence, it was hard to believe in anything.

Mattie gave way more than she intended to acknowledge to Ann Packet, had not that indefatigable young woman made her appearance unexpectedly, and found Mattie in bed at six in the evening.

"Good lor! what's this?"

"Nothing, Ann—only a little cold, which I have been recommended to nurse for a-day," said Mattie; "don't look so scared!"

"But why wasn't I to know it?—I might have brought in something good for you," bemoaned Ann; "if I'm to be kep in the dark, who's to take care of you, my gal?"

"I am taking very good care of myself, Ann."

"What are you taking?"

"Oh! all manner of things—won't you believe me?"

"No—I won't."

And Ann proceeded to inspect mantel-pieces, open cupboards and drawers, to Mattie's dismay.

"Yes, I see just how it be," she said, after her search had resulted in nothing satisfactory. "You're working yourself to death, and starving yourself to death, without saying anything to anybody. And that's gratitude for all my love for you—you who want to leave me alone in the world, with not no one to love."

"Why, my dear Ann, I'm not going to die."

"You're trying all you can—oh! you ungrateful gal!"

Mattie defended herself, and maintained that it was only one "lay up," but Ann Packet did not like the red spot on each cheek, the unnatural brightness of the eyes, and secretly doubted her assertion.

"I must go back now. I shall come to-morrow, first thing."

"I shall be well enough to-morrow, Ann."

Ann Packet kissed her and departed; half-an-hour afterwards, to Mattie's astonishment, she made her reappearance, accompanied by a tall, slim gentleman.

"There's the gal, sir. Now, please tell me what's the matter, and don't mind her a bit."

Mattie saw that it was too late to offer a resistance, and refrained, like a wise young woman, from "making a scene." The doctor felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, took the light from the table and held it close to Mattie's face.

"Well—what's the matter, sir?" was Mattie's question.

"Humph! don't know that I can tell exactly, yet. I'll look in to-morrow."

"No, don't do that," said Mattie, alarmed at the expense.

"Yes, do," cried Ann Packet, "your money's safe, sir. Look to me at 34 Chesterfield Terrace, Camberwell, for it. I'm a respectable maid-of-all-work, with money in the bank."

"It's of no consequence," muttered the doctor; but he entered the address in his note-book, like a man of business as he was.

"Shan't I be well to-morrow, sir?" asked Mattie, anxiously.

"Humph!—scarcely to-morrow, I think."

"Why don't you say what it is?—do you think I'm likely to be frightened at it, even if it's death, sir? Why, I've lived down all fright at anything long ago."

"It's a little attack of scarlatina, I think," he answered, thus adjured.

"You only think?"

"Well, then, I'm sure."

"She's had it afore, you know," Ann Packet suggested, "when she was a child. I thought people couldn't have these nasty things twice."

"Oh! yes."

"That's enough, then," said Ann Packet, taking off her bonnet and shawl, and putting them on the table as centre ornaments; "here I sticks till you're better."

"Ann—Ann Packet!" cried Mattie.

"Ah! you may say what you like, I shan't move. When this gentleman's gone, we'll quarrel about it—not afore."

The gentleman alluded to took his departure, promising to send round some medicine in a few minutes. Mattie looked imploringly at the obdurate Ann.

"You must go home, Ann."

"Not a bit of it, my dear," said Ann; "I have knowed you for too long a time to leave you in the lurch like this, for all the places in the world. And it isn't that I haven't knowed the Hinchfords long enough, to think they'll mind."

Mattie sighed.

"But you keep quiet, my dear, and fancy I'm your mother taking care on you—which I wish I was. And I'll send a boy to Camberwell to tell 'em why I ain't a coming back just yet."

"Let me write a——"

"Let you keep yourself quiet, and don't worry me. I'm going to manage you through this."

"You're very good, Ann," said Mattie; "but if you catch the fever of me!"

