"I'm hungry," was Norton's first confidence in the cars.

"So am I, very," said Matilda. "It will not take more than an hour, will it, to go to Poughkeepsie?"

"Not that," said Norton. Then the very first thing will be, to go up to Smith's and get our breakfast."

"That's that restaurant?"

"Yes. A good one too."

"I never was in a restaurant in my life," said Matilda.

"We'll see how you like it, Pink; it's delightful that you have never seen anything."

"Why?"

"You have got so much to see. And I want to know what you will think of it all."

Matilda was almost too happy. So happy, that not a sunbeam, nor a ripple on the water, nor a cloud in the sky, but seemed to bring her more to be glad of. It was only that her joy met these things and glanced back. So Norton said. But Matilda thought it was something beside.

"Why Norton, I am glad of those things themselves," she insisted.

"Of the waves on the river?" said Norton.

"Yes, to be sure I am."

"Nonsense, Pink! What for?"

"I don't know what for," said Matilda. "They are so pretty. And they are so lively. And there is another thing, Norton," she said with a change of voice. "God made them."

"Do you like everything he has made?" said Norton.

"I think I do."

"Then you must like those poor people in the omnibus, and poor people everywhere. Do they give you pleasure?"

Matilda could not say that they did. She wished with all her heart there were no such thing as poverty in the world. She could not answer immediately. And before she could answer the whistle blew.

"Is this Poughkeepsie?"

"Yes, this is Poughkeepsie. Now we'll have breakfast! Look sharp, Pink"—

In another minute, the two were standing on the platform of the station.

"Is this the place?" Matilda inquired a little ruefully. She saw, inside the glass door, a large room with what seemed like a shop counter running down the length of it; and on this counter certainly eatables were set out; she could see cups of tea or coffee, and biscuits, and pieces of pie. People were crowding to this counter, and plates and cups seemed to have a busy time.

"This is Poughkeepsie," said Norton. "You have been here before. This our restaurant? I should think not! Not precisely. We have got to take a walk before we get to it. Smith's is at the top of the street."

"I am glad; I am ready to walk," said Matilda joyously; and they set off at a pace which shewed what sort of time their spirits were keeping. Nevertheless, all the way, between other things, Matilda was studying the problem of poverty which Norton had presented to her. The walk was quite a walk, and the footsteps were a little slower before the "top of the street" was reached. Why Norton called it so, Matilda did not see. The street went on, far beyond; but they turned aside round a corner, and presently were at the place they wanted.

They entered a nice quiet room, somewhat large, to be sure, and with a number of little tables set out; but nobody at any of them. Matilda and Norton went towards the back of the room, where it took an angle, and they could be a little more private. Here they took possession of one of the tables. Norton set down his basket, and Matilda took off her hat. Nothing, she thought, could possibly be any pleasanter than this expedition in which they were engaged. This was a rare experience; unparalleled.

"Now what shall we have?" said Norton.

"What can we have?" said Matilda.

"Everything. That is, any common thing. You couldn't get dishes of French make-ups, I suppose; and we don't want them. I am just as hungry as a bear."

"And I am as hungry as a bearess."

Norton went off into a great laugh. "You look so like it!" he said. "But you might be as hungry as a bear; that don't say anything against your ladylike character. Though I always heard that she bears were fiercer than the others, when once they got their spirits up. Oh, Pink, Pink!"—

He was interrupted by the waiter.

"Now Pink, we've got to be civilized, and say what we'll have. You may have a cup of coffee."

"Yes, I would like it, Norton."

"And beefsteak? or cold chicken? We'll have chicken. I know you like it best."

It was nice of Norton; for he didn't.

"Buckwheats, Pink?"

"Yes. I like them," said Matilda.

"So do I, when they are good. And rolls, in case they shouldn't be. And good syrup—Silver Drip, mind."

Norton gave his order, and the two sat waiting. Matilda examined the place and its appointments. It was neat, if it was very plain.

"It's a good place enough," said Norton. "The country people come here in the middle of the day when they have driven in to Poughkeepsie to market and do shopping. Then the place is busy and all alive; now, you see, we have got it to ourselves. But anyhow, they have always good plain things here."

So the breakfast proved when it came. Matilda was very much amused with the little coffee pot, holding just enough for two, and the cream pitcher to match. But there was hot milk in plenty; and the cakes were feathery light; and the cold fowl very good; and the rolls excellent. And the two, Norton and Matilda, were very hungry. So much exercise and so much business and pleasure together made them sharp. Eating stopped talking a little. But the very goodness of the breakfast made Matilda think only the more, in the intervals, of that question Norton had given her; why were there poor people, who could have nothing like this?

"Shall we go to Blodgett's next? or will you see Maria first?" Norton asked.

"O, Maria first, Norton; and then we need not be hurried about the plants."

"The roots," said Norton. "Well, I'll see you there, and then I have some other business to attend to. I'll come for you about dinner time; then we can go to Blodgett's after dinner. You'll want a good deal of time with Maria, I suppose."

So after breakfast the two went down the town again and turned into the cross street where Maria lived. At the door of the humble-looking house, Norton left Matilda and went off again. Yes, it was a plain, small brick house, with wooden steps and little windows. Matilda had the door opened to her by Maria herself. She could not understand, though she surely saw, the cloud which instantly covered a flash of pleasure in Maria's face. The two went in, went up the stairs to a little back room, which was Maria's own. A chill came over Matilda here. It was so different from her room. A little close stove warmed it; the bed was covered with a gay patchwork quilt which had seen its best days; the chairs were but two, and those rush-bottomed. A painted wooden chest of drawers stood under the tiny bit of looking glass; the wash stand in the corner had but one towel thrown over it, and that not clean; one or two of Maria's dresses hung up against the wall. But a skirt of rich blue silk lay across the bed, for contrast; and yards of blue satin ribband lay partly quilled on the skirt, partly heaped on the patchwork quilt, and part had fallen on the floor. So one life touched another life.

"Well!" said Maria, for Matilda did not immediately begin what she had to say,—"how came you to be here so early?"

"We came down in the early train. I wanted to have a good long time to talk to you; and the next train is so late."

"Who came with you?"

"O, Norton. Norton Laval."

"Norton Laval! He came with you before. How came aunt Candy to let you come?"

"She could not help it."

"No," said Maria scornfully; "anything that Mrs. Laval wanted, she would say nothing against. She would go down on her knees, if she could get into Mrs. Laval's house. Did Mrs. Laval ask her to get you those new things?"

"No. Mrs. Laval"—

"How came she to do it, then?" interrupted Maria. "They are just as handsome as they can be; and in the fashion too. But she always liked you. I knew it. She never gave me anything, but a faded silk neckerchief. She is too mean"—

"O don't, Maria!" Matilda interrupted in her turn. "Aunt Candy had nothing to do with these things; she never gave me much either; she did not get these for me."

"Who did, then?" said Maria opening her eyes.

"Mrs. Laval."

"Mrs. Laval! How came she to do it?"

"Yes, Maria, because—Maria, I have gone away from aunt Candy's."

"For a visit. I know. It has been a tremendously long visit, I think."

"Not for a visit now. Maria, I am not to go back there at all any more; I mean, I am not going back to aunt Candy. Mrs. Laval has taken me to keep—to be her own child. I am there now, for always."

"What?" Maria exclaimed.

"Mrs. Laval has taken me for her own,—for her own child."

"She hasn't!" said Maria; and if the wish did not point the expression, it was hard to tell what did. Matilda made no answer.

"Mrs. Laval has taken you? for her own child?" repeated Maria. "Do you mean that? To be with her, just like her own daughter? always?"

Matilda bowed her head, and her eyes filled. She was so disappointed.

"You aren't ever going to call her mamma? Don't you do it, Matilda! See you don't. If you do, I'll not be your sister any more. She shall not have that!"

Matilda was silent still, utterly dismayed.

"Why don't you speak? What made her do that, anyhow?"

"I don't know," said Matilda in a trembling voice. "She had a little daughter once, and she took me"—Matilda's eyes were glittering. She nearly broke down, but would not, and in the resistance she made to the temptation, her head took its peculiar airy turn upon her neck. Maria ought to have known her well enough to understand it.

"Everything comes to you!" she exclaimed. "I wonder why nothing comes to me! There are you, set up now, you think, above all your relations; you will not want to look at us by and by; I dare say you feel so now. And you are dressed, and have dresses made for you, and you ride in a carriage, and you have everything you want; and I here make dresses for other people, and live anyhow I can; sew and sew, from morning till night, and begin again as soon as morning comes; and never a bit of pleasure or rest or hope of it; and can't dress myself decently, except by the hardest! I don't know what I have done to deserve it!" said Maria furiously. "It has always been so. Mamma loved you best, and aunt Candy treated you best,—she didn't love anybody;—and now strangers have taken you up; and nobody cares for me at all."

