to have one friend in the world in whom I could trust--in whom I could confide my misery!"

"And haven't you _one_?" was the soft answer.

Harriet looked up at the wistful face--so full of love and pity.

"Ah! there's _you_--you mean. But you are a child still, and would never understand me. _You_ would never have sympathy with all that I have suffered, or keep my secret if you had."

"What I could understand, I cannot say--I'm still hard at work, in over-time, at my lessons--but you may be sure of my sympathy, and of my silence. It's not that I'm so curious, Miss Harriet--but that I hope, when I know all, to be a comfort to you."

Harriet shook her head despondently, and beat her tiny foot impatiently upon the carpet. Any one in the world to be a comfort to her, was a foolish idea, that only irritated her to allude to.

"I'm living here to be a comfort to you all," said Mattie, in a low voice; "I've set myself to be that, if ever I can. Every one in this house helped in a way to take me from the streets; every one has been more kind to me than I deserved--helped me on--given me good advice--done so much for me! I--I have often thought that perhaps my time might come some day to your family, or the Hinchfords; but if to you, my darling, whom I love before the whole of them--who has been more than kind--whom I loved when I was a little ragged girl in the dark streets outside--how happy I shall be!"

"Happy to see me miserable, Mattie--that's what _that_ amounts to."

"I didn't mean that," answered Mattie, half-aggrieved.

"No, I'm sure you did not," was the reply. "Lock the door, my dear, and let me take you into my confidence--I _do_ want some one to talk to about it terribly!"

Mattie locked the door, and, full of wonder, sat down by Harriet Wesden's side. The stationer's daughter had always treated Mattie as a companion rather than as a servant; she had but seen her in her holidays of late years--her father had trusted Mattie and made a shop-woman of her--she had found Mattie const.i.tuted after a while one of the family--Mattie was only a year her junior, and Mattie's love, almost her idolatry for her, had won upon a nature which, though far from faultless, was at least susceptible to kindness, ever touched by affection, and ever ready to return both.

"You must know, Mattie, then--and pray never breathe a syllable of this to mortal soul again--that I'm in love."

"_Lor!_" gasped Mattie.

"Dreadfully and desperately in love."

"Oh! hasn't it come early--and oh! _ain't_ I dreadfully sorry."

"Hush, Mattie, not so loud. They'll be coming up to bed in the next room presently, and if they were to find it out, I should die."

"They wouldn't mind, after they had once got used to it," said Mattie; "and if it has really come to love in earnest--there's a good deal of sham love I've been told--why, I don't think there's anything to cry about. I should dance for joy myself."

"You're too young to know what you're talking about, Mattie," reproved Harriet.

"No, I'm not," was the quick answer; "I should feel very happy to know that there was some one to love me better than anybody in the world--to think of me first--pray about me before he went to bed at night--dream of me till the daytime--keep me always in his head. Why, shouldn't I be happy to know this, I who never remember what love was from anybody?"

"Yes, yes, I understand you, Mattie," said Harriet; "that's part of love--not all."

"What else is there?"

Mattie was evidently extremely curious concerning all phases of "the heart complaint."

"It's too complicated, Mattie; when you're a woman, you'll be able to find out for yourself. It's better not to trouble your head about it yet awhile."

"I wish you hadn't, Miss Harriet. It's not the likes of me that is going to think about it; and if you had left it till you were really a woman--I don't know much about the matter yet--but I'm thinking it would be all the better for you, too, my dear."

"It came all of a rush like--I wasn't thinking of it. There were two young men at first, who used to watch our school, and laugh at the biggest of us, and kiss their hands--just as young men _will_ do, Mattie."

"Like their impudence, I think."

Mattie's matter-of-fact views were coming uppermost again. She had seen much of the world in her youth, experienced much hardship, worked hard for a living, and there was no romance in her disposition--only affection, which had developed of late years, thanks to her new training.

"But there's always a little fun amongst the big girls, Mattie."

"What is the governess about?"

"She's looking out--but, bless you, she may look!"

"Ah! I suppose so. Well?"

"And then one young man went away, and only one was left--the handsomer of the two--and he fell in love _with me_!"

"Really and truly?"

"Why, of course he did. Is it so wonderful?" and the boarding-school girl looked steadily at her companion.

Mattie looked at her. She _was_ a beautiful girl, and perhaps it was not so wonderful, after all. But then Mattie still looked at Harriet Wesden as a child--even as a child younger than she whom the world had aged very early--rendered "old-fashioned," as the phrase runs, in many things.

"Not wonderful, perhaps--but wasn't it wrong?" asked Mattie.

"I don't think so--I never thought of that--he was very fond of me, and used to send me letters by the servant, and I--I did get very fond of him. He was a gentleman's son, and oh! _so_ handsome, Mattie, and _so_ tall, and _so_ clever!"

"About your age, I suppose?"

"No, four-and-twenty, or more, perhaps. I don't know."

"Well?--oh! dear, how _did_ it end?" asked Mattie; "it's like the story-books in the shop--isn't it?"

"Wait awhile, dear. The misery of the human heart is to be unfolded now.

He's a gentleman's son, and there's an estate or something in West India or East India, or in some dreadful hot place over the water somewhere, where the natives hook themselves in the small of their backs, and swing about and say their prayers."

"How nasty!"

"And--and he--was to go there," her sobs beginning again at the reminiscence, "and live there, and," dropping her voice to a whisper, "he asked me if I'd run away with him, and be married to him over there."

Mattie clenched her fist spasmodically. She saw through the flimsy veil of romance, with a suddenness for which she was unprepared herself. She was a woman of the world, with a knowledge of the evil in it, on the instant.

"Oh! that man was a big scamp, I'm sure of it--I know it!"

"What makes you think that?" asked Harriet, imperiously.

"Couldn't he have come to Suffolk Street, and told your father all about it like a--like a man?"

"Yes, but _his_ father--his father is a gentleman, and would never let him marry a poor, deplorable stationer's daughter."

"Ah! his father does not know you, and his father didn't have the chance of trying, I'm inclined to think," was the shrewd comment here.

"Never mind that," said Harriet, "I don't see that that's anything to do with the matter just now. I wouldn't run away; I was very frightened; I loved father and mother, and I knew how they loved me. And when I cried, he said he had only done it to try me, and then--and then--he went away next day for ever!"