"Lor bless you! I shan't catch no fever—I'm too old for changing colour, my dear. You might as well expect buff-leather to catch fevers. But don't you remember how skeered I was once when you came in piping hot with it from Kent Street? Ah! I was vain of my good looks then, and afraid they might be spiled."

Ann Packet had been a girl with a bat-catching-against-wall kind of countenance all her life, but distance lent enchantment to the view of the merry days when she was young. And Ann Packet's will was absolute, and carried all before it. Mattie was bowed down by it; she felt weaker than usual, and too ill to assert supremacy in her own house. Giving up, she thought that it was comfortable to have a friend at her side, and to feel that the loneliness of a few hours since was hers no longer.

Ann Packet went down-stairs, and found a boy prepared—for twopence down and twopence when he came back—to deliver any message within a radius of fifty miles from Tenchester Street. The messenger departed, returning, in due course, with a favourable, even a kind reply. Ann Packet was to take her own time, and a girl would be found to assist until Mattie was better. Mattie read the note to Ann.

"There, didn't I say so?"

"It's in Mr. Sidney's handwriting," said Mattie, putting the letter under her pillow; "he's always kind and thoughtful."

"Ah! he is."

"As kind and thoughtful as ever, I suppose, Ann?"

"Lor bless you!—yes."

"What a long while it seems since——"

"Since you've held your tongue," added Ann. "Yes, it does. I'd keep quiet a bit now, if I was you."

Thus adjured, Mattie relapsed into silence, and Ann Packet, thinking her charge was asleep, stole out of the room a short while afterwards, and went into the streets marketing. In the night the fever gained apace with our heroine; the next day the doctor pronounced her worse—enjoined strict quietness and care.

"He seems afraid of me," said Mattie, after he had gone, "as if there were anything to be alarmed at, even if I did die. Why, what could be better for me, Ann?"

"Oh! don't—oh! don't."

"Not that I am going to die—I don't feel like it," said Mattie. "I can see myself getting strong again, and fighting," she added, with a little shudder, "my battles again. There, Ann, you need not look so scared; I won't die to please you."

It was a forced air of cheerfulness, put on to raise the spirits of her nurse; and succeeded to a certain extent in its object, although Ann told her not to go on like that—it wasn't proper.

Mattie lay and thought of the chances for and against her that day; what if that burning fever and increasing restlessness gained the mastery, who would be the worse for her loss, and might not she, with God's help, be the better? She was scarcely a religious woman; but the elements of true religion were within her, and only biding their time. She was honest, pure-minded, anxious to do good for others, bore no one malice, and forgave all trespasses against her—she went to chapel every Sunday—and she did not feel so far off from heaven on that sick bed. She thought once or twice that she would be glad to die, if she were sure of the future happiness of those for whom she had lived. She would like to know the end of the story, and then—rest. She could not die without seeing the old faces, though, and therefore she must make an effort to exist for her own sake.

In the evening, Ann Packet, looking a little scared, said—

"Here's a gentleman come to see you. It's not quite right for him to come up, I'm thinking."

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Hinchford."

"Old Mr. Hinchford?"

"No, the young one."

Mattie, even with the scarlatina, could blush more vividly.

"Mr.—Mr. Sidney!" she gasped. "Oh! he mustn't come in here."

"Mustn't he, though!" said the deep voice of Sidney, from the other side of the room. "Oh! he's not at all bashful, Mattie."

Sidney Hinchford came into the room and walked straight to the bed where Mattie was lying—where Mattie was crying just then.

"Why, Mattie!—in tears!"

"Only for a moment, Mr. Sidney. It is very kind of you to come and see me—and you have taken me by surprise, that's all."

"She's to be kept quiet, sir," said Ann.

"I'll not make much noise," he answered.

He stood by the bed-side, looking down at the stricken girl. The change in her, the thin face, the haggard looks, increased as they were by illness, had been a shock to Sidney Hinchford, though he did his best to disguise all evidence from her.