Here Maria completed her part of the harmony by bursting into tears. And being tears of extreme mortification and envy, they were hard to stop. The fountain was large. Matilda sat still, with her eyes glittering, and her head in the position that with her was apt to mean disapproval, and meant it now. But what could she say.

"It's very hard!"—Maria sobbed at last. "It's very hard!"

"Maria," said her little sister, "does it make it any harder for you, because I am taken such good care of?"

"Yes!" said Maria. "Why should good care be taken of you any more than of me? Of course it makes it harder."

There was nothing that it seemed wise to say; and Matilda, sometimes a wise little child in her way, waited in silence, though very much grieved. She began to think it was hard for Maria, though the whole thing had got into a puzzle with her. And she thought it was a little bit hard for herself, that she should have taken such pains to prepare a present for her sister, and meet such a reception when she came to offer it.

"Just look what a place I live in!" sobbed Maria. "Not a nice thing about it. And here I sit and sew and sew, to make other people's things, from morning till night; and longer. I had to sit up till ten o'clock last night, puckering on that ribband; and I shall have to do it again to-night; till twelve, very likely; because I have spent time talking to you. All that somebody else may be dressed and have a good time."

"But Maria, what would you do if you hadn't this to do?" suggested Matilda.

"I don't know, and I don't care! I'd as lieve die as do this. I should like to put those pieces of blue ribband in the stove, and never see them again!"

"Isn't it pleasant work, Maria? I think it is pretty nice work. It isn't hard."

"Isn't it!" said Maria. "How would you like to try it? How would you like to exchange your room at Mrs. Laval's for this one? Haven't you got a nice room there?"

Matilda answered yes.

"How would you like to exchange it for this one, and to sit here making somebody's dress for a party, instead of riding about on the cars and going where you like and seeing everything and doing what you've a mind to? Nice exchange, wouldn't it be? Don't you think you'd like to try it? And I would come and see you and tell you how pleasant it is."

Matilda had nothing to say. Her eye glanced round again at the items of Maria's surroundings: the worn ingrain carpet; the rusty, dusty little stove; the patch-work counterpane, which the bright silk made to look so very coarse; and she could not but confess to herself that it would be a sore change to leave her pleasant home and easy life and come here. But what then?

"Maria, it isn't my fault," she said at last. "It is not my doing at all. And I think this is a great deal better than living with aunt Candy; and I would a great deal rather do it."

"I wouldn't," said Maria.

Matilda sat still and waited; her gayety pretty well taken down. She was very sorry for her sister, though she could not approve her views of things. Neither did she know well what to say to them. So she kept silence; until Maria stopped sobbing, dried her eyes, washed her hands, and began to quill her blue trimming again.

"What did you come to Poughkeepsie for, to-day?"

"To see you; nothing else."

"I think it is time. You haven't been here for weeks, and months, for aught I know."

"Because I wrote you why, Maria. There was sickness at Briery Bank, and Norton and I were at the parsonage ever so long. I couldn't come to see you then."

"What have you got in that basket? your dinner?"

"O no; something that I wanted to shew to you. I wanted to bring you something, Maria; and I did not know what you would like; and I thought about it and thought about it all yesterday, and I didn't know. I wanted to bring you something pretty; but I remembered when I was here before you said you wanted gloves and handkerchiefs so much; and so, I thought it was better to bring you those."

While Matilda was making this speech, she was slowly taking out of her basket and unfolding her various bundles; she had half a hope, and no more now, that Maria would be pleased. Maria snatched the bundles, examined the handkerchiefs and counted them; then compared the gloves with her hand and laid them over it. Finally she put both gloves and handkerchiefs on the bed beside her, and went on sewing. She had not said one word about them.

"Are they right, Maria?" said her little sister. "They are the right number, I know; do you like the colours I have chosen?"

"They are well enough," Maria answered.

"Green and chocolate, I thought you liked," Matilda went on; "and the dark brown I liked. So I chose those. Do you like the handkerchiefs, Maria?"

"I want them badly enough," said Maria. "Did you get them at Cope's?"

"Yes, and I thought they were very nice. Are they?"

"A child like you doesn't know much about buying such things," said Maria, quilling and turning her blue ribband with great energy. "Yes, they'll do pretty well. What sort of handkerchiefs have you got?"

"Just my old ones. I haven't got any new ones."

"I should like to see those, when you get them. I suppose they'll be worked, and have lace round the borders."

"I shouldn't like it, if they had," said Matilda.

"We'll see, when you get them. I wonder how many things Anne and Letitia want? and can't get."

"I shall see them soon," said Matilda. "We are going to New York for the winter."

"You are!" exclaimed Maria, again ruefully. Matilda could not understand why. "But you won't see much of Anne and Letty, I don't believe."

"Perhaps I shall be going to school, and so not have much chance. Where do they live, Maria? I have forgotten."

"You will forget again," said Maria.

"But tell me, please. I will put it down."

"Number 316 Bolivar street. Now how much wiser are you?"

"Just so much," said Matilda, marking the number on a bit of paper. "I must know the name before I can find the place."

"You won't go there much," said Maria again. "Might just as well let it alone."

"Are the people here pleasant, Maria? are they good to live with?"

"They are not what you would call good."

"Are they pleasant?"

"No," said Maria. "They are not at all pleasant. I don't care who hears me say it. All the woman cares for, is to get as much work out of me as she can. That is how I live."

There was no getting to a smooth track for conversation with Maria. Begin where she would, Matilda found herself directly plunged into something disagreeable. She gave it up and sat still, watching the blue ribband curling and twisting in Maria's fingers, and wondering sadly anew why some people should be rich and others poor.

"Aren't you going to take off your things and have dinner with me?" said Maria, glancing up from her trimming.

"I cannot do that very well; Norton is coming for me; and I do not know how soon."

"I don't suppose I could give you anything you would like to eat. Where will you get your dinner then?"

"Somewhere with Norton."

"Then you didn't bring it with you?"

"No."

Matilda did not feel that it would do to-day, to invite Maria to go with them to the restaurant. Norton had said nothing about it; and in Maria's peculiar mood Matilda could not tell how she might behave herself or what she would say. Perhaps Maria expected it, but she could not help that. The time was a silent one between the sisters, until the expected knock at the house door came. It was welcome, as well as expected. Matilda got up, feeling relieved if she felt also sorry; and after kissing Maria, she ran down-stairs and found herself in the fresh open air, taking long breaths, like a person that had been shut up in a close little stove-heated room. Which she had. And Norton's cheery voice was a delightful contrast to Maria's dismal tones. With busy steps, the two went up the street again to the restaurant. It was pretty full of people now; but Norton and Matilda found an unoccupied table in a corner. There a good dinner was brought them; and the two were soon equally happy in eating it and in discussing their garden arrangements. After they had dined, Norton ordered ice cream.

Matilda was as fond of ice cream as most children are who have very seldom seen it; but while she sat enjoying it she began to think again, why she should have it and Maria not have it? The question brought up the whole previous question that had been troubling her, about the rich and the poor, and quite gave a peculiar flavour to what she was tasting. She lost some of Norton's talk about bulbs.

"Norton," she exclaimed at last suddenly, "I have found it!"

"Found what?" said Norton. "Not a blue tulip?"

"No, not a blue tulip. I have found the answer to that question you asked me,—you know,—in the cars."

"I asked you five hundred and fifty questions in the cars," said Norton. "Which one?"

"Just before we got to Poughkeepsie, don't you remember?"

"No," said Norton laughing. "I don't, of course. What was it, Pink? The idea of remembering a question!"

"Don't you remember, you asked me if I didn't like poverty and poor people, for the same reason I liked other things?"

But here Norton's amusement became quite unmanageable.

"How should you like poverty and poor people for the same reason you like other things, you delicious Pink?" he said. "How should you like those smoky coats in the omnibus, for the same reason that you like a white hyacinth or a red tulip?"

"That is what I was puzzling about, Norton; you don't recollect; and I could not make it out; because I knew I didn't enjoy poverty and poor things, and you said I ought."

"Excuse me," said Norton. "I never said you ought, in the whole course of my rational existence since I have known you."

"No, no, Norton; but don't you know, I said I liked everything, waves of the river and all, because God made them? and you thought I ought to like poor people and things for the same reason."

"O, that!" said Norton. "Well, why don't you?"

"That is what I could not tell, Norton, and I was puzzling to find out; and now I know."

"Well, why?"

"Because, God did not make them, Norton."

"Yes, he did. Doesn't he make everything?"

