"I can get along with the crossings," said Norton.

"Well, your boots are thick. Haven't those children any way to get a living but such a way?"

"Of course not, or they wouldn't do that, I suppose."

"But their feet were bare, Norton; they were bare, on those cold dirty stones."

"Dirt is nothing," said Norton, buttoning up his great coat comfortably. He had just loosened it to get at some change for the car fare.

"Dirt is nothing?" repeated Matilda looking at him.

"I mean, Pink," said he laughing, "it is nothing to them. They are as dirty as they can be already; a little more or less makes no difference."

"I wonder if they are as cold as they can be, too," said Matilda meditatively.

"No!" said Norton. "Not they. They are used to it. They don't feel it."

"How can you tell, Norton?"

"I can tell. I can see. They are jolly enough sometimes; when they aren't boring for cents."

"But that little girl, Norton,—all of them,—they hadn't much on!"

"No," said Norton; "I suppose not. It's no use to look and think about it, Pink. They are accustomed to it; it isn't what it would be to you. Don't think about it. You'll be always seeing sights in New York. The best way is not to see."

But Matilda did think about it "Not what it would be to her"! why, it would kill her, very quickly. Of course it must be not exactly so to these children, since they did not die; but what was it to them? Not warmth and comfort; not a pleasant spending of time for pleasure.

"Norton," she began again just as they were getting out of the car, "it seems to me that if those children sweep the streets, it is right to give them pay for it. They are trying to earn something."

"You can't," said Norton. "There are too many of them. You cannot be putting your hand in your pocket for pennies all the while, and stopping under the heels of the horses. I do once in a while give them something. You can't be doing it always."



CHAPTER VII.

Norton asked to be allowed to go with the shopping party, which his mother refused. To Matilda's disappointment, she took Miss Judy instead. Matilda would rather have had any other one of the household. However, nothing could spoil the pleasure of driving to Stewart's. To know it so cold, and yet feel so comfortable; to see how the dust flew in whirlwinds and the wind caught people and staggered them, and yet not to be touched by a breath; to see how the foot travellers had to fight with both wind and dust, and to feel at the same time the easy security, the safe remove from everything so ugly and disagreeable, which they themselves enjoyed behind the glass of their Clarence; it was a very pleasant experience. The other two did not seem to enjoy it; they were accustomed to the sensation, or it had ceased to be one for them. Matilda was in a state of delight every foot of the way. This was what she had come to, this safety and ease and elegance and immunity. She was higher than the street or the street-goers, by just so much as the height of the axletree of the carriage. How about those little dust covered street-sweepers?

The thought of them jarred. There was nothing between them and the roughest of the rough. How came they to be there, at the street corners, and Matilda here, behind these clear plates of glass which enclosed the front of the carriage?

"How very disagreeable it is to day!" Mrs. Laval said with a shudder. "This is some of New York's worst weather."

"It's just horrid!" said Judy.

"I would not take a walk to-day, for all I am worth," the lady went on. "There is one thing; there will be fewer people out, and we shall not have to wait so fearfully long to be served."

The carriage stopped before a large white building, and Matilda followed the others in, full of curiosity and eager pleasure. In through the swinging doors, and then through such a crowd of confusion that she could think of nothing but to keep close behind Mrs. Laval; till they all stopped at a counter and Mrs. Laval sat down. What a wonderful place it seemed to Matilda! A small world that was all shops—or one shop; and the only business of that world was buying and selling things to wear. Just at this counter people were getting silk dresses, it appeared; here, and all round the room in which Mrs. Laval was seated; blue and rose silks were displayed in one part; black silks before some customers; figured and parti-coloured silks were held up to please others; what colour was there not? and what beauty? Matilda found that whatever Mrs. Laval wanted of her that afternoon, it was not any help in making her purchases; and she was quite at liberty to use her eyes upon everything. The beautiful goods on the counters were the great attraction, however; Matilda could not look away much from the lustre of the crimson and green and blue and tawny and grey and lavender which were successively or together exhibited for Mrs. Laval's behoof; and she listened to find out if she could by the quantities ordered, which of them, if any, were for herself. She was pretty sure that a dark green and a crimson had that destination; and her little heart beat high with pleasure.

From the silk room they went on to another where the articles were not interesting to look at; and Matilda discovered that the coming and going people were. She turned her back upon the counter and watched the stream as it flowed past and around her. Miss Judith also here found herself thrown out of amusement, and came round to Matilda. They had hardly spoken to each other hitherto. Now Miss Judy's eye first went up and down the little figure which was such a new one in her surroundings. Matilda knew it, but she could bear it.

"You were never here before?" said her companion.

"Never," Matilda answered.

"What do you think of it?"

"I think they have nice things here," said Matilda.

Judith did not at all know what to make of this answer.

"What is aunt Zara going to get for you?"

"I do not know—some dresses, I think."

Judith's eye ran up and down Matilda's dress again. "That was made in the country, wasn't it?"

"Mrs. Laval had it made."

"Yes, but you will want another. Aunt Zara—aunt Zara!—Aren't you going to get her a cloak?"

"A cloak?" said Mrs. Laval looking round. "Yes; that is what I brought her for."

"There!" said Judy, "now you know something you didn't know before. What sort of a cloak would you like?"

"I don't know," said Matilda in a flutter of delight. "Mrs. Laval knows."

"I suppose she does, but she doesn't know what you would like, unless you tell her. Let us watch the people coming in and see if we see anything you would like. Isn't it funny?"

"What?" Matilda asked.

"All of it. To see the people. They are all sorts, you know, and so funny. There are two Irish women,—very likely they have come in from the shanties near the Central Park, to buy some calico dresses. Look at them!—ten cent calicoes, and they are asking the shopman, I dare say, if they can't have that one for nine. I suppose the calicoes are made for them. No, there is somebody else wanting one. She's from the country."

"How do you know?"

"Easy enough. See how she has got her hands folded over each other; nobody does that but somebody that has come from the country. See her hat, too; that's a country hat. If you could see her feet, you would see that she has great thick country shoes."

Judy's eye as she spoke glanced down again at the floor where Matilda's feet stood; and it seemed to Matilda that the very leather of her boots could feel the look. They were country boots. Did Judy mean, that?

"There's another country woman," the young lady went on. "See?—this one in a velvet cloak. That's a cotton velvet, though."

"But how can you tell she's from the country?"

"She's all corners!" said Judith. "Her cloak was made by a carpenter, and her head looks as if it was made by a mason. If you could see her open her mouth, I've no doubt you would find that it is square. There!—here!—how would you like a cloak like this one?"

The two were looking at a child who passed them just then, in a velvet cloak stiff with gimp and bugle embroidery.

"I don't think it is pretty," said Matilda.

"It is rich," said Judy. "But it is not cut by anybody that knew how. You can see that. Why don't you ask aunt Zara to let you have a black satin cloak?"

"Black satin?" said Matilda.

"Yes. Black satin. It is so rich; and it is not heavy; and there is more shine to it than silk has. A black satin cloak trimmed with velvet—that is what I should like if I were you."

A strong desire for a black satin cloak forthwith sprang up in Matilda's mind.

"There is not anything more fashionable," Judy went on; "and velvet is just the prettiest trimming. When we go up to look at cloaks, you see if you can spy such a one; if you can't, it would be easy to get the stuff and have it made. Just as easy. I don't believe we shall find any ready made, for they are so fashionable, they will be likely to be all bought up. Dear me! what a figure that is!" exclaimed Judy, eying a richly dressed lady who brushed by them.

"Isn't her dress handsome?" Matilda asked.

"It was handsome before it was made up—it isn't now. Dresses are not cut that way now; and the trimming is as old as the hills. I guess that has been made two or three years, that dress. And nobody wears a shawl now—unless it's a camel's hair. Nobody would, that knew any better."

"What is a camel's hair?" said Matilda.

"A peculiar sort of rough thick shawl," said Judy. "People wear them because they set off the rest of their dress; but country people don't know enough to wear them. Ask aunt Zara to get you a camel's hair shawl. I wish she would give me one, too."

Matilda wondered why Miss Judith's mother did not get her one, if they were so desirable; but she did not feel at home enough with the young lady to venture any such suggestion. She only did wish very much privately that Mrs. Laval would choose for herself a black satin cloak; but on that score too she did not feel that she could make any requests. Mrs. Laval knew what was fashionable, at any rate, as well as her niece; that was one comfort.

Thinking this, Matilda followed her two companions up the wide staircase. Another world of shops and buyers and sellers up there! What a very wonderful place New York must be. And Stewart's.

"Does everybody come here?" she whispered to Judy.

"Pretty much everybody," said that young lady. "They have to."

"Then they can't buy things anywhere else?"

"What do you mean?" said Judith looking at her.

"I mean, is this the only place where people can get things? are there any more stores beside this?"

Judith's eyes snapped in a way that Matilda resolved she would not provoke again.

"More stores?" she said. "New York is all stores, except the streets where people live."

"Does nobody live in the streets where the stores are?" Matilda could not help asking.

