"But this perhaps," says Mr. Wesden, thoughtfully; "and this can't matter, now we----"

He does not finish the sentence, but takes his pipe down from the mantel-piece, and proceeds to fill it in a mechanical fashion. Mrs.

Wesden looks at him quietly--her lord and husband never smokes before supper, without his mind is disturbed--the action reminds his wife that the supper hour is drawing near, and that nothing is prepared for Harriet's arrival.

"She will come home tired and hungry--oh! dear me--and nothing ready, perhaps."

"I'll help Ann directly," says Mattie.

The needle that has been plying all the time--that did not cease when Mattie attempted consolation--is stuck in the dress she is hemming; the work is rolled rapidly into a bundle; the light figure flits about the room, clears the table, darts down-stairs into the kitchen; presently appears with Ann Packet, maid-of-all-work, lays the cloth, sets knives and forks and plates; varies proceedings by attending to customers in the shop--Mattie's task more often, now Mr. Wesden's back has lost its flexibility--flits back again to the task of preparing supper in the parlour.

With her work less upon her mind, Mattie launches into small talk--her tongue rattles along with a rapidity only equal to her needle. She is in high spirits to-night, and talks more than usual, or else that loquacity for which a Mrs. Watts rebuked her once, has known no diminution with expanding years.

"We shall have her in a few more minutes, mistress," she says, addressing the feeble old woman in the chair; "just as if she'd never been away from us--bless her pretty face!--and it was twelve days, rather than twelve months, since we all said good-bye to her. She left you on a sick bed, Mrs. Wesden, and she comes back to find you well and strong again--to find home just as it should be--everything going on well, and everybody--oh! so happy!"

"And to find you, Mattie--what?" asks Mr. Wesden, in his quiet way.

"To find me very happy, too--happy in having improved in my scholarship, such as it is, sir--happy with you two friends, to whom I owe--oh! more than I ever can think about, or be grateful enough for," she adds with an impetuosity that leads her to rush at the quiet man and kiss him on the forehead.

"We're square, Mattie--we're perfectly square now," he replies, settling his silver-rimmed spectacles more securely on his nose.

"Oh! that is very likely," is the sharp response.

"You nursed the old lady like a daughter--you saved her somehow. If it hadn't been for you----"

"She would have been well weeks before, only I was such a restless girl, and wouldn't let her be quiet," laughs Mattie.

She pa.s.ses into the shop again with the same elastic tread, serves out two ounces of tobacco, detects a bad shilling, and focuses the customer with her dark eyes, appears but little impressed by his apologies, and more interested in her change, locks the till, and is once more in the parlour, talking about Miss Harriet again.

"She is on her way now," she remarks; "at London Bridge by this time, and Master Hinchford--we must say Mr. Hinchford now, I suppose--helping her into the cab he's been kind enough to get for her."

"What's the time now, Wesden?" asks the mother.

"Well," after the usual efforts to disinter--or disembowel--the silver watch, "it's certainly just ten."

"And by the time Tom's put the shutters up, she'll be here!" cries Mattie; "see if my words don't come true, Mr. Wesden."

"Well, I hope they will; if they don't, I--I think I'll just put on my hat, and walk down to the station."

Presently somebody coming down-stairs with a heavy, regular tread, pausing at the side door in the parlour, and giving two decisive raps with his knuckles on the panels.

"Come in."

Enter Mr. Hinchford, senior, with his white hair rubbed the wrong way, and his florid face looking somewhat anxious.

"Haven't they come yet?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Ah! I suppose not," catching Mattie's glance directed towards him across the needlework which she has resumed again, and at which she is working harder than ever; "there's boxes to find, and pack on the cab, and Miss Harriet's no woman if she do not remember at the last minute something left behind in the carriage."

"Won't you sit down, sir?" asks Mrs. Wesden.

"N--no, thank you," he replies; "you'll have your girl home in a minute, and we mustn't over-crowd the little parlour. I shall give up my old habit of smoking here, now the daughter comes back--you must step up into my quarters, Wesden, a little more often."

"Thank you."

"Temporary quarters, I suppose, we must say, now the boy's getting on so well. Thank G.o.d," with a burst of affection, "that I shall see that boy in a good position of life before I die."

"He's a clever lad."

"Clever, sir!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es the father, "he's more than clever, though I don't sing his praises before his face. He has as clear a head-piece as any man of forty, and he's as good a man of business."

"And so steady," adds Mrs. Wesden.

"G.o.d bless you! madam, yes."

"And so saving," is the further addition of Mr. Wesden,--"that's a good sign."

"Ah! he knows the value of money better than his father did at his age,"

says the old man; "with his caution, energy, and cleverness we shall see him, if we live, a great man. Whoever lives to see him--a great man!"

"It's a comfort when our children grow up blessings to us," remarks Mrs.

Wesden, dreamily looking at the fire; "neither you nor I, sir, have any cause to be sorry for those we love so very, very much."

"No, certainly not. We're lucky people in our latter days--good night."

"You can't stop, then?" asked Wesden.

"Not just now. Don't keep the boy down here, please--he'll stand and talk, forgetting that he's in the way to-night, unless you give him a hint to the contrary. Out of business, he's a trifle inconsiderate, unless you plainly tell him he's not wanted. Good night--I shall see Harriet in the morning."

"Yes--good night."

Mr. Hinchford retires again, and in a few minutes afterwards, before there is further time to dilate upon the danger of railway travelling, and the uncertainty of human hopes, the long-expected cab dashes up to the door. There is a bustle in Great Suffolk Street; the cabman brings in the boxes amidst a little knot of loungers, who have evidently never seen a box before, or a cab, or a young lady emerge therefrom a.s.sisted by a tall young man, or listened to an animated dispute about a cab-fare, which comes in by way of sequence whilst the young lady is kissing everybody in turn in the parlour.

"My fare's eighteenpence, guv'nor."

"Not one shilling, legally," affirmed the young man.

"I never did it for a shilling afore--I ain't a going now--I'll take a summons out first."

"Take it."

"You won't stand another sixpence, guv'nor?"

"No."

"Then," bundling on to his box, and lashing his horse ferociously, "I won't waste my time on a tailor--it's much too valuable for that!"

The young man laughs at this withering sarcasm, and pa.s.ses through the shop into the parlour, where the animation has scarcely found time to subside.