"In one way he does, to be sure; but then, Norton, if everybody did just right, there would be no poor people in the world; so it is not something that God has made, but something that comes because people won't do right."

"How?" said Norton.

"Why Norton, you know yourself. If everybody was good and loved everybody else as well as himself, the people who have more than enough would give to the people who are in want, and there would not be uncomfortable poor people anywhere. And that is what the Bible says. 'He that hath two coats,'—don't you remember?"

"No, I don't," said Norton. "Most people have two coats, that can afford it. What ought they to do?"

"The Bible says, 'let him impart to him that hath none.'"

"But suppose I cannot get another," said Norton; "and I want two for myself?"

"But somebody else has not one? suppose."

"I can very easily suppose it," said Norton. "As soon as we get out of the cars in New York I'll shew you a case."

"Well, Norton, that is what I said. If everybody loved those poor people, don't you see, they would have coats, and whatever they need. It is because you and I and other people don't love them enough."

"I don't love another boy well enough to give him my overcoat," said Norton. "But coats wouldn't make a great many poor people respectable. Those children in the omnibus this morning had coats on, comfortable enough; the trouble was, they were full of buckwheat cake smoke."

"Well if people are not clean, that's their own fault," said Matilda. "But those people this morning hadn't perhaps any place to be in but their kitchen. They might not be able to help it, for want of another room and another fire."

Matilda was eager, but Norton was very much amused. He ordered some more ice cream and a charlotte. Matilda eat what he gave her, but silently carried on her thoughts; these she would have given to Maria, if she could; she was having more than enough.

Moralizing was at an end when she got to the gardener's shop. The consultations and discussions which went on then, drove everything else out of her head. The matter in hand was a winter garden, for their home in New York.

"I'll have some auriculas this year," said Norton. "You wouldn't know how to manage them, Pink. You must have tulips and snowdrops; O yes, and crocuses. You can get good crocuses here. And polyanthus narcissus you can have. You will like that."

"But what will you have, Norton?"

"Auriculas. That's one thing. And then, I think I'll have some Amaryllis roots—but I won't get those here. I'll get tulips and hyacinths, Pink."

"Shall we have room for so many?"

"Lots of room. There's my room has two south windows—that's the good of being on a corner; and I don't know exactly what your room will be, but I'll get grandmother to let us live on that side of the house anyhow. Nobody else in the family cares about a south window, only you and I. Put up a dozen Van Tols, and a dozen of the hyacinths, and three polyanthus narcissus, and a dozen crocuses;—and a half dozen snowdrops."

"Will you plant them while we are in Shadywalk?"

"Of course," said Norton; "or else they'll be blossoming too late, don't you see? Unless we go to town very soon; and in that case we'll wait and keep them."

The roots were paid for and ordered to be sent by express; and at last Norton and Matilda took their journey to the station house to wait for the train. It was all a world of delight to Matilda. She watched eagerly the gathering people, the busy porters and idle hack drivers; the expectant table and waiters in the station restaurant; every detail and almost every person she saw had the charm of novelty or an interest of some sort for her unwonted eyes. And then came the rumble of the train, the snort and the whistle; and she was seated beside Norton in the car, with a place by the window where she could still watch everything. The daylight was dying along the western shore before they reached the Shadywalk station; the hills and the river seemed to Matilda like a piece of a beautiful vision; and all the day had been like a dream.



CHAPTER V.

It was near dark by the time they got home, and Matilda was tired. Tea and lights and rest were very pleasant; and after tea she sat down on a cushion by Mrs. Laval's side, while Norton told over the doings of the day.

"Which room will Matilda have, mamma, in New York?" Norton asked.

"I don't know. Why are you anxious?"

"We want south windows for our plants."

"She shall have a south window," said Mrs. Laval fondly. "And I have had a letter from your grandmother, Norton. I think I shall go to town next week."

"Before December!" cried Norton. "Hurra! That is splendid. After we get into December and I am going to school, the days and the weeks get into such a progress that they trip each other up, and I don't know where I am. And there's Christmas. Mamma, don't send Pink to school! Let me teach her."

"I don't think you know very well where you are now," said his mother smiling. "What will you do with your own lessons?"

"Plenty of time," said Norton. "Too much time, in fact. Mamma, I don't think Pink would enjoy going to school."

"We will see," Mrs. Laval said. "But there is something else Pink would enjoy, I think. You have not got your allowance yet, Matilda. Have you a purse, love? or a porte-monnaie, or anything?"

"O yes, ma'am! Don't you remember, ma'am, you gave me your pocket book? a beautiful red morocco one, with a sweet smell?"

"No," said Mrs. Laval laughing.

"It was before the sickness—O, long ago; you gave it to me, with money in it, for Lilac lane."

"Is the money all gone?"

"It is all gone," said Matilda; "for you remember, Mrs. Laval, Norton and I had a great many things to get for that poor woman and her house. It took all the money."

"You had enough?"

"O yes, ma'am; Norton helped."

"Well then you have a pocket book; that will serve to hold your future supplies. I shall give you the same as I give Norton, five dollars a month; that is fifteen dollars a quarter. Out of that you will provide yourself with boots and shoes and gloves; you may consult your own taste, only you must be always nice in those respects. Here is November's five dollars."

"Mamma, November is half out," said Norton.

"Matilda has everything to get; she has to begin without such a stock as you have on hand."

"Mamma, you will give her besides for her Christmas presents, won't you?"

"Certainly. As I do you."

"How much will you give her, mamma? For I foresee we shall have a great deal of work to attend to in New York stores before Christmas; and Matilda will naturally want to know how much she has to spend."

"She can think about it," said Mrs. Laval smiling. "You do not want your Christmas money yet."

"We shall get into great trouble," said Norton with a mock serious face. "I foresee I shall have so much advising to do—and to take—that it lies like a weight on me. I can't think how Pink will settle things in her mind. At present she is under the impression that she must not keep more than one pair of boots at a time."

"You want several, my darling," said Mrs. Laval, "for different uses and occasions. Don't you understand that?"

"Yes ma'am, I always did"—

Matilda would have explained, but Norton broke in. "She thinks two overcoats at once is extravagant, mamma; I ought to give one of them away."

Matilda wanted to say that Norton was laughing, and yet what he said was partly true. She held her peace.

"You do not really think that, my darling," said Mrs. Laval, putting her arm round Matilda, and bending down her face for a kiss. "You do not think that, do you?"

It was very difficult to tell Mrs. Laval what she really did think. Matilda hesitated.

"Don't you see," said the lady, laughing and kissing her again, "don't you see that Norton wants two overcoats just as much as he wants one? The one he wears every day to school would not be fit to go to church in. Hey?" said Mrs. Laval with a third kiss.

"Mamma, there are reasons against all that; you do not understand," said Norton.

"It's very hard to say," Matilda spoke at length, rousing herself; for her head had gone down on Mrs. Laval's lap. "May I say exactly what I do mean?"

"Certainly; and Norton shall not interrupt you."

"I don't want to interrupt her," said Norton. "It is as good as a book."

"What is it, my love?"

Matilda slipped off her cushion and kneeling on the rug, with her hands still on Mrs. Laval's lap, looked off into the fire.

"The Bible says"—she began and checked herself. The Bible was not such authority there. "I was only thinking—Ma'am, you know how many poor people there are in the world?"

"Yes, dear."

"She doesn't," said Norton.

"People that have no overcoats at all, nor under coats neither, some of them. I was thinking—if all the people who have plenty, would give half to the people who have nothing, there would be nobody cold or miserable; I mean, miserable from that."

"Yes, there would, my darling," said Mrs. Laval. "People who are idle and wicked, and won't work and do not take care of what they have, they would be poor if we were to give them, not half but three quarters, of all we have. It would be all gone in a week or two; or a month or two."

Matilda looked at Mrs. Laval. "But the poor people are not always wicked?"

"Very often. Industrious and honest people need never suffer."

That would alter the case, Matilda thought. She sat back on her cushion again and laid her head down as before. But then, what meant the Bible words; "He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise"? The Bible could not be mistaken. Matilda was puzzled with the difficult question; and presently the warm fire and her thoughts together were too much for her. The eyelids drooped over her eyes; she was asleep. Mrs. Laval made a sign to Norton to keep quiet. Her own fingers touched tenderly the soft brown locks of the head which lay on her lap; but too softly to disturb the sleeper.

"Mamma," said Norton softly, "isn't she a darling?"

"Hush!" said Mrs. Laval. "Don't wake her."

"She is perfectly fast asleep," said Norton. "She don't sham sleeping any more than awake. Mamma, how will grandmamma like her?"

"She cannot help it," said Mrs. Laval.