"No. Nobody but the people that live in the stores, you know; that's nobody."

Matilda's thoughts were getting rather confused than enlightened; however the party came now, passing by a great variety of counters and goods displayed, to a region where Matilda saw there was a small host of cloaks, hung upon frames or stuffed figures. Here Mrs. Laval sat down on a sofa and made Matilda sit down, and called for something that would suit the child's age and size. Velvet, and silk and cloth, and shaggy nondescript stuffs, were in turn brought forward; Matilda saw no satin. Mrs. Laval was hard to suit; and Matilda thought Judith was no help, for she constantly put in a word for the articles which Mrs. Laval disapproved. Matilda was not consulted at all, and indeed neither was Miss Judy. At last a cloak was chosen, not satin, nor even silk, nor even cloth; but of one of those same shaggy fabrics which looked coarse, Matilda thought. But she noticed that the price was not low, and that consoled her. The cloak was taken down to the carriage, and they left the store.

"Where now, aunt Zara?" said Judith. "We are pretty well lumbered up with packages."

"To get rid of some of them," said Mrs. Laval. "I am going to Fournissons's."

What that meant, Matilda could not guess. The drive was somewhat long; and then the carriage stopped before a plain-looking house in a very plain-looking street. Here they all got out again, and taking the various parcels which contained Matilda's dresses, they went in. They mounted to a common little sitting-room, where some litter was strewn about on the floor. But a personage met them there for whom Matilda very soon conceived a high respect; she knew so much. This was Mme. Fournissons; the mantua-maker who had the pleasure of receiving Mrs. Laval's orders. So she said; but Matilda thought the orders rather came from the other side. Mme. Fournissons decided promptly how everything ought to be made, and just what trimming would be proper in each case; and proceeded to take Matilda's measure with a thorough-bred air of knowing her business which impressed Matilda very much. Tapes unrolled themselves deftly, and pins went infallibly into place and never out of place; and Madame measured and fitted and talked all at once, with the smooth rapid working of a first-rate steam engine. New York mantua-making was very different from the same thing at Shadywalk! And here Matilda saw the wealth of her new wardrobe unrolled. There was a blue merino and a red cashmere and a brown rep, for daily wear; and there was a most beautiful crimson silk and a dark green one for other occasions. There was a blue crape also, with which Miss Judy evidently fell in love.

"It would not become you, Judy, with your black eyes," her aunt said. "Now Matilda is fair; it will suit her."

"Charmingly!" Mme. Fournissons had added. "Just the thing. There is a delicacy of skin which will set off the blue, and which the blue will set off. Miss Bartholomew should wear the colours of the dahlia—as her mother knows."

"Clear straw colour, for instance, and purple!" said Judith scornfully.

"Mrs. Bartholomew has not such bad taste," said Mme. Fournissons. "This is?—this young lady?"—

"My adopted daughter, madame," said Mrs. Laval.

"She will not dishonour your style, madam," rejoined the mantua-maker approvingly.

Judith pouted. She could do that well. But Matilda went down the stairs happy. Now she was sure her dress would be quite as handsome and quite as fashionable as Judy's; there would be no room for glances of depreciation, or such shrugs of disdain as had been visited upon the country people coming to Stewart's. All would be strictly correct in her attire, and according to the latest and best mode. The wind blew as hard as ever, and the dust swept in furious charges against everybody in the street by turns; but there were folds of silk and velvet, as well as sheets of plate glass now, between Matilda and it. When they reached home, Mrs. Laval called Matilda into her room.

"Here are your five dollars for December, my darling," she said. "Have you any boots beside those?"

"No, ma'am."

"You want another pair of boots; and then you will do very well until next month. Norton can take you to the shoemaker's to-morrow,—he likes to take you everywhere; tell him it must be Laddler's. And you will want to go and see your sisters, will you not?"

"O yes, ma'am."

"Where is it?"

Matilda named the place.

"316 Bolivar St.," repeated Mrs. Laval. "Bolivar St. Where is that? Bolivar Street is away over on the other side of the city, I think, towards what they used to call Chelsea. You could not possibly walk there. I will let the carriage take you. Now darling, get ready for dinner."

Feeling as if she were ten years older than she had been the day before, Matilda mounted the stairs to her room. Her room. This beautiful, comfortable, luxurious place! It was a little hard to recognize herself in it. And when all those dresses should come home—

Here there was a knock at the door, and Sam, the head waiter, handed her the bundle of her new cloak, in a nice pasteboard box. Matilda put that in the wardrobe drawer, and made her hair and dress neat; not without a dim notion, back somewhere in her heart, that she had a good deal of thinking to do. A feeling that she was somehow getting out of her reckoning. There was no time however now for anything before the bell rang for dinner.

Nor all the evening. Norton was eager with questions; and Judith was sharp with funny speeches, about Matilda's wonder and unusedness to everything. Matilda winced a little; however, Norton laughed it off, and the evening on the whole went pleasantly. He and she arranged schemes for to-morrow; and all the four got a little more acquainted with each other. But when Matilda went up to her room at night, she took out her Bible and opened it, resolving to find out what those things were she had to think of; she seemed to have switched off her old track and to have got a great way from Mr. Richmond and Shadywalk. She did not like this feeling. What did it mean?

She tried to think, but she could not think. Folds of glossy blue silk hung before her eyes; her new odd little cloak, with its rich buttons and tassels started up to her vision; Mme. Fournissons and her tape measure and her face and her words came putting themselves between her and the very words of the Bible. And this went on. What was she to do? Matilda sat back from the table and tried to call herself to order. This was not the way to do. And then her mind flew off to the Menagerie, and the roars of those wild beasts seemed to go up and down in her ears. Yet underneath all these things, there was a secret consciousness of something not right; was it there, or no? It was all a whirl of confusion. Matilda tried to recollect Mr. Richmond and some of his words.

"He said I was to go by that motto, 'Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all'—Well, but I am not doing anything, am I, just now? What have I been doing to-day? I will take a piece of paper and put the things down! and then my thoughts will not slip away so."

Matilda got the piece of paper and the pencil; but she did not immediately find out what she was to put down.

"The Menagerie?—I did not go there of my own head; Norton took me. Still, 'whatsoever ye do'—I was getting pleasure, that's all; it was nothing but pleasure. What has my motto to do with pleasure? Well, of course it would make it impossible for me to take wrong pleasure—I see that. I could not take pleasure that would be wrong in God's sight, nor that would make me do wrong to get it. Other pleasure, right pleasure, he likes me to have. Yes, and he gives it to me, really. I couldn't have it else. Then certainly my motto says that I must remember that, and thank Him first of all for everything I have that I like. Did I do so about the Menagerie? I don't think I thought about it at all; only I was very much obliged to Norton. I did not thank God. And yet it was such a very, very great pleasure! But I will now."

And so Matilda did. Before going any further in her inquiries, she kneeled down and gave thanks for the rare enjoyment of the morning. She rose up a little more sober-minded and able for the other work on hand.

"What next? Those little street sweepers. I did not have anything to do with them—I had no pennies in my pocket, and I could not wait. But I shall be seeing them every day; they are under foot everywhere, Norton says; how ought I to behave towards them? They are a great nuisance, Norton says; stopping one at every corner; and they ought not to be encouraged. If nobody gave them anything, of course they would not be encouraged; and they would not be there sweeping the crossings. But then, we should not have clean crossings. I wonder which is worst, having them swept or not having them swept? However, they will be on the streets, I suppose, those poor children, whatever I do. Now what ought I to do? I can't give pennies to them all; and if not, how shall I manage?"

Matilda put her head down to think. And then came floating into her thoughts the words of her motto,—"Do all in the name of the Lord Jesus."

"What would He say?" questioned Matilda with herself. "But I know what he did say! 'Give to him that asketh thee.'—Must I? But how can I, to all these children? I shall not have pennies. Well, of course! when I haven't pennies I cannot give them. But I cannot buy candy much, then, can I! because I shall want all my odd cents. After all, they are working hard to get a living; how terribly hard it must be, to live so dirty and so cold!—and I have cake and ice cream and plenty of everything I like. I suppose I can do without candy. I know what Jesus would do too, if he was here; he would give them kind looks and kind words, as well as pay. But can I? What could I say to them? I wonder if Mrs. Laval would like me to speak to them? Anyhow, I know Jesus would say kind words to them—because He would love them. If I loved them, I could speak, easy enough. And then—He would try to do them good, and make them good. I wonder if they go to Sunday school, any of them? But I don't go myself yet, here. I suppose I shall"—

Matilda's wits went off on a long chase here, about things that had nothing to do with her piece of paper. At last came back.

"Where was I? what next? The next thing was the shopping. I had nothing to do with that. I did not ask for anything; it was all chosen and done without me. But this was another pleasure; and I am to take my dresses, and wear them of course, according to my motto. How can I? 'Do all in His name?' How can I? Well, to be sure, I can do it in such a way as to please him. How would that be?"

