Mattie went to her room and packed her box with trembling hands. She was very agitated still; there were many conflicting thoughts to disturb her natural equanimity. Regret at going away from the home wherein had begun her better life; indignation at the false accusations that had been made against her, and made in so hard and uncharitable a fashion; doubts of the future stretching before her, impenetrable and dusky, and the life to begin again in some way, to which she tried to give a thought, even in those early moments, and failed in utterly.

Over her box came honest Ann Packet to ask the latest news—to stare in a vague idiotic way when told it.

"I am going away, Ann—don't you understand?"

"Going away?—no, I don't yet. Going where did you say, Mattie?"

"Going away from here, where I am no longer wanted, where I am suspected of being all that is vile and wrong. Going away for good!"

"Oh I my gracious—not that! Because of last night—because of——"

"Many things, Ann, which I dare not explain, and which, if explained, perhaps would not be believed in by—him. But you, Ann—what will you think of me when I'm gone, and they say behind my back how justly I was served?"

"I say?—I say?"

"You'll hear their story, and I can't tell you mine. I can only say that since I have been here, there's not a bad thought had a place in my mind, and not a good one which I did not try, for their sakes as well as my own, to cling to. I can only ask you, Ann—you who have always thought well of me—to keep your faith strong, for poor Mattie's sake."

Ann Packet gave vent to a howl at this—wrung her fat red hands together, and then fell upon Mattie's box, as though our heroine had shot her.

"You shan't pack up no more!" she screamed; "you can speak to them as to me, and they'll believe you, or they're made of stone. Why, it's a drefful shame to turn you off like this, as though you'd been found out in all that's bad."

"Hush! you'll wake Miss Harriet, I daresay she—she's asleep still!—you will go now, Ann, please. I'm not unhappy—why, here's one to begin with who will always think the best of me!"

"The very best—as you've been the very best and the goodest to me, who used to snap you so at first, and feel jealous like, because they put you over me—but you won't mind that now?"

"No—no."

"And, Mattie, you don't want to go away and see nobody any more—to be quite alone and hear nothing of anybody? I may come and see you?"

"Yes—to be sure."

"And you'll write and tell me directly where you are."

"Ah! where I am. Yes, you shall know that first. And when I can prove to him that I have always been honest and true, I'll see him and his again, not before."

"And I shall call and tell you all the news—listen at all the keyholes to hear what they've got to talk about."

"I hope not. But get up now, Ann, and go down-stairs, or they'll suspect something. I'll send for the box presently, when I'm settled."

Ann rose with clenched hands and swollen eyes.

"If I had the settling of him! I—I almost feel to hate him. He's a brute!"

And before Mattie had time to reprove the faithful Ann for the outburst, Miss Packet had left the room, and gone down-stairs to cry afresh over the breakfast she had to prepare for Mr. Hinchford.

Mattie passed into the other room, and found Harriet Wesden asleep, as she had fancied. The toil of yesternight, the excitement and suspense, had brought their reaction, and Harriet had flung herself, dressed as she was, upon the bed, where she had dropped off into slumber.

Mattie stood for a moment irresolute whether to wake her or no; had it been simply to say "good-bye," she would have hesitated longer, though she might have awakened her at last.

"Harriet—Harriet!" she whispered, as she bent over her.

The fair girl started up and looked at Mattie.

"What's happened now, dear?"

"Nothing very important," said Mattie, who had determined how to proceed. "I have been thinking of our next step together concerning last night. Your father is down-stairs."

"Oh! he must not know it—he must never know it!" exclaimed Harriet; "he is weaker in mind—more excitable, suspicious—what would he think of me, keeping the name of Maurice Darcy from him all my life?"

"Harriet, promise me never to tell him—I am not frightened at the truth, but of their perversion of it, destroying for ever your good name—promise me!"

"But why promise you, who——"

"Promise it. I am very, very anxious, for your own sake and for mine."

"I promise—I promise faithfully."

"Whatever happens?"

"Yes—whatever happens!"

"I will tell you why now. In the first place, I have found out that the world will never accept your statement, but believe the very worst of you."

Harriet shuddered; her own trustfulness in others—her vanity, perhaps, allied thereto—had led her to the verge of the abyss—and "miraculous escapes" are only for penny-a-liners, and romancists. She thought that Mattie was right in binding her solemnly to secrecy, and she repeated her promise even more solemnly than before.