"Aunt Judy won't," said Norton. "But mamma, she is twenty times prettier than Judith Bartholomew."

"She is as delicate as a little wood flower," said Mrs. Laval.

"She has more stuff than that," said Norton; "she is stiff enough to hold her head up; but I'll tell you what she is like. She is like my Penelope hyacinth."

"Your Penelope hyacinth!" Mrs. Laval echoed.

"Yes; you do not know it, mamma. It is not a white hyacinth; just off that; the most delicate rose pearl colour. Now Judy is like a purple dahlia."

"Matilda is like nothing that is not sweet," said Mrs. Laval fondly, looking at the little head.

"Well, I am sure hyacinths are sweet," said Norton. "Mamma, will you let me teach her?"

"You will not have time."

"I will. I have plenty of time."

"What will you teach her?"

"Everything I learn myself—if you say so."

"Perhaps she would like better to go to school."

"She wouldn't," said Norton. "She likes everything that I say."

"Does she!" said his mother laughing. "That is dangerous flattery, Norton."

"Her cheeks are just the colour of the inside of a pink shell," said Norton. "Mamma, there is not a thing ungraceful about her."

"Not a thing," said Mrs. Laval. "Not a movement."

"And she is so dainty," said Norton. "She is just as particular as you are, mamma."

"Or as my boy is," said his mother, putting her other hand upon his bright locks. "You are my own boy for that."

"Mamma," Norton went on, "I want you to give Pink to me."

"Yes, I know what that means," said his mother. "That will do until you get to school and are going on skating parties every other day; then you will like me to take her off your hands."

Norton however did not defend himself. He kissed his mother, and then stooped down and kissed the sleeping little face on her lap.

"Mamma, she is so funny!" he said. "She actually puzzles her head with questions about rich and poor people, and the reforms there ought to be in the world; and she thinks she ought to begin the reforms, and I ought to carry them on. It's too jolly."

"It will be a pleasure to see her pleasure in New York."

"Yes, won't it! Mamma, nobody is to take her first to the Central Park but me."

The questions about rich and poor were likely to give Matilda a good deal to do. She had been too sleepy that night to think much of anything; but the next day, when she was putting her five dollars in her pocket-book, they weighed heavy.

"And this is only for November," she said to herself; "and December's five dollars will be here directly; and January will bring five more. Fifteen. How many shoes and boots must I get for that time?"

Careful examination shewed that she had on hand one pair of boots well worn, another pair which had seen service as Sunday boots, but were quite neat yet, and one pair of nice slippers. The worn boots would not do to go out with Mrs. Laval, nor anywhere in company with Matilda's new pelisse. "They will only do to give away," she concluded. They would have seen a good deal of service in Shadywalk, if she had remained there with her aunt Candy; Mrs. Laval was another affair. One pair for every day and one pair for best, would do very well, Matilda thought. Then gloves? She must get some gloves. How many?

She went to Mr. Cope's that very afternoon, and considered all the styles of gloves he had in his shop. Fine kid gloves, she found, would eat up her money very fast. But she must have them; nothing else could be allowed to go to church or anywhere in company with Mrs. Laval, and even Norton wore nothing else when he was dressed. Matilda got two pair, dark brown and dark green; colours that she knew would wear well; though her eyes longed for a pair of beautiful tan colour. But besides these, Matilda laid in some warm worsted gloves, which she purposed to wear in ordinary or whenever she went out by herself. She had two dollars left, when this was done. The boots, Mrs. Laval had told her, she was to get in New York; she could wait till December for them.

And now everybody was in a hurry to get to New York. The house was left in charge of the Swiss servants. The grey ponies were sent down the river by the last boat from Rondout. Matilda went to see Mrs. Eldridge once, during these days of bustle and expectancy; and the visit refreshed all those questions in her mind about the use of money and the duties of rich people. So much work a little money here had done! It was not like the same place. It was a humble place doubtless, and would always be that; but there was cozy warmth instead of desolation; and comfortable tidiness and neatness instead of the wretched condition of things which had made Matilda's heart sick once; and the poor woman herself was decently dressed, and her face had brightened up wonderfully. Matilda read to her, and came away glad and thoughtful.

The farewell visit was paid at the parsonage the last thing; and on the first of December the party set out to go to the new world of the great city. It was a keen, cold winter's day; the sky bleak with driving grey clouds; the river rolling and turbulent under the same wind that sped them. Sitting next the window in the car, where she liked to sit, Matilda watched it all with untiring interest; and while she watched it, she thought by turns of Mr. Richmond's words the evening before. Matilda had asked him how she should be sure to know what was right to do always? Mr. Richmond advised her to take for her motto those words—"Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus;"—and to let every question be settled by them. He said they would settle every one, if she was willing they should. And now as Matilda sat musing, she believed they would; but a doubt came up,—if she lived by that rule, and all around her without exception went by another rule, how would they get along? She was obliged to leave it; she could not tell; only the doubt came up.

It seemed a long way to New York. After Poughkeepsie had been some time left behind, Matilda began to think it was time to hear about the end of the journey; but Norton told her they were only in the Highlands. Matilda watched the changing shores, brown and cold-looking, till the hills were left behind, and the river took a look she was more accustomed to. Still Norton only laughed at her, when she appealed to him; they were not near New York, he said; it was Haverstraw bay. It seemed to take a great while to pass that bay and Tappan Sea. Then Norton pointed out to her the high straight line of shore on the opposite side of the river. "Those are the Palisades, Pink," he said; "and when you see the Palisades come to an end, then New York is not far off."

But it seemed as if the Palisades would never come to an end, in Matilda's tired fancy. She was weary of the cars by this time, and eager for the sight of the new strange place where her life was to be for so long. And the cars sped on swiftly, and still the straight line of the Palisades stretched on too. At last, at last, that straight line shewed signs of breaking down.

"Yes," said Norton, to whom Matilda pointed this out,—"we'll soon be in now, Pink."

Matilda roused up, to use her eyes with fresh vigilance. She noticed one or two places where carts and men were busy, seemingly, with the endeavour to fill up the North river; at least they were carrying out loads of earth and dumping it into the water. She was tired of talking by this time, and waited to ask an explanation till the roar of the car-wheels should be out of her ears. They came to scattered buildings; then the buildings seemed less scattered; then the train slackened its wild rate of rushing on, and Matilda could better see what she was passing. They were in a broad street at last, broader than any street in Shadywalk. But it was dismal! Was this New York? Matilda had never seen such forlorn women and children on the sidewalks at home. Nor ever so much business going on there. Everybody was busy, except one or two women lounging in a doorway. Carts, and builders, and hurried passers by; and shops and markets and grocery stores in amazing numbers and succession. But with a sort of forlornness about them. Matilda thought she would not like to have to eat the vegetables or the meat she saw displayed there.

Then came the slow stopping of the cars; and the passengers turned out into the long shed of the station house. Here Norton left them, to go and find the carriage; while Matilda lost herself in wonder at the scene. So many people hurrying off, meeting their friends, hastening by in groups and pairs, and getting packed into little crowds; such numbers of coachmen striving for customers at the doors, with their calls of "Carriage, sir?" "Carriage, ma'am?" pattering like hail. It was wonderful, and very amusing. If this was only the station house of the railway, and the coming in of one train, Matilda thought New York must be a very large place indeed. Presently Norton came back and beckoned them out, through one of those clusters of clamorous hackney coachmen, and Matilda found herself bestowed in the most luxurious equipage she had ever seen in her life. Surely it was like nothing but the appointments of fairy land, this carriage. Matilda sunk in among the springs as if they had been an arrangement of feathers; and the covering of the soft cushions was nothing worse than satin, of dark crimson hue. Nothing but very handsome dresses could go in such a carriage, she reflected; she would have to buy an extremely neat pair of boots to go with the dresses or the carriage either. It was Mrs Lloyd's carriage; and Mrs. Lloyd was Mrs. Laval's mother.

The carriage was the first thing that took Matilda's attention; but after that she fell to an eager inspection of the houses and streets they were passing through. These changed rapidly, she found. The streets grew broad, the houses grew high; groceries and shops were seldomer to be seen, and were of much better air; markets disappeared; carmen and carts grew less frequent; until at last all these objectionable things seemed to be left behind, and the carriage drew up before a door which looked upon nothing that was not stately. Up and down, as far as Matilda could see, the street was clean and splendid. She could see this in one glance, almost without looking, as she got out of the carriage, before Norton hurried her in.

She felt strange, and curious; not afraid; she knew the sheltering arms of her friends would protect her. It was a doubtful feeling, though, with which she stepped on the marble floor of the hall and saw the group which were gathered round Mrs. Laval. What struck Matilda at first was the beautiful hall, or room she would have called it, though the stairs went up from one side; its soft warm atmosphere; the rustle of silks and gleam of colours, and the gentle bubbling up of voices all around her. But she stood on the edge of the group. Soon she could make more detailed observations.