There seemed to be a great deal of confusion in Matilda's thoughts at this point, and hard to disentangle; but through it all she presently felt something like little soft blows of a hammer at her heart, reminding her of a very eager wish for black satin, and disappointment at not having it; of a violent desire to be fashionable, and to escape being thought unfashionable; and of a secret delight in rivalling Judith Bartholomew. And though Matilda tried to reason these thoughts away and explain them down, those soft blows of the hammer kept on, just as fast as ever.

"Does the Lord like such feelings? Does he care that his children should be fashionable? How are you going to dress to please him, if the object is to be as fine as Judith Bartholomew, or to escape her criticism, or to shew yourself a fine lady? Will that be pleasing him?"

The answer was swift to come; yet what was Matilda to do? All these things were at work in her already. And with them came now an ugly wicked wish, that religion did not require her to be unlike other people. But Matilda knew that was wicked, as soon as she felt it; and it humbled her. And what was she to do? Seeing the wrong of all these various feelings did not at all take them out of her heart. She did want to be fashionable; she was very glad to be as handsomely dressed as Judith; her heart was very much set on her silks and trimmings, in a way that conscience whispered was simply selfish and proud. Were these things going to change Matilda at once and make her a different child from the one that had been baptized in a black dress at Shadywalk, and only cared then for the "white robes" that are the spirit's adornings?

Matilda was determined that should not be. She prayed a great deal about it; and at last went to bed, comforting herself with the assurance that the Lord would certainly help a child that trusted him, to be all that he had bidden her be.

The subject started itself anew the next morning; for there on her dressing-table lay her pocket book with the five dollars Mrs. Laval had given her last evening. There were two dollars also that were left from November's five dollars; that made seven, to go shopping for boots. "I should think I could do with that," Matilda thought to herself.

She asked Norton to go with her to Laddler's shoe store.

"Well," said Norton; "but we must go to the Park to-day."

"And Madame Fournissons wants to see you this afternoon," said Mrs. Laval. "I think the Park must wait, Norton."

"But I have only to-day and to-morrow, mamma. School begins Monday."

"To-morrow will do for the Park," said Mrs. Laval. "And you will have other Saturdays, Norton."

Matilda went upstairs to get ready, thinking that she was beginning to find out what sort of "opportunities" were likely to be given her in her new home. She was going to have opportunity for self-conquest, for self-denial, harder than she had ever known hitherto; opportunity to follow the straight path where it was not always easy to see it, and where it could only be found by keeping the face steadily in the right direction. In the midst of these thoughts, however, she dressed herself with great glee; put her purse in her pocket; and set out with Norton, remembering that in this matter of buying her boots her motto must come in play.

As it was rather early in the morning, the shoe store of Mr. Laddler was nearly empty, and Matilda had immediate attention. Matilda told what she wanted; the shopman glanced an experienced eye over her little figure, from her hat to the ground; gave her a seat, and proceeded to fit her. The very first pair of boots "went on like a glove," the man said. And they were very handsome. But the price was seven dollars! It would take her whole stock in hand.

"Can't you give me a pair that will cost less?" Matilda asked, after a pause of inward dismay.

"Those are what you want," said the man. "They fit, to a T; you cannot better that fit."

"But you have some that don't cost so much?"

"They would not look so well," said the shopman. "We have boots not finished in the same style, for less money; but you want those. That's the article."

"Please let me see the others."

He brought some to shew. They were of less fine and beautifully dressed stuff, were more coarsely made, and less elegant in their cut. Matilda saw all that, and hesitated. The man looked at her.

"There's a pair here," he said, turning back to his drawer, "that I can let you have for five dollars;—just as good as that first pair."

He produced them and tried one on. It seemed to be quite as he had said. Matilda could see no difference.

"That will do," said he, "if you like them. They are exactly as well made as that first pair; and of the same leather."

"Then why are they only five dollars," Matilda asked, "while the others are seven?"

"Fashion," said the man. "Nothing else. You see, those are wide at the toe; that was the style worn last winter; these first, you see, are very narrow at the toe. There is no demand for these now; so I can let you have them low. If you like these, I will let you have them for four and a half. Seven dollar boots."

Matilda felt a pang of uncertainty. That would save her two and a half dollars of her seven, and she would have pennies for street girls and change for other objects. But Judy would look at those square toes, and think that Matilda was from the country and did not know, as she said, what was what. The thought of Judy's eyes and smile was not to be borne.

"I will take the others," she said hastily to the shopman—"the first you tried on."

"I thought so," said the man. "Those are what you want."

Matilda paid, and Norton ordered them sent home, and the two left the shop.

"If that had been a good shoemaker," said Norton, "he would have fitted you in half the time. We have been half an hour there."

"O that is my fault, Norton," said Matilda; "because I could not decide which fashion to have."

"Sure you have got the right one now?" said Norton.

"I got the newest."

"That's the right one," said Norton, as if the question was settled.

But it was not settled, in Matilda's mind; and all the way home she was trying the boots over again. Had she done right? It was on her lips to say she wished there were no such thing as fashion, but conscience checked her; she felt it was very delightful to be in the fashion. Was that wrong? How could it be wrong? But she had paid for being in the fashion. Had she paid too much? And was she any the better for having round toes to her boots, that she should be so delighted about it? She wanted to be as well dressed as Judy. She wanted that Judy should not be able to laugh at her for a country girl. She could not help feeling that, she thought; but then, she had paid for it. Was this going to be the way always?

Matilda was in such a confusion of thoughts that she did not know what she was passing in the street. Only, she did know when there were little street-sweepers at the crossings, and she tried to slip by without seeming to see them, and to put Norton between them and herself. Not a penny had she for one of them. And she would not have, until the month came round again. Fashion certainly cost. But she had the narrow-toed boots; she was glad of that.

"What ails you?" said Norton at last. "Are you cold?"

"No, Norton. Nothing ails me. I am thinking."

"About what? You think a great deal too much. Pink, we will go to the Park this afternoon; that will give you something to think about."

"Norton, we cannot this afternoon, you know. I have got to go to the dressmaker's."

"O so you have! What a nuisance. Well, to-morrow, then. And I say, Pink! there is another thing you have to think of—Christmas presents."

"Christmas presents!" said Matilda.

"Yes; we always have a great time. Only David and Judy do scowl; it is fun to see them."

"Don't they like Christmas presents?" said Matilda, very much bewildered.

"Christmas presents all right; but not Christmas. You know they are Jews."

"Jews?" said Matilda. "What then? What has their being Jews to do with it?"

"Why!" said Norton, "don't you know? Do you think Jews love Christmas? You forget what Christmas is, don't you?"

"O—I remember. They don't believe in Christ," said Matilda in an awed and sorrowful tone.

"Of course. And that's a mild way to put it," rejoined Norton. "But grandmamma will always keep Christmas with all her might, and aunt Judy too; just because Davie and Judy don't like it, I believe. So we have times."

"But how comes it they don't like what you all like, and their mother?" Matilda asked.

"They have Jew relations, you see," said Norton; "and that goes very much against the grain with aunt Judy. There is some old Rabbi here in New York that is David's great uncle and makes much of him; and so David has been taught about Jewish things, and told, I suppose, that he must never forget he is a Jew; and he don't, I guess. Not often."

"Is he good?" asked Matilda.

"Good? David Bartholomew? Not particularly. Yes, he is good in a way. He knows how to behave himself."

"Then how is he not good?"

"He has a mind of his own," said Norton; "and if you try him, you will find he has a temper. I have seen him fight—I tell you!—like that Bengal tiger if he was a Jew; when a fellow tried him a little too hard. His mother don't know, and you mustn't tell mamma. The boys let him alone now."

"At school, was it?" said Matilda.

"At school. You see, fellows try a boy at school, all round, till they find where they can have him; and then he has got to shew what he is made of."

"Do they try you?"

"Well, no; they like me pretty well at St. Giles'."

"And they don't like David?"

"They let him alone," said Norton. "No, they don't like him much. He keeps himself to himself too much for their liking. They would forget he is a Jew, if he would forget it; but he never does."

Matilda's thoughts had got into a new channel and ran along fast, till Norton brought them back.

"So we have got to look out for Christmas, Pink, as I told you. It's only just three weeks from to-morrow."

"What then, Norton? What do you do?"

"Everything we can think of," said Norton; "and to begin, everybody in the house gives something to every other body. That makes confusion, I should think!"

"Do you give things to your mother? and to Mrs. Lloyd?"

"To every one of 'em," said Norton; "and it's a job. I shall begin next week to get ready; and so must you."

Matilda had it on her tongue to say that she had no money and therefore nothing to get ready; but she remembered in time that if she said that or anything like it, Norton would report and ask for a supply for her. So she held her tongue. But how delightful it must be to get presents for everybody! Not for Mrs. Lloyd, exactly; Matilda had no special longings to bestow any tokens upon her; or Mrs. Bartholomew; but Maria, and Anne, and Letitia! And Norton himself. How she would like to give him something! And if she could, what in the world would it be? On this question Matilda's fancy fairly went off and lost itself, and Norton got no more talk from her till they reached home.