"And in the second place——"

Mattie paused; she recoiled from the explanation, the trial of another parting with this girl for whose happiness she was about to sacrifice herself, and the good name for which she had struggled. Harriet looked ill and worn now, and she could not tell her all the news, her heart was too full.

"I would bathe my hands and face, and go down-stairs as soon as possible. It will prevent suspicion, and you must stand up against the fatigue for awhile."

"Yes, yes, I can do that."

"Nothing can be helped now by confession; remember that when the truth would leap to your lips in a generous impulse, of which hereafter you would be sorry. Good-bye now."

Mattie stooped and kissed her—the quivering lips, the tear-brimming eyes, suggested a new trouble, and Harriet detected it at once.

"There is something new, Mattie—don't deceive me!"

"Very little—you will know all when you get down-stairs—be on your guard—God bless you!"

And Mattie, feeling her voice deserting her, hurried away. She went at once to Mr. Hinchford's room. Mr. Hinchford was becoming fidgety about his breakfast, and walking up and down discontentedly.

"They'll tell me I'm late again," he was muttering, when Mattie, sans ceremonie, made her appearance.

"Mr. Hinchford, will you let Miss Harriet have that letter at once? She's waiting for it."

"And I'm waiting for my breakfast, Mattie—it's really too bad!"

"I'll tell Ann; and—and the letter?"

"You're an odd girl; I'll get it you."

He went into the next room, returning with a letter in his hand.

"There!"

Mattie dashed at it in her impatience, and tore it into twenty pieces, which she thrust into the pocket of her dress, lest a fragment of the news should remain as evidence of Harriet Wesden's want of judgment.

"I say, my girl, that's not your letter, it's——"

"It's better torn to pieces. Harriet wished it, sir."

"She—she hasn't had a quarrel with my boy?"

"No, sir, to be sure not."

"I wonder how much longer he will be; there's—there's nothing further to break to an old man by degrees, Mattie?"

"Nothing further. I have a little news to tell you about myself, that I hope you'll be sorry to hear."

Mr. Hinchford's face assumed that perplexed look to which it had become prone of late years. Still he was not likely to be very much troubled—it was only about Mattie!

"I am going away from here," Mattie explained in a hurried manner; "Mr. Wesden will tell you the whole story, and it's not to my credit, looking at it in his light. You'll believe it, perhaps?" she added wistfully.

"Mr. Wesden is not accustomed to exaggeration, Mattie; but I will not believe anything that is wrong of you."

"I hope you will not, however proof may seem to go against me," was the sad remark; "he thinks I'm wrong, and I dare not explain part, and cannot explain the rest, and so I'm going away this morning.

"This morning!"

Mr. Hinchford took a good haul of his stock at this.

"He don't wish me to stop, and I would not if he did," said Mattie, proudly, "so we are both of one mind about my going. And now, sir," holding out both hands to him, "try and think the best of me—never mind the desk this morning, that was nothing, remember—do think well of one who will never forget you, and all the kindness you have shown me since I have been here."

"Mattie, let me go down, and see if I can't set all this straight," said the old gentleman, moved by Mattie's appeal.

"It could not be done, sir," said Mattie in reply; "you're very kind, but I know how much better it is to go. Why, sir, I have a great hope that they'll think better of me when I am gone!"

"But—but——"

"And so good-bye, sir."

The old gentleman shook both her hands, stooped suddenly and kissed her on the forehead.

"I can't make it all out, but I'll believe the best, Mattie."

"Thank you—thank you."

The tears were blinding her, so she hastened to the door, pausing there to add—

"Tell Mr. Sidney—oh! tell him above all—to think of me, as I would think of him, whatever the world said and whoever was against him. Harriet will speak up for me when he has a doubt of my honesty, and he will believe her. Don't let my past life stand between you all and your better thoughts of me—good-bye."

Mattie was gone; she had closed the door behind her, and shut in Mr. Hinchford, who forgot his breakfast for awhile in the sudden news that had been communicated. He was forgetful at times now; his memory, though he did not care to own it, would betray him when he least expected it. In the midst of his reverie, a flash of a new recollection took away his breath, and brought his hand again to his inflexible stock.

"Good heaven!—not that letter, I hope."

He bustled into the back room, and searched nervously in the pockets of coats, waistcoats, and trousers about there. A blank expression settled on his countenance as he drew from the side-pocket of the great coat he had worn yesternight, another letter—the letter which Mattie had demanded, and he thought that he had given her.