That stately lady in black silk and lace shawl, she was Mrs. Laval's mother; she heard Mrs. Laval call her so. Very stately, in figure and movement too; a person accustomed to command and have her own way, Matilda instinctively felt. Now she had her arms round Norton; she was certainly very fond of him. The lady with lace in her gleaming hair, and jewels at her breast, and the dress of crimson satin falling in rich folds all about her, sweeping the marble, that must be Mrs. Laval's sister. She looked like a person who did not do anything and had not anything she need do, like Mrs. Laval. Then this girl of about her own age, with a very bright mischievous face and a dress of sky blue, Matilda knew who she must be; would they like each other, she questioned? And then she had no more time for silent observations; Norton called upon her, and pulled her forward into the group.

"Grandmamma, you have not seen her," he cried; "you have not seen one of us. This is mamma's pet, and my—darling." It was evident the boy's thought was of "daughter" and "sister," but that a tender feeling stopped his tongue. Mrs. Lloyd looked at Matilda.

"I have heard of her," she said.

"Yes, but you must kiss her. She is one of us."

"She is mine," said Mrs. Laval meaningly, putting both arms around Matilda and drawing her to her mother.

The stately lady stooped and kissed the child, evidently because she was thus asked.

"Grandmamma, she is to have half my place in your heart," said Norton.

"Will you give it up to her?" Mrs. Lloyd asked.

"It is just as good as my having it," said Norton.

Perhaps he would have presented Matilda then to his aunt, but that lady had turned off into the drawing room; and the travellers mounted the stairs with Mrs. Lloyd to see their apartments and to prepare for dinner. The ladies went into a large room opening from the upper hall; Norton and the girl Matilda had noticed went bounding up the second flight of stairs.

Mrs. Laval lay down on a couch, and said she would have a cup of tea before dressing. While she took it, Mrs. Lloyd sat beside her and the two talked very busily. Matilda, left to herself, put off her coat and hat and sat down at the other side of the fire, for a fire was burning in the grate, and pondered the situation. The house was like a palace in a fairy tale, surely, she thought. Her eyes were dazzled with the glimmer from gildings and mirrors and lamps hanging from the ceilings. Her foot fell on soft carpets. The hangings of the bed were of blue silk. The couches were covered with rich worsted work. Pictures made the walls dainty. Beautiful things which she could not examine yet, stood on the various tables. It immediately pressed on Matilda's attention, that to be of a piece with all this elegance and not out of place among the people inhabiting there, she had need to be very elegant herself. The best dress in her whole little stock was the brown merino she had worn to travel in. She had thought it very elegant in Shadywalk; but how did it look alongside of Miss Judy's blue silk? Matilda had nothing better, at any rate. She glanced down at her boots, to see how they would do. They were her best Sunday boots. They were neat, she concluded. They wanted a little brushing from dust; then they would do pretty well. But she did not think they were elegant. The soles of them were rather too thick for that. At this point her attention was drawn to what was saying at the other side of the fire.

"Do the children dine with us?"

"To-day."

"Not in ordinary?"

"It is bad for the boys; puts them out. One o'clock suits them a great deal better. And six is a poor hour for children always. And with company of course it is impossible; and that makes irregularity; and that is bad."

"I suppose it is best so," said Mrs. Laval with half a sigh. "What room is Matilda to have, mother?"

"Matilda?—O, your new child. You want her to have a room to herself?"

"Yes."

"I will let her have the little front corner room, if you like. There is room enough."

"That will do," said Mrs. Laval. "Come, darling, let us go upstairs and look at it. Then you will begin to feel at home."

She sprang off the sofa, and taking Matilda's hand they mounted together the second flight of stairs; wide, uncarpeted, smooth, polished stairs they were; to the upper hall. Just at the head of the stairs Mrs. Laval opened a door. It let them into a pretty little room; little indeed only by comparison with other larger apartments of the house; it was of a pleasant size, with two great windows; and being a corner room, its windows looked out in two directions, over two several city views. Matilda had no time to examine them just then; her attention was absorbed by the room. It had a rich carpet; the hangings and covering of the bed were dark green; an elegant little toilet table was furnished with crystal, and the washcloset had painted green china dishes. There were pictures here too, and little foot cushions, and a beautiful chest of drawers, and a tall wardrobe for dresses. The room was full.

"This will do very nicely," said Mrs. Laval. "You wanted a south window, Matilda; here it is. I think you will like this room better than one of those large ones, darling; they are large enough for you to get lost in. See, here is the gas jet, when you want light; and here are matches, Matilda. And now you will have a place where you can be by yourself when you wish it; and at other times you can come down to me. You will feel at home, when you get established here, and have some dresses to hang up in that wardrobe. That is one of the first things you and I must attend to. I could not do it at Shadywalk. So come down now, dear, to my room, and we will get ready for dinner. Are you tired, love?"

Matilda met and answered the kiss that ended this speech, and went downstairs again a very contented child. However, all her getting ready for dinner that day consisted in a very thorough brushing of her short hair, and a little furtive endeavour to get rid of some specks of dust on her boots. She sat down then and waited, while Mrs. Laval changed her travelling dress, and Mrs. Bartholomew alternately assisted and talked to her. That elegant crimson satin robe swept round the room in a way that was very imposing to Matilda. She could not help feeling like a little brown thrush in the midst of a company of resplendent parrots and birds of paradise. But she did not much care. Only she thought it would be very pleasant to have the wardrobe upstairs furnished with a set of dresses to correspond somewhat with her new splendid surroundings. Mrs. Bartholomew had not spoken to her yet, nor anybody, except Mrs. Laval's mother. Matilda thought herself forgotten; but when the ladies were about to go downstairs, Mrs. Laval called her sister's attention to the subject.

"Judith, this is my new child."

Mrs. Bartholomew cast a comprehensive glance at Matilda, or all over her. Matilda could not have told whether she had looked at her until then.

"Where did you pick her up, Zara?"

"I did not pick her up," said Mrs. Laval, smiling at Matilda. "A wave wafted her into my arms."

"What sort of a wave?" said the other lady dryly.

"No matter what sort of a wave. You see from what sort of a shore this flower must have drifted."

"You are poetical," said the other, laughing slightly. "You always were. Shall we go down?"

Mrs. Laval stretched out her hand to Matilda and held it in a warm clasp as they went down the stairs; and still held her fast and seated her by herself in the drawing room. It was the only point of connection with the rest of the world that Matilda felt she had just then. Until Norton came running downstairs with his two cousins, and entered the room.

"Come here, Judy," said Mrs. Laval. "This is my new little daughter, Matilda. You two must be good cousins and friends."

Miss Black-eyes took Matilda's hand; but somehow Matilda could perceive neither the friendship nor the cousinship in the touch of it.

"Matilda what?" Miss Judith asked. Her aunt hesitated an instant.

"She has not learned yet to do without her old name. Her new name is mine, of course."

Matilda was a good deal startled and a little dismayed. Was she to give up her own name then, and be called Laval? she had not heard of it before. She was not sure that she liked it at all. There was no time to think about it now.

"David," Mrs. Laval went on, "come here. I want you all to be good friends as soon as possible."

She put Matilda's hand in his as she spoke. But David said never a word; only he bowed over Matilda's hand in the most calmly polite manner, and let it drop. He was not shy, Matilda thought, or he could not have made such an elegant reverence; but he did not speak a word. His aunt laughed a little, and yet gave a glance of admiration at the boy.

"You are not changed," she said.

Changed in what? Matilda wondered; and she looked to see what she could make out in David Bartholomew. He was not so dark as his sister; he had rich brown hair; and the black eyes were not snapping and sparkling like hers, but large, lustrous, proud, and rather gloomy, it seemed to the little stranger's fancy. She looked away again; she did not like him. In another minute they were called to dinner.

It was but to walk across the hall, and Matilda found herself seated at the most imposing board she had ever beheld. Certainly everything at Mrs. Laval's table was beautiful and costly; but there it had been only a table for two or three; no company, and the simplest way of the house. Here there was a good tableful, and a large table; and the sparkle of glass and silver quite dazzled the child's unaccustomed eyes. How much silver, and what brilliant and beautiful glass! She wondered at the profusion of forks by her own plate, and almost thought the waiter must have made a mistake; but she saw Norton was as well supplied. The lights, and the flowers, and the fruit in the centre of the table, and the gay silks and laces around it, and all the appointments of the elegant room, almost bewildered Matilda. Yet she thought it was very pleasant too, and extremely pretty; and discovered that eating dinner was a great deal more of a pleasure when the eyes could be so gratified at the same time with the taste. However, soup was soup, she found, to a hungry little girl.