She mused about it again when she was alone in the carriage that afternoon driving to Mme. Fournisson's. As she had not the money, she thought she might as well have the comfort of fancying she had it and thinking what she would do with it; and so she puzzled in delightful mazes of dreamland, thinking what she would get for Norton if she had the power. It was so difficult a point to decide that the speculation gave her a great deal to do. Norton was pretty well supplied with things a boy might wish for; he did not want any of the class of presents Matilda had carried to Maria. But Norton was very fond of pretty things. Matilda knew that; yet her experience of delicate matters of art was too limited, and her knowledge of the resources of New York stores too unformed, to give her fancy much scope. She had a vague idea that there were pretty things that he might like, if only she knew where they were to be found. In the mean time, it was but the other day, she had heard him complaining that the guard of his watch was broken. Matilda knew how to make a very pretty, strong sort of watch guard; if she only had some strong brown silk to weave it of. That was easy to get, and would not cost much; if she had but a few shillings. Those round toed boots! It darted into her mind, how the two dollars and a half she had paid for those round toes, would have bought the silk for a watch guard and left a great deal to spare. There was a little sharp regret just here. It would have been such pleasure! And she would not have been quite empty handed in the great Christmas festival. But the round toes? Could she have done without them?

The question was not settled when she got to the dressmaker's; and for a good while there Matilda could think of nothing but her new dresses and the fashion and style which belonged to them. All that while the dressmaker, not Mme. Fournissons by any means, but one of her women, was trying on the bodies of these dresses, measuring lengths, fitting trimmings, and trying effects. It was done at last; and then Matilda desired the coachman to take her to 316 Bolivar street.

It was very grand, to ride in a carriage all alone by herself; to sink back on those luxurious cushions and look out at the people who were getting along in the world less easily; trudging over the stones and going through the dirt. And it was very pleasant to feel that she had a stock of rich and elegant dresses getting ready for her wear, and such a home of comfort, instead of the old last summer's life at Mrs. Candy's. Matilda was grown strong and well, her cheeks filled out and fresh-coloured; she felt like another Matilda. But as she drove along with these thoughts, the other thought came up to her, of her new opportunities. The Lord's child,—yes, that was not changed; she was that still; what was the work she ought to do, here and now? Opportunities for what, had she? Matilda thought carefully about it. And one thing which she had expected she could do, she feared was going out of her reach. How was she ever to have more money to spare for people needing it, if the demands of her new position kept pace with her increased means? If her boots must always cost seven dollars instead of three, having twice as much money to buy them with would not much help the matter. "And they must," said Matilda to herself. "With such dresses as these I am to have, and in such a house as Mrs. Lloyd's, those common boots I used to wear at Shadywalk would not do at all. And to wear with my red and green silks, I know I must have a new pair of slippers, with bows, like Judy's. I wonder how much they will cost? And then I shall hardly have even pennies for the little girls that sweep the street, at that rate."

Opportunities? were all her opportunities gone from her at once? That could not be; and yet Matilda did not see her way out of the question.

So the carriage rolled along with her, and she by and by got tired of thinking and began to examine more carefully into what there was to see. She was coming into a quarter of the city unlike those where she had been before. The house of Mme. Fournissons was in a very quiet street certainly; but what she was passing now was far below that in pretension. These streets were very uncomfortable, she thought, even to ride through. Yet the houses themselves were as good and as large as many houses in Shadywalk. But nothing in Shadywalk, no, not Lilac lane itself, was so repelling. Nothing in Shadywalk was so dingy and dark. Lilac lane was dirty, and poor; yet it was broad enough and the cottages stood far enough apart to let the sky look in. Here, in these streets, houses and people seemed to be packed. There was a bare look of want; a forlorn abandonment of every sort of pleasantness; what must it be to go in at one of those doors? Matilda thought; and to live there?—the idea was too disagreeable to dwell upon. Yet people lived there. What sort? Dingy people, as far as Matilda could see; dirty people, and as hopeless looking as the houses. It was not however a region of the wretchedly poor through which her course lay; the windows were whole and the roofs were decent; but it made the little girl's heart sick to look at it all, and read the signs she could not read. Through street after street of this general character the carriage went; narrow streets, very full of mud and dirt; where the horses stepped round an overturned basket of garbage in one place, and in another stopped for a dray to get out of their path; where children looked as if their heads were never brushed, and often the women looked as if their clothes were never clean. Matilda could never walk to see her sisters, that was plain; she was glad nobody was in the carriage with her; and she was much disappointed to see even a part of New York look like this.

In a street a little wider, a little cleaner, a shade or two more respectable, the carriage stopped at last. It stopped, and Matilda got out. Was this Bolivar street? But she looked and saw that 316 was the number of the house. So she rang the bell.

It was the right place; and she was shewn into a parlour, where she had to wait a little. It was respectable, and yet it oppressed all Matilda's senses. The room was full of buckwheat cake smoke, to begin with, which had filled it that morning and probably every morning of the week, and was never encouraged, nor indeed had ever a chance, to pass away. So each morning made its addition to the stock, till now Matilda felt as if it could be almost seen as well as felt. It certainly was in the carpet, the dingy old brown carpet, in which the worn holes were too many and too evident to be hidden by rug or crumb cloth or concealed by disposition of furniture. It wreathed the lamps on the mantelpiece and the picture on the wall, which last represented a very white monument with a very green willow tree drooping limp tresses over it, and a lady in black pressing a white handkerchief to her eyes. An old mahogany chest of drawers and a table with some books on it did not help the effect; for the chest of drawers was out of place, the cotton table cover was dingy and hung awry, and the books were soiled and dog's eared. Matilda felt all this in three minutes; then she forgot it in the joy of seeing her sisters. The greeting on her part was very warm; too warm for her to find out that on their part it was a little constrained. They were interested enough, however, in all that had befallen Matilda, to give talk full flow; and made her tell them the whole story of the past months; the ship fever, the visit at Briery Bank, the adoption of herself to be a child of the house, the coming to New York, and the composition of the family circle in Mrs. Lloyd's house. The elder sisters said very little all the while, except to ask questions.

"And it's for good and all!" said Letitia, when Matilda had done.

"Yes. For good and all!"

"And what is Maria doing?" said Anne.

"Maria is in Poughkeepsie, you know, learning mantua-making."

"Is she happy? does she get along well?"

"I don't know," replied Matilda dubiously. She had not known Maria to seem happy for a very long period; certainly not at the time of her last visit to her.

"And we are here," said Letitia. "I don't know why all the good should come to Matilda, for my part."

Matilda could say nothing. It was a dash of cold water.

"I suppose you have everything in the world you want?" Letitia went on.

"Does she treat you really exactly as if you were her child?" said Anne. "Mrs. Laval, I mean."

"Just as if I were," said Matilda.

"And you can have everything you want?" asked Letitia; but not as if she were glad of it.

"If Mrs. Laval knows it," said Matilda.

"You can let her know it, I suppose. It ain't fair!" cried Letitia; "it ain't fair! Why should Matilda have all the good that comes to anybody? Here this child can have everything she wants; and you and I, and Maria, have to work and work and pinch and pinch, and can't get it then."

"Is that your dress for every day?" said Anne, after she had lifted Matilda's cloak to see what was underneath.

"I don't know, Anne."

"You don't know? Don't you know what you wear every day?"

"Yes, but I don't know what will be my every day frock. I do not wear the same in the morning and in the afternoon."

"You don't!" said Anne. "How many dresses have you?"

"And what are they?" added Letitia.

Matilda was obliged to tell.

"Think of it!" said Letty. "This child! She has silks and cashmeres and reps, more than she can use; and I, old as I am, haven't a dress to go to church in, but one that I have worn a whole winter. I could get one for twenty shillings, and I haven't money to spare for that!"

"Hush," said Anne; "we shall do better by and by, when we have gone further into the business."

"We shall be delving in the business though, for it, all the while. And Matilda is to do nothing and live grand. She'll be too grand to look at us and Maria."

"Where do you live?" Anne asked.

"It's the corner of 40th street and Blessington Avenue."

Anne's face darkened.

"Where is Blessington Avenue?" asked Letitia.

"It's away over the other side of the city," Anne answered.

"Well, I suppose there is all New York between us," said Letitia. "Don't you think this is a delightful part of the town, Matilda?"

"I should think you would go back to Shadywalk, Anne and Letty, when you have learned what you want to learn; it would be pleasanter to make dresses for the people there, wouldn't it, than for people here?"

"Speak for yourself," said Letty. "Do you think nobody wants to be in New York but you?"

"I don't want to live where Mrs. Candy lives," said Anne. "That's enough for me."

The conversation had got into a very disagreeable channel, where Matilda could not deal with it. Perhaps that helped her to remember that it was getting late and she must go.

"How did you get here?" asked Letitia. "You could not find your way alone. I declare! you don't mean to say that carriage is for you?"