"Go and sit there for the little while you must remain in this room," said Mattie, indicating a chair by the window, at some distance. "You were rash to come into this place."

"I'm not afraid of fever, Mattie, and I was not going to lose a chance of seeing you—the first chance I have had."

"And you don't think that I have been wrong, Mr. Sidney?" asked Mattie; "you haven't let all that Mr. Wesden has said, turn you against me? I'm so glad!"

"Mattie, there's a little mystery, but I daresay you can clear it—and I swear still by the old friend and adviser of Great Suffolk Street. And as for Mr. Wesden—why, I'm inclined to think that that old gentleman is growing ashamed of himself."

"You say nothing of Harriet?"

"She is the champion of all absent friends—the best girl in the world. When I tell her that you——"

"You must not tell her where to find me—you will not act fairly by her, if you thrust her into danger, sir. I rely upon you to keep her away."

"Well, you women do catch things very rapidly," said he; "I—I think that perhaps it will be as well not to let her know of your illness."

"Thank you—thank you."

"But when you are well again, I shall bring her myself to see you. We'll have no more games at hide and seek, Mattie."

"Not yet."

"Why—not yet?" was the quick answer.

"I am no fit companion for her—her father thinks. So it must not be. I have seen her—watched for her several times."

"Ah!—I suppose so. You know that we are engaged, Mattie?" he said; "that was an old wish of yours, Harriet tells me."

"Yes—when are you to be married?"

"Oh! when I can afford to keep a wife. Shall I tell you how I am getting on now?"

"I should like to hear it," said Mattie, "but you mustn't stop here very long. For there is danger."

"I don't believe it," said he, laughing; "besides, my father has furnished me with a lump of camphor as big as my head, which I've been sitting on the last five minutes. Now, Mattie, let me tell you where I am, and what I am doing."

In a few words, Sidney sketched the particulars of his present mode of life, spoke of his prospects in futuro, and of the kindness which he received at all hands. He was an agreeable companion, and brought some of his vigour and good spirits into that little room with him. He spoke cheerfully and heartily, and the pleasant ring of his voice sounded like old times to Mattie. She lay and listened, and thought it was all very comfortable—she even forgot her fever for awhile, till she remembered the length of time that he had remained with her.

"I hope you will go now," she said, rather suddenly.

"Am I wearying you?—I beg pardon, Mattie. Some of these days when you are better, I intend a longer stay than this."

"Indeed!"

"I shall try my own powers of persuasion, in order that Harriet and I may fight your battles better for you," he said; "we must clear up that mystery—I hate mystery."

"I know it."

"Upon my honour, I would as soon have a sister maligned as you!" cried Sidney; "we are such old friends, Mattie."

"Yes, yes—go now, please. And keep Harriet away, for her own sake, and yours."

Sidney promised that, and then shook hands with her.

"You must not be very shocked at my stalking in here—fancy it is your brother, Mattie. I shall make Harriet a clean confession when I get back—not to-night, though."

He went from the room, followed by Ann Packet. Outside, the cheerful look upon his face suddenly vanished, and he became so grave that Ann Packet stared aghast at him.

"Who's her doctor?"

Ann told him.

"I'll send some one myself to see if he's treating her correctly."

"Don't you—don't you think that she's so well?"

"I think that she's very ill—worse than she is aware of herself. Take care of her, Ann, she's an old friend!"

He went down-stairs hastily, and Ann returned to the room to find Mattie in a high fever, sitting up in bed with a wild look in her eyes.

"Ann, Ann—he must never come again! I—I can't bear to see him now."

"Patience, my darling. Keep quiet—why not?"

"Oh! I don't know—but he makes my heart ache—and, and, he is coming into danger here. Oh! Sidney! Sidney!"

She flung herself back in her bed, and sobbed and tossed there till the fever grew upon her more and more, and robbed her of her senses. And in the delirium which followed, Ann Packet learned the secret of Mattie's life, and wrung her hands, and cried over it.