"Pink," said Norton, after he had swallowed his soup,—"where do you think we will go first?" Norton had got a seat beside her and spoke in a confidential whisper.

"I am going with your mother to-morrow," Matilda returned in an answering whisper. "So she said."

"That won't tire you out," said Norton. "After she goes, or before she goes, you and I will go. Where first?"

"You and I alone?" said Matilda softly.

"Alone!"

"Norton," said Matilda very softly, "I think I want to go first of all to the shoemaker's."

Norton had nearly burst out into a laugh, but he crammed his napkin against his face.

"You dear Pink!" he said; "that isn't anywhere. That's business. I mean pleasure. You see, next week I shall begin to go to school, and my time will be pretty nicely taken up, except Saturday. We have got three days before next week. And you have got to see everything."

"But Norton, I do not know what there is to see."

"That's true. You don't, to be sure. Well Pink, there's the Park; but we must have a good day for that; to-day is so cold it would bite our noses. We can go every afternoon, if it's good. Then there is the Museum; and there is a famous Menagerie just now."

"Oh Norton!"—said Matilda.

"Well?"

"Do you mean a Menagerie with lions? and an elephant?"

"Lions, and splendid tigers, David says; and an elephant, and a hippopotamus; and ever so many other creatures besides. All of them splendid, David says."

"I did not use that word," David remarked from the other side of the table.

"All right," said Norton. "It is my word. Then, Pink, we'll pay our respects to the lions and tigers the first thing. After the shoe"—

"Hush, Norton," said Matilda. "You forget yourself."

Norton laughed, pleased; for Matilda's little head had taken its independent set upon her shoulders, and it shewed him that she was feeling at ease, and not shy and strange, as he had feared she might. In truth the lions and tigers had drawn Matilda out of herself. And now she was able to enjoy roast beef and plum pudding and ice cream as well as anybody, and perhaps more; for to her they were an unusual combination of luxuries. Now and then she glanced at the other people around the table. Mrs. Lloyd always seemed to her like a queen; the head of the house; and the head of such a house was as good as a queen. Judith looked like a young lady who took, and could take, a great many liberties in it. David, like a grave, reserved boy who never wanted to take one. Mrs. Bartholomew seemed a luxurious fine lady; Matilda's impression was that she cared not much for anybody or anything except herself and her children. And how rich they all must be! Not Mrs. Lloyd alone; but all these. Their dress shewed it, and their talk, and their air still more. It was the air of people who wanted nothing they could not have, and did not know what it meant to want anything long. Mrs. Lloyd was drinking one sort of wine, Mrs. Bartholomew another, and Mrs. Laval another; one had a little clear wineglass, another a yellow bowl-like goblet, much larger; the third had a larger still. Every place was provided with the three glasses, Matilda saw. Just as her observations had got thus far, she was startled to see Norton sign the servant and hold his claret glass to be filled.

Matilda's thoughts went into a whirl immediately. She had not seen Norton take wine at home; it brought trooping round her, by contrast, the recollections of Shadywalk, the Sunday school room, the meetings of the Commission, and Mr. Richmond, and talk about temperance, and her pledge to do all she could to help the cause of temperance. Now, here was a field. Yes, and there was David Bartholomew on the other side of the table, he also was just filling his glass. But what could Matilda do here? Would these boys listen to her? And yet, she had promised to do all she could for the cause of temperance. She could certainly do something, in the way of trying at least. She must. To try, is in everybody's power. But now she found as she thought about it, that it would be very difficult even to try. It is inconceivable how unwilling she felt to say one word to Norton on the subject; and as for David!—Well, she need not think of David at present; he was a stranger. If she could get Norton to listen— But she could not get Norton to listen, she was sure; and what was the use of making a fuss and being laughed at just for nothing? Only, she had promised.

The working of these thoughts pretty well spoiled Matilda's ice cream. There was a trembling of other thoughts, too, around these, that were also rather unwelcome. But she could not think them out then. The company had left the table and gathered in another room, and there a great deal of talk and discussion of many things went on, including winter plans for the children and home arrangements, in which Matilda was interested. Shopping, also, and what stuffs and what colours were most in favour, and fashions of making and wearing. Matilda had certainly been used to hear talk on such subjects in the days of her mother's life-time, when the like points were eagerly debated between her and her older children. But then it was always with questions. What is fashionable; and What can we manage to get? Now and here, that questioning was replaced by calm knowledge and certainty and the power to do as they pleased. So the subject became doubly interesting. The two boys had gone off together; and the two girls, mixing with the group of their elders, listened and formed their own opinions, of each other at least. For every now and then, the black eyes and the brown eyes met; glances inquiring, determining, but almost as nearly repellent as anything else. So passed the evening; and Matilda was very glad when it was time to go to bed.

Mrs. Laval went with her to her pretty room, and saw with motherly care that all was in order and everything there which ought to be there. The room was warm, though no fire was to be seen; the gas was lit; and complete luxury filled every corner and met every want, even of the eye. And after a fond good night, Matilda was left to herself. She was in a very confused state of mind. It was a strange place; she half wished they were back in Shadywalk; but with that were mixed floating visions of shopping and her filled wardrobe, visions of driving in the Park with Norton, fancies of untold wonderful things to be seen in this new great city, with its streets and its shops and its rich and its poor people. No, she could not forego the seeing of these; she was glad to be in New York; were there not the Menagerie and Stewart's awaiting her to-morrow? But what sort of a life she was to live here, and how far it would be possible for her to be like the Matilda Englefield of Shadywalk why, she was not to be Matilda Englefield at all, but Laval. Could that be the same? Slowly, while she thought all this, Matilda opened her little trunk and took out her nightdress and her comb and brush, and her Bible; and then, the habit was as fixed as the other habit of going to bed, she opened her Bible, brought a pretty little table that was in the room, put it under the gas light, and knelt down to read and pray. She opened anywhere, and read without very well understanding what she read; the thoughts of lions and tigers, and green poplin, and red cashmere, making a strange web with the lines of Bible thought, over which her eye travelled. Till her eyes came to a word so plain, so clear, and touching her so nearly, that she all at once as it were woke up out of her maze.

"Who mind earthly things."

What is that? Must one not mind earthly things? Then she went back to the beginning of the sentence, to see better what it meant.

"For many walk, of whom I have told you often, and now tell you even weeping, that they are the enemies of the cross of Christ: whose end is destruction, whose God is their belly, and whose glory is in their shame, who mind earthly things."

Must one not mind earthly things? thought Matilda. How can one help minding them? How can I help it? All the people in this house mind nothing else. Neither did they all at home, when mother was alive, mind anything else. Mr. Richmond does.—

She went back now to the beginning of the chapter and read it anew. It was easier to read than to think. The chapter was the third of Philippians. She did not know who wrote it; she did not exactly understand a good part of it; nevertheless one thing was clear, a heart set on something not earthly, and minding nothing that interfered with or did not help that. So much was clear; and also that the chapter spoke of certain people not moved by a like spirit, as enemies of the cross of Christ. It was the hardest reading, Matilda thought, she had ever done in her Bible. If this is what it is to be a Christian, it was easier to be a Christian when she was darning lace for Mrs. Candy and roasting coffee beans in her kitchen for Maria. But she did not wish to be back there. Some way could be found, surely, of being a Christian and keeping her pretty room and having her wardrobe filled. And here Matilda became so sleepy, the fatigue and excitement of this long day settling down upon her now that the day was over, that she could neither think nor read any more. She was obliged to go to bed.



CHAPTER VI.

The second of December rose keen and clear, like the first; but inside Matilda's room there was a state of pleasant summer temperature; she could hardly understand that it was cold enough outside to make the pretty frosting on her window panes which hindered the view. She dressed in royal comfort, and in a delightful stir of expectation and hope. It was really New York; and she was going to Stewart's to-day. The cold would not bite her as it used to do in Shadywalk, for they would be in a carriage.

When she was dressed she contrived to clear a loophole in her frosted window, and looked out. The sun shone on a long, clean, handsome street, lined with houses that looked as if all New York were made of money. Brick and stone fronts rose to stately heights, as far as her eye could see; windows were filled with beautiful large panes of glass, like her own window, and lace and drapery behind them testified to the inside adorning and beautifying. There could not be any one living in all that street who was not rich; nothing but plenty and ease could possibly be behind such house-fronts. Then Matilda saw an omnibus going down the street; but her breath dimmed her look-out place and she had to give it up for that time. It was her hour for reading and praying. Matilda was a little inclined to shrink from it, fearing lest she might come upon some other passage that would give her trouble. She thought, for this morning, she would turn to a familiar chapter, which she had read many a time, and where she had never found anything to confuse her. She began the fifth of Matthew. But she had read only fifteen verses, and she came to this.

"Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven."

If a ray of the very sunshine, pointed and tipped with fire like a spear, so that it could prick her, had come in through the frosting on the window pane and smote upon Matilda's face, she would not more keenly have felt the touch. It had never touched her before, that verse, with anything but rose leaf softness; now it pricked. Why? The little girl was troubled; and leaning her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, she began to think. And then she began to pray. "Let your light shine." The light must burn if it was to shine; that was one thing; and she must let no screen come between the light and those who should see it. Fear must not come there, nor shame, to hide or cover the light. And the light itself must be bright. Nobody would see a dim shining. By and by, as she pondered and prayed, with her head in her hands, this word and last night's word joined themselves together; and she began to see, that "minding earthly things" would act to hide the light first, and then to put it out. So far she got; but the battle was only set in array; it was not fought nor gained, when she was called down to breakfast.

The rest of the family were all seated at the table before the two boys came in.

"Pink," Norton burst forth, as soon as he had said good morning, "we must get there at feeding time!"

"Here you are!"—said David waggishly; and Matilda looking up, saw Judith's black eyes all on fire and a flash of the same fun in her brother's face. Those proud eyes could sparkle, then. Her look passed to Norton. But he was as cool as usual.

"Mamma," he said, "I am going to take Pink this morning to the Menagerie."

"You had better wait till she has something to wear, Norton."

"When will that be, ma'am? It won't take long will it?"

"I do not know."

"Mamma, Pink does not care, and I do not care. She has never seen a live lion in her life; and it will not make any difference with the lions. I guess she will keep warm. I want to be there at twelve o'clock; or I want to be there before. They feed the animals at twelve o'clock, and they're all alive."

"We feed the animals here at one o'clock," said his grandmother. "I hope you will remember that."

"Do you want to go, Matilda?" Mrs. Laval asked.

"She has never seen a lion," repeated Norton.

"Somebody else has never seen a monkey," said Judith.

"That is somebody who don't live in the house with Judy Bartholomew," Norton returned.

"We don't want to see a bear, either," said Miss Judy pouting.

"Well, remember and be at home for luncheon," said Mrs. Laval. "I want Matilda after that."

The breakfast went on now delightfully. Matilda sometimes lifted her eyes to look at her opposite neighbours; they had a fascination for her. Judith was such a sprite of mischief, to judge from her looks; and David was so utterly unlike Norton. Norton was always acute and frank, outspoken when he had a mind, fearless and careless at all times. Fearless David might be, but not careless, unless his face belied him; he did not look as if it were often his pleasure to be outspoken, or to shew what he was thinking of. And that was the oddest of all, that he did not seem lighthearted. Matilda fancied he was proud; she was sure that he was reserved. In the family gatherings he was seen but not heard; and she thought he did not care much for what was going on. Nothing escaped Judy's ears or eyes; and nothing was serious with her which she could turn into fun. Her eyes gave a funny snap now and then when they met Matilda's eyes across the table, as if she had her own thoughts about Matilda and knew half of Matilda's thoughts about her. Matilda hoped she would not take it into her head to go to the Menagerie.

"Norton, I believe I'll go too," said Judith the next minute.

"Where?" said Norton.

"To the Menagerie. Where should I go?"

"All right," said Norton. "But if you are going to do me the honour to go with me, you must wait till I have brought Matilda back. I can't take care of both of you."

"I don't want you to take care of me," said Judy.

"I know that. But I am going to take care of Matilda."

"Why cannot you take care of both of them?" his grandmother asked, interrupting Judith.

"Make Judith tell first why she wants to go, grandmamma. She has been lots of times."

"Grandmamma," said Judy with her eyes snapping, "I want to see a new sort of wild animal, just come, and to see how it will look at the tigers."

They all laughed, but Mrs. Laval put her arm round Matilda and stooped down and kissed her.

"Judith is a wild animal herself, isn't she, dear? She is a sort of little wild-cat. But she has soft paws; they don't scratch."

Matilda was not quite so sure of this. However, when they left the table Judith set about gaining her point in earnest; but Norton was not to be won over. He was going with Matilda alone, he said, the first time; and so he did.

It was all enjoyment then, as soon as Matilda and Norton left the house together. Matilda was in a new world. Her eyes were busy making observations everywhere.

"How beautiful the houses are, Norton," she said, when they had gone a block or two. "There are not many poor people in New York, are there?"

"Well, occasionally you see one," said Norton.

"I don't see anything that looks like one. Norton, why do they have the middle of the street covered with those round stones? They make such a racket when the carts and carriages go over them. It is very disagreeable."

"Is it?" said Norton. "You won't hear it after you have been here a little while."

"Not hear it? But why do they have it so, Norton?"

"Why Pink, just think of the dust we should have, and the mud, if it was all like Shadywalk, and these thousands of wheels cutting into it all the time."

Matilda was silenced. One difference brings on another, she was learning to find out. But now Norton hailed a street car and they got into it. The warmth of the car was very pleasant after the keen wind in the streets. And here also the people who filled it, though most of them certainly not rich people, and many very far from that, yet looked to a certain degree comfortable. But just as Norton and Matilda got out, and were about to enter the building, where an enormous painted canvass with a large brown lion upon it told that the Menagerie was to be seen, Matilda stopped short. A little ragged boy, about as old as herself, offered her a handful of black round-headed pins. What did he mean? Matilda looked at him, and at the pins.

"Come on," cried Norton. "What is that?—No, we don't want any of your goods just now; at least I don't. Come in, Pink. You need not stop to speak to everybody that stops to speak to you."

"What did he want, Norton? that boy."

"Wanted to sell hairpins. Didn't you see?"

Matilda cast a look back at the sideway, where the boy was trying another passenger for custom; but Norton drew her on, and the boy was forgotten in some extraordinary noises she heard; she had heard them as soon as she entered the door; strange, mingled noises, going up and down a scale of somewhat powerful, unearthly notes. She asked Norton what they were?

"The lions, Pink," said Norton, with intense satisfaction. "The lions, and the rest of the company. Come—here they are."

And having paid his fee, he pushed open a swinging baize door, and they entered a very long room or gallery, where the sounds became to be sure very unmistakable. They almost terrified Matilda. So wildly were mingled growls and cries and low roarings, all in one restless, confused murmur. The next minute she all but forgot the noise. She was looking at two superb Bengal tigers, a male and a female, in one large cage. They were truly superb. Large and lithe, magnificent in port and action, beautiful in the colour and marking of their smooth hides. But restless? That is no word strong enough to fit the ceaseless impatient movement with which the male tiger went from one corner of his iron cage to the other corner, and back again; changing constantly only to renew the change. One bound in his native jungle would have carried him over many times the space, which now he paced eagerly or angrily with a few confined steps. The tigress meanwhile knew his mood and her wisdom so well that she took care never to be in his way; and as the cage was not large enough to allow her mate to turn round in the corner where she stood, she regularly took a flying leap over his back whenever he came near that corner. Again and again and again, the one lordly creature trod from end to end the floor of his prison; and every time, like a feather, so lightly and gracefully, the huge powerful form of the other floated over his back and alighted in the other corner.

"Do they keep doing that all the time!" said Matilda, when she had stood spell-bound before the cage for some minutes.

"It's near feeding time," said Norton. "I suppose they know it and it makes them worry. Or else know they are hungry; which answers just as well."

"Poor creatures!" said Matilda. "If that tiger could break his cage, now, how far do you think he could jump, Norton?"

"I don't know," said Norton. "As far as to you or me, I guess. Or else over all our heads, to get at that coloured woman."

The woman was sweeping the floor, a little way behind the two talkers, and heard them. "Yes!" she said, "he'd want me fust thing, sure."

"Why?" whispered Matilda.

"Likes the dark meat best," said Norton. "Fact, Pink; they say they do."

Matilda gazed with a new fascination on the beautiful, terrible creatures. Could it be possible, that those very animals had actually tasted "dark meat" at home?

"Yes," said Norton; "there are hundreds of the natives carried off and eaten by the tigers, I heard a gentleman telling mother, every year, in the province of Bengal alone. Come, Pink; we can look at these fellows again; I want you to see some of the others before they are fed."

They went on, with less delay, till they came to the Russian bear. At the great blocks of ice in his cage Matilda marvelled.

"Is he so warm!" she said. "In this weather?"

"This room's pretty comfortable," said Norton; "and to him I suppose it's as bad as a hundred and fifty degrees of the thermometer would be to us. He's accustomed to fifty degrees below zero."