"I couldn't come any other way," said Ma-tilda, as meekly as if it had been a sin to ride in a carriage.

"I declare!" said Letitia. "Look, Anne, what a carriage. It is a close carriage, just as handsome as it can be."

"Was nobody with you?" said Anne.

"No, she has it all to herself," said Letitia. "Well, I hope she'll enjoy it. And I would be glad of twenty shillings to get a dress to walk to church in."

Matilda was glad to bid good bye and to find the carriage door shut upon her. She was very glad to be alone again. Was it any wrong in her, that she had so much more than her sisters? It was not her own doing; she did not make Mrs. Laval's wealth, nor gain Mrs. Laval's affection, by any intent of her own; and further, Matilda could not understand how Anne and Letitia were any worse off for her better circumstances. If she could have helped it, indeed, that would have been another affair; and here one thorn pricked into Matilda's heart. She might not have thought of it if the amount named had not been just what it was; but twenty shillings?—that was exactly the two dollars and a half she had paid to be in the fashion as to her toes. Now was it right, or not? Ought she to have those two and a half dollars in hand to give to Letty for her dress? The thorn pricked rather sharp.



CHAPTER VIII.

It was growing dusk when Matilda got home. She tapped at Mrs. Laval's door before seeking her own.

Mrs. Laval was sitting on a low chair in front of the fire. She had bid "come in," at the knock, and now received Matilda into her arms; and making her sit down on her lap, began taking off her things between kisses.

"You have got home safe and warm," she said, as she pulled off Matilda's glove and felt of the little fingers.

"O yes! I had a beautiful ride," Matilda answered.

"And a pleasant visit?"

Now the answer to this was not so easy to give. Matilda struggled for an answer, but truth would not find one. Mortification did. She flung her arms round Mrs. Laval's neck and hid her face, for she felt the tears were coming.

"My darling!" said the lady, very much surprised,—"what is the matter? Was it not pleasant?"

But Matilda would not say that either. She let her action speak for her. Mrs. Laval kissed and caressed her, and then when the child lifted up her head, asked in a more business-like tone, "What was it, Matilda?"

"I don't know,"—was all that Matilda could say.

"Were they not glad to see you?"

"I thought they were, at first," said Matilda. "I was very glad to see them. Afterwards"—

"Yes, what afterwards?"

"Something was the matter. I think—maybe—they felt a little bad because I have so much more than they have; and I don't deserve it any more."

"I understand," said Mrs. Laval. "I dare say. Well, dear, we will try and find some way of making them feel better. Don't you be troubled. What have you been about all day? I have scarcely seen you. Did you go to Laddler's this morning?"

"Yes, ma'am. Norton took me there."

"And you got your boots, such as you wanted?"

"I got them—I believe so. They are narrow toes."

"Was that what you wanted?" said Mrs. Laval smiling.

"I could have got broad toed boots for a good deal less, but he said they were out of fashion; they were last year's style."

"Yes, he knows," said Mrs. Laval. "Of course he knows, for he makes them."

"Don't other people know?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Laval; "but really I never think about it. I take what he gives me and am sure it is all right. That is the comfort of going to Laddler."

"But wouldn't you have found it out, if I had got the square toes?"

"I might have found it out," said Mrs. Laval laughing, "but I should not have known it was wrong. I should have taken it for the last style."

"Then what difference does it make?" said Matilda.

"It makes a good deal of difference to the shoemaker," said Mrs. Laval; "for as often as he can bring in a new fashion he can make people buy new shoes. But how was it at Madame Fournissons?"

"It was all right," said Matilda. "She tried everything on, and made them all fit."

Mrs. Laval wrapped arms a little closer about the tiny figure on her lap.

"Now do you know," she said, "there is another piece of work you have got to attend to. Has Norton told you about Christmas?"

"Yes, ma'am; something."

"You know there is a great time of present giving. You must take your turn, with the rest. How will you manage it?"

"Manage what, ma'am?"

"Manage to get gifts for all these people? Shall I do it for you?"

"Why I cannot do it," said Matilda simply; "because I have nothing to get them with."

Mrs. Laval laughed and kissed her. "Suppose I supply that deficiency? You could not very well do it without money, unless you were a witch. But if I give you the money, darling? Here are twenty dollars; now you may spend them, or I will spend them for you. Would you like to do it?"

"I would like to do it very much!" said Matilda flushing with excitement,—"if I can."

"Very well. Norton will shew you where pretty things are to be bought, of various sorts. You can get everything in New York. I expect I shall not see you now for three weeks to come; you will be shopping all the time. You have a great deal to do."

Matilda flushed more and more, clasped the notes in her hand, and looked delighted.

"Well, I suppose I must let you go," said Mrs. Laval, "for I must get ready for dinner, and you must. But first,—Matilda, when are you going to call me mamma? This is not to make you forget the mother you had, maybe a better one than I am; but I am your mother now. I want you to call me so."

Matilda threw her arms round Mrs. Laval's neck again. "Yes—I will," she whispered. There were new kisses interchanged between them, full of much meaning; and then Matilda went up to her room.

At the top of the stairs, in each story, there was a large open space, a sort of lobby, carpeted and warm and bright, into which the rooms opened. Matilda paused when she got to her own, and stood by the rails thinking. The twenty dollars had not at all taken away her regret on the subject of Letitia's dress; rather the abundance which came pouring in upon her pricked her conscience the more with the contrast between her own case and that of her sister, which a little self-denial on her part would have rendered less painful. Mrs. Laval had unwittingly helped the feeling too by her slight treatment of the matter of the boots; it appeared that she would never have known or cared, if Matilda had got the objectionable square toes. Judy would; but then, was Judy's laugh to be set against Letitia's joy in a new dress? a thing really needed? Matilda could not feel satisfied with her action. When she bought those boots, she had not done it according to her motto; that was the conclusion.

She came to that conclusion before she opened the door of her room; but then she took up the consideration of how the mischief might be remedied; and all the while she was dressing and putting away her walking things, her head in a delightful bustle of thoughts tried different ways of disposing of her money. She must consult Norton; that was the end of it.

"Well," said Norton, when she had a chance to do this after dinner,—"I see what is before us; we have got to go into all the stores in New York between this and Christmas; so we had best begin to-morrow. To-morrow we will go— Do you know what sort of things you want, Pink?"

"Only one or two."

"See now. You must have something for everybody. That is, counting great and small, six persons in this house. Any beside?"

"O yes; but I know what to do for them, Norton; at least I shall know; it is only these that trouble me."

"What will you offer to grandmamma?"

"I just don't know, Norton! I can't even imagine."

Norton pondered.

"Hollo, Davy!" he cried presently. "You and Judy come over here. I want to talk to you."

Judith and her brother came over the room to where Norton and Matilda were. Judith sat down, but David stood waiting.

"The thing is, friends and relatives," Norton began, "how and by what measures we can jointly and severally succeed in distinguishing ourselves, in the matter of our Christmas offerings to Mrs. Lloyd. I want your opinion about it. It is always nearly as much bother as Christmas is worth. The old lady don't want anything, that I ever discovered, and if she did, no one of us is rich enough to relieve her. Now a bright plan has occurred to me. Suppose we club."

"Club what?" said David.

"Forces. That is, put our stock together and give her something clever—from the whole of us, you know."

David looked at the new member of the quartette, as if to see whether she would do to work with; Judy whistled softly.

"What shall we give her?" said that young lady. "She has got everything under the sun already."

"Easier to find one thing than four things, then," said Norton.

"I think it will do," said David. "It is a good idea. And I saw the article at Candello's yesterday."

"What was it?"

"A liqueur stand. Grandmamma was admiring it. It is very elegant; the shapes of the flasks and cups are so uncommon, and so pretty."

"David is a judge of that," said Norton by way of comment to Matilda. "I go in for colour, and he for shapes."

"There is no colour here," said David; "it is all clear glass."

"The cordial will give the colour," said Norton. "Yes, I think that will do. Hurra! Grandmamma is always on my mind about this time, and it keeps down my spirits."

"Who'll go and get it?" said Judy.

"We'll all go together," said Norton. "We are all going to get it; didn't you understand? I want to see for myself, for my part, before the thing's done. I say! let us each give a glass, and have our names engraved on them."

"I don't want anybody to drink out of 'Judy,'" said the young lady tossing her head.

"Grandmamma will think she is kissing you," said Norton. "She'll wear out that glass, that's the worst of it."

"Then somebody else will have to drink out of 'David,'" said Judy's brother. "I don't know about that."

"Well, she'd like it," said Norton.

"But I wouldn't," said Judy. "I have no objection to her kissing me; but fancy other people!"

"It won't hurt," said Norton. "You'll never feel it through the glass. But anyhow, we'll all go to Candello's to-morrow and see the thing, and see what we'll do. Maybe she'll give us cordial in our own cups. That would be jolly!—if it was noyau."

"You are getting jolly already," said Judith. "Does Matilda ever get jolly?"

"You'll find out," said Norton; "in course of time, if you keep your eyes open. But I don't believe you know a brick when you see it, Judy."

