"A gentleman connected with the chapel--our chapel."

"Indeed!"

"He helps us with the district business when he's in town--and he has been very anxious to see you for the last fortnight, but the young woman who waits upon you said--very rudely, I fear--that she wouldn't have you worried for fifty parsons. May he come in?"

Before Mattie had made up her mind, he came in without permission. It was difficult to distinguish him in the shadowy room, save that he was short and thin, and moved about with extraordinary celerity.

"When the sinner is too weak to go forth in search of the Word, it should be brought to her by all men earnest for sinners' redemption," he said, in a high, hard voice, very unsuitable for an invalid's chamber; "and I trust that Miss Gray will not consider me out of place in coming hither to teach her to be grateful for her recovery."

"She is scarcely recovered yet, sir," Harriet ventured to suggest.

"What does Miss Gray say?" he said, as though Miss Wesden's word was to be doubted.

"That it is very kind of you to come--but that I am a little weak just at present."

"I called on the doctor--he's not of your opinion--he ought to know best."

"Yes, yes," said the doctor, "but you promised only a few words."

"I am a man of my word," was the brisk answer.

"I beg pardon, I never said that you were not," said the doctor; "but we must be gentle with our patient yet awhile--and she has already been receiving visitors to-day."

"If Miss Gray objects, I will go."

Mattie said that she did not object, and, without further ceremony, the stranger began to pray for her, lowering his voice when he found that he need not shout at the top of his lungs to be heard in that little room, and even praying with some degree of eloquence, and a more than common degree of earnestness, which was some little apology--if not quite enough--for his unwarrantable intrusion.

It was a long prayer, and spared no one. The doctor, after waiting five minutes, and finding thanksgivings for recovery, and for shortening his bill, not in his line, took his departure on tiptoe; Mattie listened reverently, with her hands clasped in her lap; Harriet, who had not forgiven the intrusion, thought of Sidney more than the preacher, and threw the latter out in his extempore oration by suddenly poking the fire, and then dropping the poker with a crash into the fire-place. Ann Packet returned from marketing, and found the preacher in the middle of the room on his knees, and disgusted with his tactics, after the many times she had denied him admittance, proceeded to arrange the tea-tray and light the candle, with a noisy demonstrativeness that was perfectly unnecessary.

"Amen" sounded at last, and the little man rose to his feet, over which Ann Packet had twice stumbled, b.u.t.toned his black dress-coat across his chest, picked up his hat, and proceeded to retire without further words, like a man of business, who, having done his work, was in a hurry to get home. Suddenly he paused and regarded Harriet Wesden attentively. The light in the room was feeble, and might deceive him, he thought, for, with a quick hand, he caught up the candlestick and held it nearer to her.

"Miss Wesden--surely?"

Harriet saw nothing to recognize in the wiry-haired, high-cheek-boned preacher. He was a stranger to her.

"Yes, sir."

"It's not a common name, but I presume not connected with the stationer's in Great Suffolk Street?"

"It was once, before my father left the shop."

"The coincidence never struck me before--that's rather odd, for I'm not generally so dull. You don't remember me?"

"I have never met you before."

"Oh! yes--at the Ashford railway station, in the middle of the night--you claimed my protection from a cruel snare that had been laid to entrap you."

"Hush, sir!--yes, sir," said Harriet, with a glance at Ann Packet, who, however, was still busy with the tea-things; "I remember you now; you were very kind to me, and took pains to relieve me from a great anxiety."

"And what has become of----"

"I have never seen him," Harriet interrupted.

"And he hasn't sought you out, and----"

"No, he hasn't. Please say no more about it!" she cried to the inquisitive man; "I have forgotten the story. Mattie, ask him to be quiet."

"How's that possible? How can a--_Mattie_!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, suddenly struck by that name, dropping his hat and then putting his foot upon it in his excitement; "your name Mattie, and acquainted with a Miss Wesden, who lived once in Suffolk Street! And Miss Gray, too!--my name!--Mattie Gray, why, it must be!"

"Must be--what!" gasped Mattie, rising in her chair.

"Keep quiet--you're to be kept quiet--the doctor said so," he stammered, fighting wildly in the air with both hands; "don't alarm yourself--try and guess who I am for the next hour and a half. I'll be back by that time--where's my hat?--good evening."

He turned to dart out of the room, and ran against Sidney Hinchford, who had been standing there an amazed listener--_for how long_?

"Break it to her by degrees before I come," he said to Sidney; "I'm her father--I have been looking for her all over the kingdom. Do me this good turn?"

"One moment--I am going your way. Mattie understands it already."

"Sidney!" cried Harriet.

"I shall be back in a few minutes," he said, and then the local preacher and the banker's clerk went out together.

CHAPTER III.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

The three women left behind in that little room remained silent from the shock. They were amazed, perplexed. The sudden excitement of the preacher; the strange questions he had asked Harriet Wesden before the name of Mattie had changed the topic of conversation; the presence of Sidney Hinchford as a witness to all this; his abrupt departure with the preacher--all tended to create doubt, and suggest to one, at least, the presence of danger.

Mattie had not given much thought to Sidney Hinchford's appearance; the preacher's excitement, the return of a far-off thought to her, had rendered all that had followed vague and indistinct--the scene had been even too much for her, and she began to slowly close her eyes.

"I think she has been talked and worried to death too much," cried Ann running to her; "Miss Harriet, I'd go now, if I were you."

"Perhaps I have remained too long," said Harriet, rising.

"No," said Mattie, feebly, "I have been surprised by all that has just happened. You are not the cause."

"I think I would lie on the bed a little while, Mattie," said Harriet.

"Don't go till I feel better."

Mattie lay on the bed as directed; Harriet did not resume her seat, but stood with one arm on the mantel-piece, looking thoughtfully before her, where no fancy pictures lingered now. There was a long silence. Ann Packet placed some smelling salts in Mattie's hand, and then sat at a little distance, watching her. Harriet retained her position until Mattie drew the bed-curtain further back and looked at her.

"I am better now. You will wait till Sidney comes back to fetch you home, Harriet?"