"I don't know what 'below zero' means, exactly," said Matilda. "But then those great pieces of ice cannot do him much good?"

"Not much," said Norton.

"And he must be miserable," said Matilda; "just that we may look at him."

"Do you wish he was back again where he came from?" said Norton; "all comfortable, with ice at his back and ice under his feet; where we couldn't see him?"

"But Norton, isn't it cruel?"

"Isn't what cruel?"

"To have him here, just for our pleasure? I am very glad to see him, of course."

"I thought you were," said Norton. "Why I suppose we cannot have anything, Pink, without somebody being uncomfortable for it, somewhere. I am very often uncomfortable myself."

Matilda was inclined to laugh at him; but there was no time. She had come face to face with the lions. Except for those low strange roars, they did not impress her as much as their neighbours from Bengal. But she studied them, carefully enough to please Norton, who was making a very delight to himself, and a great study, of her pleasure.

Further on, Matilda was brought to a long stand again before the wolf's cage. It was a small cage, so small that in turning round he rubbed his nose against the wall at each end; for the ends were boarded up; and the creature did nothing but turn round. At each end of the cage there was a regular spot on the boards, made by his nose as he lifted it a little to get round the more easily, and yet not enough to avoid touching. Yet he went round and round, restlessly, without stopping for more than an instant at a time.

"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" was again Matilda's outcry. "He keeps doing that all the time, Norton; see the places where his nose rubs."

"Don't say 'poor fellow' about a wolf," said Norton.

"Why not? He is only an animal."

"He is a wicked animal."

"Why Norton, he don't know any better than to be wicked. Do you think some animals are really worse than others?"

"I'm certain of it," said Norton.

"But they only do what it is their nature to do."

"Yes, and different animals have different natures. Now look at that wolf's eyes; see what cruel, sly, bad eyes they are. Think what beautiful eyes a horse has; a good horse."

"And sheep have beautiful eyes," said Matilda.

"And pigs have little, ugly, dirty eyes; mean and wicked too. You need not laugh; it is true."

"I don't know how pigs' eyes look," said Matilda. "But it is very curious. For of course they do not know any better; so how should they be wicked? Those tigers, they looked as if they hadn't any heart at all. Don't you think a dog has a heart, Norton?"

Norton laughed, and pulled her on to a cage at a little distance from the wolf, where there were a party of monkeys. And next door to them was a small ape in a cell alone. Matilda forgot everything else here. These creatures were so inimitably odd, sly and comical; had such an air of knowing what they were about, and expecting you to understand it too; looking at you as though they could take you into their confidence, if it were worth while; it was impossible to get away from them. Norton had some nuts in his pocket; with these he and the monkeys made great game; while the little ape raked in the straw litter of his cage to find any stray seeds or bits of food which might have sifted down through it to the floor, managing his long hand-like paw as gracefully as the most elegant lady could move her dainty fingers. Matilda and Norton staid with the monkeys, till the feeding hour had arrived; then Norton hurried back to the tigers. A man was coming the rounds with a basket full of great joints of raw meat; and it was notable to see how carefully he had to manage to let the tiger have his piece before the tigress got hers. He watched and waited, till he got a chance to thrust the meat into the cage at the end where the tiger's paw would the next instant be.

"Why?" Matilda asked Norton.

"There'd be an awful fight, I guess, if he didn't," said Norton; "and that other creature would stand a chance to get whipped; and her coat would be scratched; that's all the man cares for."

"And is that the reason the tigress keeps out of the tiger's way so?"

"Of course. Some people would say, I suppose, that she was amiable."

"I never should, to look in her face," said Matilda laughing. "Tigers certainly are wicked. But, they do not know any better. How can it be wickedness?"

"Now come, Pink," said Norton; "we have got to be home by one, you know, and there's a fellow you haven't seen yet; the hippopotamus. We must go into another place to see him."

He was by himself, in a separate room, as Norton had said, where a large tank was prepared and filled with water for his accommodation. Matilda looked at him a long time in silence and with great attention.

"Do you know, Norton," she said, "this is the behemoth the Bible speaks about?"

"I don't know at all," said Norton. "How do you know?"

"Mr. Richmond says so; he says people have found out that it is so. But he don't seem to me very big, Norton, for that."

The keeper explained, that the animal was a young one and but half grown.

"How tremendously ugly he is!" said Norton.

"And what a wonderful number of different animals there are in the world," said Matilda. "This is unlike anything I ever saw. I wonder why there are such a number?"

"And so many of them not good for anything," said Norton.

"Oh Norton, you can't say that, you know."

"Why not? This fellow, for instance; what is he good for?"

"I don't know; and you don't know. But that's just it, Norton. You don't know."

"Well, what are lions and tigers good for?" said Norton. "I suppose we know about them. What are they good for?"

"Why Norton, I can't tell," said Matilda. "I would very much like to know. But they must be good for something."

"To eat up people, and make the places where they live a terror," said Norton.

"I don't know," said Matilda, with a very puzzled look on her little face. "It seems so strange, when you think of it. And those great serpents, Norton, that live where the lions and tigers live; they are worse yet."

"Little and big," said Norton. "I do despise a snake!"

"And crocodiles," said Matilda. "And wolves, and bears. I wonder if the Bible tells anything about it."

"The Bible don't tell everything, Pink," said Norton laughing.

"No, but I remember now what it does say," said Matilda. "It says that God saw everything that he had made, and it was very good."

Norton looked with a funny look at his little companion, amused and yet with a kind of admiration mixed with his amusement.

"I wonder how you and David would get along," he remarked. "He is as touchy on that subject as you are."

"What subject?" said Matilda. "The Bible?"

"The Old Testament. The Jewish Scriptures. Not the New! Don't ever bring up the New Testament to him, Pink, unless you want stormy weather."

"Is he bad-tempered?" Matilda asked curiously.

"He's Jewish-tempered," said Norton. "He has his own way of looking at things, and he don't like yours. I mean, anybody's but his own. What a quantity it must take to feed this enormous creature!"

"You may take your affidavit of that!" said the keeper, who was an Irishman. "Faith, I think he's as bad as fifty men."

"What do you give him?"

"Well, he belongs to the vegetable kingdom intirely, ye see, sir."

"He's a curious water-lily, isn't he?" said Norton low to Matilda. But that was more than either of them could stand, and they turned away and left the place to laugh. It was time then, they found, to go home.

A car was not immediately in sight when they came out into the street, and Norton and Matilda walked a few blocks rather than stand still. It had grown to be a very disagreeable day. The weather was excessively cold, and a very strong wind had risen; which now went careering along the streets, catching up all the dust of them in turn, and before letting it drop again whirling it furiously against everybody in its way. Matilda struggled along, but the dust came in thick clouds and filled her eyes and mouth and nose and lodged in all her garments. It seemed to go through everything she had on, and with the dirt came the cold. Shadywalk never saw anything like this! As they were crossing one of the streets in their way, Matilda stopped short just before setting her foot on the curb-stone. A little girl with a broom in her hand stood before her and held out her other hand for a penny. The child was ragged, and her rags were of the colour of the dust which filled everything that day; hair and face and dress were all of one hue.

"Please, a penny," she said, barring Matilda's way.

"Norton, have you got a penny?" said Matilda bewildered.

"Nonsense!" said Norton, "we can't be bothered to stop for all the street-sweepers we meet. Come on, Pink." He seized Matilda's hand, and she was drawn on, out of the little girl's range, before she could stop to think about it. Two streets further on, they crossed an avenue; and here Matilda saw two more children with brooms, a boy and a girl. This time she saw what they were about. They were sweeping the crossing clean for the feet of the passers-by. But their own feet were bare on the stones. The next minute Norton had hailed a car and he and Matilda got in. Her eyes and mouth were so full of dust and she was so cold, it was a little while before she could ask questions comfortably.

"What are those children you wouldn't let me speak to?" she said, as soon as she was a little recovered.

"Street-sweepers," said Norton. "Regular nuisances! The police ought to take them up, and shut them up."

"Why, Norton?"

"Why? why because they're such a nuisance. You can't walk a half mile without having half a dozen of them holding out their hands for pennies. A fellow can't carry his pocket full of pennies and keep it full!"

"But they sweep the streets, don't they?"

"The crossings; yes. I wish they didn't. They are an everlasting bother."

"But Norton, isn't it nice to have the crossings swept? I thought it was a great deal pleasanter than to have to go through the thick dust and dirt which was everywhere else."

"Yes, but when they come every block or two?" said Norton.

"Are there so many of them?"

"There's no end to them," said Norton.

"But at any rate, there are just as many crossings," said Matilda. "And they must be either dirty or clean."