"A brick!" said that young lady.

"Yes. There are a great many sorts, David can tell you. Bricks are a very old institution. I was studying about Chaldaean bricks lately. They were a foot square and two or three inches thick; and if they were not well baked they would not stand much, you know."

"What nonsense you are talking!" said Judith scornfully.

"Some of those bricks were not nonsense, for they have lasted four thousand years. That's what I call—a brick!"

"You wouldn't know it if you saw it though," David remarked.

"You shut up!" said Norton. "Some of your ancestors made them for Nebuchadnezzar."

"Some of my ancestors were over the whole province of Babylon," said David. "But that was not four thousand years ago."

"When I get back as far as Nebuchadnezzar," said Norton shutting his eyes, as if in the effort at abstraction, "I have got as far as I can go. The stars of history beyond that seem to me all at one distance."

"They do not seem so to me," said David. "It was long before Nebuchadnezzar that Solomon reigned; and the Jews were an old people then."

"I know!" said Norton. "Nothing can match you but the Celestials. After all, Noah's three sons all came out of the ark together."

"But the nations of Ham are all gone," said David; "and the nations of Japhet are all changing."

"This fellow's dreadful on history?" said Norton to Matilda. "I used to think," he went on as the coloured waiter just then came in with coffee, "I used to think there were some of Ham's children left yet."

"But not a nation," said David.

The one of Ham's children in question came round to them at this minute, and the talk was interrupted by the business of cream and sugar. The four children were all round the coffee tray, when Mrs. Laval's voice was heard calling Matilda. Matilda went across the room to her.

"Are they giving you coffee, my darling?" said Mrs. Laval, putting her arm round her.

"I was just going to have some."

"I don't want you to take it. Will it seem very hard to deny yourself?"

"Why no," said Matilda; then with an effort,—"No, mamma; not if you wish me to let it alone."

"I do. I don't want this delicate colour on your cheek," and she touched it as she spoke, "to grow thick and muddy; I want the skin to be as fair and clear as it is now."

"Norton takes coffee," said Mrs. Bartholomew.

"I know. Norton is a boy. It don't matter."

"Judy!" Mrs. Bartholomew called across the room, "Judy! don't you touch coffee."

"It's so hot mamma, I don't touch it. I swallow it without touching. It goes right down."

"I don't like you to drink it."

"It would be a great deal pleasanter to drink it, than to swallow it in that way," said Judy, coming across the room with a hop, skip and jump indescribable. "But coffee is coffee anyhow. Mayn't I take it a little cooler and a little slower next time?"

"It will make your complexion thick."

"It will make my eyes bright, though," said Judy unblushingly.

"I never heard that," said Mrs. Bartholomew laughing.

"O but I have, though," said Judy. "I have seen your eyes ever so bright, mamma, when you have been drinking coffee."

"Yours are bright enough without it," said her mother.

"Yes'm," said Judy contentedly, standing her ground.

Matilda wondered a good deal at both mother and daughter, and she was amused too; Judy was so funnily impudent, and Mrs. Bartholomew so lazily authoritative. She nestled within Mrs. Laval's arm which encircled her, and felt safe, in the midst of very strange social elements. Mrs. Lloyd eyed her.

"How old is that child, Zara?"

"About Judith's age."

"No, she isn't, aunt Zara," said Judy. "She is about seven years and three months."

"And what are you?" said her aunt.

"Judith is over twelve," said Mrs. Bartholomew. "Surely that child is not so old?"

"Matilda is the shortest," said Mrs. Laval, looking from one to the other.

"And much the youngest looking," said Mrs. Lloyd. "How do you like New York, my dear?"

"She likes it," said Judy,—"if she only could have got a black satin cloak."

Matilda stared at her in mingled amazement and shame. Mrs. Laval laughed and hugged Matilda up a little closer.

"A black satin cloak?" she repeated. "Did you wish for a black satin cloak, my dear?"

"Trimmed with a deep fall of lace," added Judy.

"O Judy," exclaimed Matilda, "you said nothing about lace!"

"You wanted it, though," said Judith.

"I never thought of such a thing, mamma, as lace," said Matilda appealingly.

"But you did wish for the satin?"

"Judy seemed to think it would be pretty. She wanted me to ask you to get it."

The shout of laughter which was raised upon this, Matilda did not at all understand. They all laughed, Judy not the least of them. Matilda was very much ashamed.

"Oh Judy, Judy!" her aunt said. "Matilda, black satin is what old ladies wear. She has been fooling you, as she fools everybody. You mustn't believe Judy Bartholomew in anything she tells you. You would be a little old woman, in a black satin cloak with deep lace."

"She said nothing about lace," Matilda repeated. "But I shall learn what is proper, in her company."

And Matilda's little head, despite her confusion, took the airy set upon her shoulders which was with her the unconscious expression of disdain or disapprobation. There was another burst of laughter.

"Your shoulders are older than your face, my dear," observed Mrs. Lloyd. "Judith must take care what she does. I see there is something in you."

Happily this speech was Greek to Matilda; she had not the least knowledge of what called it forth. However, she took it as a sign that Mrs. Lloyd was beginning to like her a little. All the more she was sorry, as her feet went up the stairs that night, that the way was not clear about the Christmas gift for the stately old lady.

She had meant to speak of it to the other children, but had no chance. After Mrs. Laval called her to tell her about the coffee, the quartette party was broken up; the two boys had left the room and not come back again. So what would have been better disposed of at once, was of necessity laid over to the next day. Matilda had scruples about taking part in a gift that had anything to do with the promotion of drinking. She knew well enough what liqueur was; she had tasted it on the occasion of that first memorable visit she and Maria had made to Mrs. Laval's house; she knew it was very strong, stronger than wine, she thought; for people only drank it out of little glasses that would not hold much more than a good thimbleful. She had seen it once or twice already at Mrs. Lloyd's served after dinner. She had seen David and Norton and Judy all take it. Now she herself was pledged to do all she could in the cause of temperance. Her all would not be much here, something said to her; nobody would mind what she thought or said; true. Nevertheless, ought she not to do what she could? according to her old motto. And following her new motto, to "do all in the name of the Lord Jesus," could she rightly join, even silently, in a plan to make a present of drinking flasks and glasses? But if she refused, what a fuss it would make!

Matilda went slowly up the stairs thinking of it; and arrived in her room, she turned on the gas and opened her Bible and sat down to study the question. She found she could not read, any more than those few strong words; they seemed to cover the whole ground; "Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus." Could she, as his little servant, help the other children in giving such a gift? And she was pledged, as a member of the Commission no less than as a servant of Christ, to do all she could for the cause of temperance. Would it not be something for the cause of temperance, if she declared off from having anything to do with the liqueur stand? She had felt she must try somehow to speak to David and Norton about their own drinking wine; this was a good chance, and if she let this chance go—I can never do it another time, she thought to herself. But oh, the difficulty and the pain of it! They thought her a baby, and a little country girl, who knew nothing; they would laugh at her so, and perhaps be angry too. How could she do it! And once or twice Matilda put her head down on her book in the struggle, wishing with all her heart it were not so hard to be a Christian.

But all her thoughts and her prayers only made her more and more sure which way lay the course of duty; and along with that grew a heavy looking forward to the next day and the trial it would bring. How to manage the matter best was a question. To speak privately to Norton alone would be far the easiest; but then, that might not secure the effect of her protest against wine and cordials and all such things, as she wished to make it; Norton would perhaps cover it up, for the sake of shielding her and himself from the reproaches of the others; and so the work would not be done. She could not decide. She was obliged to go to bed and leave it to circumstances to open the way for her. She half made up her mind that the "opportunities" of her new position were as likely to be opportunities for self denial as for anything else. This was not what she had expected.

Saturday morning rose still and fair. The wind had gone down; the severe cold had abated; the weather was beautifully prosperous for the children's expedition. Now if Matilda could get a chance to speak before they set out—It would be awkward to have to speak in the store, maybe before a shopman, and when they were all on the very point of finishing what they came to do. Matilda was ready to wish the day had been stormy; and yet she wanted to go to Tiffany's, where Norton had said he would take her; and to Candello's too, for the matter of that

There was another question Matilda had to settle with herself, only she could not attend to so many things at once. Her twenty dollars for Christmas purchases; how was all that to be spent "in the name of the Lord Jesus"? She could not think of it just now, except by snatches; she kept remembering it, and trying to reckon how many people she had to buy things for. New York certainly was a very puzzling place to live in.

The other children seemed to be as full of business as she, and much less quiet about it. So Matilda did not find a chance to speak to Norton in private, which in her trouble she would have done if she could. It was all bustle and discussion till they went to get ready for their walk. Matilda laced on her new boots, Judy won't have any occasion to look scornfully at those, she said to herself. They are as nice as they can be.

A little to her surprise, when she got downstairs she found Miss Judy dressed in a black silk pelisse. What was the difference between silk and satin, Matilda wondered? Judy caught her glance perhaps, for with a twinkle of her own sharp black eyes she burst out into a peal of laughter.