"God bless me! she's torn up the letter that was given me to post last night!"

He made a dash down-stairs, but Mattie had gone, and the double mistake could not be rectified.

Mattie had made her final leave-taking by that time. She had gone straight from Mr. Hinchford's apartments into the shop, taking up her position on the street-side of the counter facing Mr. Wesden.

"I'm—I'm ready to go now, sir!"

"Very well. I—I didn't mean you to go in such a hurry; but as you have looked upon it in that light, why I can't stop you. There's your salary up to the month."

He took it from the little back-shelf and laid it on the counter; Mattie hesitated for a moment; her face crimsoned, and there was an impulsive movement to sweep the money to the floor, checked by a second and better thought.

"Thank you, sir."

The money was dropped into her pocket; she looking steadily at Mr. Wesden meanwhile.

"I shall send for my box when I've found a home," she said. "Let the man take it without being watched; some of you might like to know what has become of me, and I don't wish that yet awhile."

"Where do you think of going?"

"Anywhere I can be trusted," was the unintentional retort. "I am not particular, and I have a hope that God will send a friend to me. I think of going from here to Camberwell to bid one friend good-bye, at least—what do you think, sir?"

"You had better not. She's ill."

"You never said that before!" cried Mattie; "ill and alone!"

"Harriet will return home when she gets up—she is just ill enough to be kept very quiet."

"I'll not go to her, then."

Mattie still fixed her dark eyes on Mr. Wesden; that steady, unflinching gaze was making the stationer feel uncomfortable.

"I don't know that there is anything else to say," said Mattie, after a long pause; "and I suppose—you've nothing else to say to me?"

"Nothing. Except," he added, after another pause on his part, "that I hope you will take care of yourself—that this will be a lesson to you."

Mattie coloured once more, and took time to reply.

"I would part friends with you," she said at last. "I have been trying hard to bear everything that you say, remembering past kindness. You saved me at the eleventh hour, when I was going back to ruin—you taught me what was good, and made this place my home; for you and yours I would do anything in the world that lay in my power. But!" she cried, her face kindling and her eyes flashing, "if it had been any one else who had spoken to me as you have done, who had cast such cruel slander at me, and believed in nothing but my vileness, I—I think I should have killed him!"

Mr. Wesden had never seen Mattie in a passion before; her frenzy alarmed him, and he backed against the drawers behind him lest she should attempt some mischief. His confidence in the righteousness of his cause was more shaken also; but he did not know how to express it, having been ever a man whose ideas came slowly.

"Upstairs, a little while ago, Mr. Wesden," continued Mattie, "I thought that we were quits with each other—that casting me back to the streets made amends for the rescue from them years ago. I thought almost that I could afford to hate you—but you must forgive me that—I was not myself then! I know better now; and if I go back alone and friendless, still I take with me all the good thoughts which the latter years have given me, and no misfortune is likely to rob me of."

"But—but——"

"But this is strange talk in a woman who cannot account for missing property, and keeps out all night," said Mattie; "you can't think any better of me now—some day you will. Good-bye, sir—may I shake hands with you?"

"I—I don't bear any malice, Mattie. I—I wish you well, girl," he stammered, as he held forth his hand.

Mattie's declamation had cowed him, softened him. He was the man of the past, who had faith in her, and whom late events had not changed so much. He thought it might be a mistake just then—he did not know—he understood nothing—his brain was in a whirl.

Mattie shook hands with him, and then went away without another word. Outside in the streets the traffic was thickening—it was Saturday morning, when people sought the streets in greater numbers. Mattie's slight form was soon lost in the surging stream of human life; Mr. Wesden, who had followed her to the door, noticed how soon she was submerged.

Five years ago he had taken her from the streets—a stray. Again in her womanhood, at his wish, he had cast her back to them a stray still—nothing more!

A stray whom no one would claim as child, sister, friend; who went away characterless in a world ever ready to believe the worst. She had spoken of her strength to do battle now alone, but she did not know with what enemies she had to fight, or what deadly weapons to encounter; watching her from that shop door, she looked little more than the child God had once prompted him to save.

He could have run after her again, as in the old times, and cried "Stop!"—he could have taken her to his heart again, and began anew with her, sinking the incomprehensible bygones for ever.

But he moved not; and Mattie, the stray, drifted from his home, and went away to seek her fortunes.

END OF THE THIRD BOOK.