"What is the matter now?" her brother asked.

"Things become people so differently," said Judith saucily. "Something you couldn't understand, Davy; men don't, nor boys neither. Matilda and I understand."

"Matilda don't understand much that you do," said Norton.

"An' that's thrue for ye!" said Judy with a strong Irish accent. "Faith, the craythur, she's just innicent!"

"Hush, Judy," said her brother laughing; and "You're a case, Judy," said Norton; and so they went out at the front door. Matilda's opportunity was gone; she had thought to speak out to them all while they were in the hall; and now she was a little too vexed to speak, for a while. However, it was a gay walk down the avenue and then down Broadway. The day was very fine and all the world seemed to be out and astir. Norton was talking very busily too, and the excitement of business soon chased away the momentary excitement of displeasure. In the midst of all this, every few blocks they came to street sweepers. A little girl or a little boy, grey and ragged, keeping a clean crossing and holding out eager little hands for the pennies they did not get. David and Norton and Judith did not so much as look at the children, passing the outstretched hands as if unseen; and Matilda had no pennies; nothing but her twenty dollar bill. Every few blocks there was one of these poor, grey dusty figures and one of those little empty hands. Matilda might have forgotten one or two, if that had been all; it was impossible to forget this company. How came their life to be so different from her life? What a hard way to spend one's days! always at a street corner. And where did they hide themselves at night? And did any of those poor little ones ever know what Christmas meant? And most of all, what could or ought she to do for them, she who had so much? What could be squeezed out of those twenty dollars to refresh the corners of the streets? anything?

Thinking about this, and replying to Norton, and finding her way among the crowds of people, they had come to Candello's before Matilda had found a time to speak anything of what was chiefly on her mind.

It was a long bright store, elegant with its profusion of beautiful things in glass and porcelain and bronze. Every foot of the counters and of the floor, along the sides of the room, seemed to Matilda to be filled with things to be looked at. Such beautiful basins and ewers, just for washing! Such charming vases and flower glasses! Such handsome clocks and statuettes and lamps! Then there were painted cups, and flowered goblets and tumblers, and flasks wonderfully cut, and bowls, large and beautiful, but clearly not for toilet use, that excited Matilda's wonderment. She was lost in delight as well as wonder.

"Here," said David, and the word struck like a blow upon her nerves of hearing,—"here is the article. Isn't that unexceptionable now?"

With the others, Matilda turned to see what he was pointing at. A glass liqueur stand, with a crystal flask and tiny cups to match; as pretty and elegant as it could be; even rare in its delicate richness among so many delicate and rich things. The others were eager in their praise. Matilda was silent.

"Don't you like it, Pink?" said Norton.

"It is as pretty as it can possibly be," Matilda answered. "But Norton"—

"Then we might as well get it," said Norton. "We're all agreed. There's no use in looking further when you are suited."

"So I think," said David. "I never do."

"That is as good as Mrs. Lloyd could do for herself," said Judith.

"But Norton"—said Matilda.

"Shall we have our names put on the cups?" said Norton.

"But Norton," said Matilda desperately, "we are not all agreed. I am very sorry!—I like it very much—it's beautiful"—

"You are afraid you haven't money enough?" said Norton. "Never fear! Davy and I will pay the largest half; you and Judy shall give less, but it don't make any difference. I'll tell you! David and I will get the stand and the flask; and you two shall give the cups."

"It isn't that," said Matilda, very much distressed; "it is not that, Norton; it is something else. It is"—

"What in the world is it?" said Judy, balancing herself daintily on one toe.

"It is—that I don't drink wine, you know."

"What's that to do?" said Judy, while the two boys both looked at Matilda. "You haven't to drink or let it alone; it is not for your use anyhow."

"No, I know that; but I don't think it is right—I mean,—I mean," said Matilda, gathering courage, "I have promised to do all I can to prevent people from drinking wine. I can't help in such a present as this."

"They don't drink wine out of these little cups," said David. "It is something different; it is Noyau, or Curacoa, or Chartreuse, or Maraschino, or some of those things, you know."

"Yes, but it is stronger," said Matilda in a low voice. "It's stronger than wine."

"She's temperance!" exclaimed Judith, turning round on one heel and coming back into position. "She's temperance! We are all wicked at Mrs. Lloyd's; we drink Hock and we sip Curacoa. I suppose she has only been where people drink gin and lager; and she thinks it's all alike."

"She has been at Briery Bank, Judy," said Norton, "where the wines are as good as in Blessington Avenue."

"Then she ought to have learned better!" said Judy. "That's all I have to say."

"But Pink," said Norton, and he was very kind, though he looked vexed,—"this is not anything about your drinking or not drinking, you know. Grandmamma will have her wine and she will offer her cordial, just the same; it don't make any difference; only we want to give her something she will like, and she will like this; don't you see?"

"Yes, Norton, I see," said Matilda, her eyes filling with tears; "I am very sorry; but I wish you and David wouldn't have anything to do with wine, either."

"She don't mention me!" exclaimed Judy. "Either I'm so good I'm safe; or I'm so bad it's no use trying to take care of me. You poor boys, she will try to take care of you. What impertinence!"

"No more than if you did it, Judy, come, now!" said Norton. "It's no such thing; it's only nonsense. Now Pink, don't be nonsensical!"

"We can do it without her being in the affair, if she doesn't like it," said David. "But I do not understand," he went on, addressing himself to Matilda. "Giving a present isn't drinking wine, is it?"

"No," said Matilda, who by this time could hardly speak at all. "But Mr. David, it is helping somebody else to drink."

"Do you think what you do would help or hinder?"

"What you do might."

"We shall go on just the same, whatever way you take. What difference can it make, whether your money is in it or not?"

"I don't know," said Matilda struggling;—"none, perhaps, whether my money is in it. But my name would be in it."

"Do you think that would make any difference?—stop, Norton, I want to understand what she will say. What would your name do, in it or out of it?"

"Ridiculous! to spend time talking to her!" said Judy. "That is just what she wants."

But David waited for his answer; and Matilda's eyes were all glittering, while her little head took its inexpressible air of self-assertion.

"I don't know—I can't, tell," she said, answering David as if she had not heard Judy;—"it might do nothing, but I have promised to use it on the right side."

"Promised whom?" said David. "Maybe it is a promise that need not stand. Promised whom?"

"Yes, whom did you promise, Pink?" said Norton.

Matilda hesitated and then spoke.

"I promised the Lord Jesus Christ," she said slowly.

She was looking at nobody in particular, yet her eye caught the expression of annoyance on Norton's face; she did not see the cloud of disgust and surprise that came over David's. He turned away. Judith's eyes snapped.

"Isn't that neat now?" she said. "We have got a saint among us, sure enough. Well—saints know how to take care of their money; we all know that. What are we poor sinners going to do for grandmamma's present? that's the question. I propose that we get her a prayerbook, very large, and black, with gilt clasps and her name on the cover; then everybody will know that Mrs. Lloyd is a good woman and goes to church."

"Be still, Judy!" said her brother sternly.

"Propose something yourself then," said Judith. "We can't do anything at Candello's, that's clear. I don't believe there's an innocent thing here beside tea cups. I've seen people drink brandy and water in tumblers; and bowls hold whiskey punch. Dear me! what a pity it is that good things are so bad!"

"Hush, Judy!" said Norton; "you won't hurt anybody by being too good."

"It's a way I despise," said Judith coolly. "When I hurt anybody, I like to know it. I never shut my eyes and fire."

"It's a wonder you don't take better aim, then," said Norton impatiently. "You are firing wild just now. Matilda has a right to think as she likes, and she don't shut her eyes and fire. There's nothing of a coward about her. But then we don't think as she thinks, about some things; and I say we'll get this liqueur stand and she shall find something else for her part."

"I'll tell all about it, though, at home," said Judy.

"I dare say Matilda would as lieve you did," said Norton. "Come, David—will you finish this business? You and I and Judy will go thirds in it. I've got some other matters to attend to with Matilda, and time is running away; and Monday school begins. Come, Pink—we have got to go to Tiffany's."

"What o'clock is it, Norton?" Matilda asked as soon as they were outside of the shop.

"Near twelve, Pink. I declare! time does run."

"Norton, couldn't we go home first, and go to Tiffany's after luncheon? there'll be a long afternoon, you know."

"Every place is so crowded in the afternoon," said Norton. "But you want to go home, Pink? Well, you shall. We shouldn't have much time before luncheon, that's a fact."

So they got into a street car that was passing.

"Whatever made you say that, Pink?" Norton burst out when they were seated. "David and Judy are set against you now."

"I think they were before, Norton."

"No, they weren't; or if they were, I don't care; they had nothing to say. Now you have given them a handle."

"I didn't say anything very bad," said Matilda with her voice trembling a little.

"No, but they'll take it so. What is it to us, what grandmamma, or any one else, does with a thing after we have given it? That is none of our affair. We only make the present."

"It would be very strange, though, to give anybody something you were not willing he should use," said Matilda.

"Of course. I am willing. I don't care what anybody does with a thing, after I have done with it."

"I care," said Matilda softly.

"Why? Now Pink, you don't. What do you care whether grandmamma drinks curacoa or not after dinner?"

Matilda hesitated.

"I wish she wouldn't," she said then again softly. "Then you and David and Judy wouldn't."

"Why shouldn't we?" said Norton rather shortly.

"Because, people get too fond of such things. And it ruins them."

"It hasn't ruined me yet," said Norton.

But that was about as far as Matilda could go, and she burst into tears. She kept them back bravely, while they were in the car, but she could not find voice to reply to any of Norton's kind words, which were meant to be very soothing; and as soon as they got home she went straight to her room. Norton went to his mother.

"We have had a splendid confounded time! mamma," he burst out.

"Splendid and confounded?" his mother repeated.

"No, ma'am. Splendidly confounded, I should have said. We went to get grandmamma's present. And Pink, she has contrived to make David and Judy as mad with her as they can be; and that's saying a good deal, when you are talking English. Now how it's to be undone, I don't know. I suppose Pink is crying her eyes out about it. She had no heart to go to Tiffany's or anything. We are going after dinner, though."

"But what is the matter? what has she done, Norton?"

"Came out with temperance and religion, and all that sort of thing, to David and Judy; fancy it, mamma! and more than that, with the very part of religion that they like least of all. Wouldn't help us buy a liqueur stand for grandmamma, because she doesn't think it is right to use cordials."

"What a child!" exclaimed Mrs. Laval.

"She's got pluck," said Norton, picking up a pin from the floor and energetically giving it a cast into the fire; "she's a brick, she is! I knew that the first day I saw her; but mamma, she is very soft in that spot."

Mrs. Laval looked sober. Perhaps she remembered that the late Mr. Laval had also been soft in that spot, though in an entirely different way. Perhaps she recollected how many variously shaped glasses were needed around his dinner plate, and how he carried about a strong breath and a red face for hours afterward, and how she had been sometimes ever so little ashamed of him. She was now silent.

"Mamma, can't you talk to her?" Norton began again.

"About what?" said Mrs. Laval starting.

"This, ma'am; and make her a little more like other people."

"I would just as lieve she wouldn't drink wine, Norton; or you either."

"Or grandmamma either, mamma?"

"You have nothing to do with that. Your grandmamma is an old lady. I am not talking of grandmamma, but of you."

"Well do you want Matilda to preach temperance, ma'am?"

"You let Matilda alone. She will not go far wrong. She is never forward. Was she to-day?"

"No," said Norton laughing a little; "it was like a small canary bird chirping out a lecture."

"You let her alone," Mrs. Laval repeated; "and don't let the others plague her. And go get yourself ready to go to the table, my boy; the time for luncheon is very near."

"I can't help Judy's plaguing her," said Norton as he turned to go. "David won't do anything. But won't he hate her, from now!"



CHAPTER IX.

Norton ran off upstairs. His mother waited till he was safe in his room and then followed him. But she stopped at Matilda's door and softly went in. Matilda's hat was off; that was all; and on her knees beside a chair the little girl was, with bowed head, and sobbing. Mrs. Laval's arms came round her, gently drew her up and enfolded her. "What is all this?" she whispered.

Matilda's face was hid.

"What's the matter, my darling?" Mrs. Laval repeated. "Norton has told me all about it—there is nothing for you to cry about."

"Is he angry with me?" Matilda whispered.

"Angry with you! No, indeed. Norton could not be that. And there is nothing else you need mind."

"I am very sorry!" said poor Matilda. "I hurt all their pleasure this morning, and they thought I was—very disagreeable, I believe."

"Nobody ever thought that yet," said Mrs. Laval laughing a little; "and no harm is done. It was nonsense for them to get you into that business at all. It is all very well for them to give their grandmother a present; but for you it is quite needless; it is her place to give to you, and not yours to give to her; the cases are different. Norton forgot that."

"Then she will not think it strange that I am not in it?" said Matilda lifting up her face at last.

"Not at all. It would be more strange if you were in it."

"Norton proposed it."

"Yes, I know; but Norton is not infallible. He has made a mistake this time."

"But I offended them, mamma," said Matilda.

"They will get over it. Now dry your eyes and take your coat off, and we will go down to luncheon."

They went down together, and Mrs. Laval took care that no annoyance came to Matilda during the meal. So after luncheon she was all ready to take a new start with Norton for Tiffany's.

"You see, Pink," said Norton as they were riding down, "all you have to do is to let people go their own way, and you go your's. That's all. That's the way so many carts get through the streets. It isn't necessary to knock up against every one you come to; and people don't like it."

"I was only going my own way, Norton," Matilda said gently; "but I had to give the reason for it; and that was what you all didn't like."

"Your reason interfered with our way, though," said Norton. "You as good as said it is wrong to do something we all do."

"Well," said Matilda very slowly,—"ought you not to try to hinder people from doing what is not right?"

"How do you know what is not right?" said Norton.

"The Bible tells."

"Where does the Bible say it is wrong to drink wine?" Norton asked quickly.

"I'll shew you when we get home."

"Everybody does it, anyhow," said Norton; "and one must do what everybody does."

"Mr. Richmond don't, Norton."

"Mr. Richmond! He's a minister."

"Well! Other people ought to be as good as ministers."

"They can't," said Norton. "Besides—Mr. Richmond is all very well; he's a brick; but then he is not a fashionable man, and he don't know the world."

"Are ministers ever fashionable men?" said Matilda, opening her eyes a little.

"Certainly. Why not. Dr. Blandford likes a good glass of wine as well as any one, and knows how to drink it. He likes a good dinner too."

"What do you mean, Norton? Anybody knows how to drink a glass of wine."

"Everybody don't know how to drink half a dozen glasses, though," said Norton. "A wine may be out of place; and it is not good out of place."

"You take it at dinner," said Matilda.

"Yes, but different wines at different times of the dinner," said Norton. "Everything in its place, as much as everything in its own glass, and much more. For instance, you take light wines with the soup; Hock, or Sauterne, or grandmamma's favorite Greek wine. Then champagne with the dinner. Port goes with the cheese. Then claret is good with the fruit; and sherry and madeira with the dessert, or any time. And Dr. Blandford likes a bowl of whiskey punch to finish off with."

"Is he your minister?"

"Dr. Blandford? yes. That is, he's grand-mamma's."

"Do you think he is as good as Mr. Richmond?"

"He's better, for a dinner party," said Norton. "He knows what's what, as well as anybody. Now Pink, jump out; here we are."

The stately brown-fronted store struck Matilda with a certain sense of awe. Dr. Blandford was forgotten for the present. She followed Norton in, and stood still to take breath.

"Now," said Norton, "what shall we look at first? What do you want? How many things have you got to get, anyhow, Pink?"

"You know how many people there are at home. Then there are two or three others I have to think of."

"Hm!—seven or eight, I declare," said Norton. "Well, let us walk round and see everything generally."

There were a good many people who seemed to be doing just that; besides a crowd who were undoubtedly purchasers. Slowly Norton and Matilda began their round of the counters. Very slowly they went; for the loads of rich plate were a great marvel to the unused eyes of the little girl. She had to beg a great deal of explanation from Norton as to the use and meaning of different articles. Pitchers and tureens and forks and spoons she could understand; but what could possibly be the purpose of a vast round vase, with doves sitting opposite each other on the lip of it? doves with frosted wings, most beautiful to behold.

"That?" said Norton. "That's a punch bowl."

"A punch bowl! And how much would that cost, Norton?"

"Do you want it? Too much for your purse, Pink. That is marked two hundred and fifty dollars."

"For a punch bowl!" said Matilda.

"Yes, why not?"

But Matilda did not say why not. What must be the rest of the dinner, when the punch bowl was two hundred and fifty dollars?

"And here's an epergne," said Norton. "That is to stand in the centre of the dinner table—for ornament. That's seven hundred and fifty."

"What's inside of the punch bowl, Norton? it is yellow."

"Gold," said Norton. "It is lined with gold—gold washed, that is. Gold don't tarnish, you know."

They went on. It was a progress of wonders, to Matilda. She was delighted with some wood carvings. Then highly amused with a show of seals; Norton wished to buy one, and it took him some time to be suited. Then Norton made her notice a great variety of useful articles in morocco and leather and wood; satchels and portemonnaies, and dressing boxes, and portfolios and card cases; and chains and rings and watches. Bronzes and jewellery held them finally a very long time. The crowd was great in the store; people were passing in and passing out constantly; the little boys the door-openers were busy opening and shutting all the time. At last they let out Matilda and Norton.

"Now, Pink," said the latter, well pleased, "do you know what you want? Have you seen anything you want?"

"O yes, Norton; a great many things; but it is all confusion in my head till I think about it at home."

"We have got other places to go to," said Norton. "Don't decide anything till you have seen more. We can't go anywhere else to-day though. We've got to go home to dinner."