Matilda's head was in a whirl of pleasure. For amidst so many beautiful things she was sure she could do Christmas work charmingly; and at any rate it was delightful only to look at them. She tried to get her thoughts a little in order. For Norton, she would make the watch guard; that was one thing fixed. A delicate bronze paperweight, a beautiful obelisk, had greatly taken her fancy, and Norton had been describing to her the use of its originals in old Egypt; it was not very costly, and Matilda thought she would like to give that to Mrs. Laval. But she would not decide till she saw more; and for her sisters, and for everybody else indeed, she was quite uncertain yet what to choose. She thought about it so hard all the evening that she was able to throw off the gloom of David and Judy's darkened looks.

Next day, however, she had too much time to think. It was Sunday. Matilda was up in good time, as usual, and came down for breakfast; but there was no breakfast and nobody to eat it, till the clock shewed the half hour before ten. Bells had been ringing long ago for Sunday school, and had long ago stopped. Matilda was so hungry, that breakfast when it came made some amends for other losses; but then it was church time. And to her dismay she found that nobody was going to church. The long morning had to be spent as it could, with reading and thinking. Matilda persuaded Norton to take her to church in the afternoon, that she might know the way.

"It don't pay, Pink," said Norton; "however, I'll go with you, and you can see for yourself."

Matilda went and saw. A rich, splendid, luxuriously furnished church; a warm close atmosphere which almost put her to sleep; and a smooth-tongued speaker in the pulpit, every one of whose easy going sentences seemed to pull her eyelids down. Matilda struggled, sat upright, pinched her fingers, looked at the gay colours and intricate patterns of a painted window near her, and after all had as much as she could do to keep from nodding. She was very glad to feel the fresh air outside again.

"Well," said Norton. "Do you feel better?"

"Is that Dr. Blandford?"

"That is he. A jolly parson, ain't he?"

"The church was so warm," said Matilda.

"He keeps cool," said Norton. "That's one thing about Dr. Blandford. You always know where to have him."

"I wish Mr. Richmond was here," said Matilda.

The wish must have been strong; for that very evening, when she went to her room, earlier than usual because everybody was ready to go to bed Sunday night, she wrote a letter to her minister at Shady walk.



"BLESSINGTON AVENUE, Dec. 6, 18—

"DEAR MR. RICHMOND,—I am here, you see, and I am very happy; but I am very much troubled about some things. Everything is very different from what it was at Shadywalk, and it is very difficult to know what is right to do. So I think I had better ask you. Only there are so many things I want to ask about, that I am afraid my letter will be too long. Sometimes I do not know whether the trouble is in myself or in the things; I think it is extremely difficult to tell. Perhaps you will know; and I will try to explain what I mean as clearly as I can.

"One thing that puzzles me is this. Is it wrong to wish to be fashionable? and how can one tell just how much it is wrong, or right. Mrs. Laval is having some beautiful clothes made for me; ever so many; silks and other dresses; they will be made and trimmed as fashionable people have them; and I cannot help liking to have them so. I am afraid, perhaps, I like it too much. But how can I tell, Mr. Richmond? There is another little girl in the house here, Mrs. Laval's niece; about as old as I am, or not much older; and she has all her things made in these beautiful ways. Is it wrong for me to wish to have mine as handsome as hers? because I do; and one reason why I am so glad of mine is, that I shall be as fashionable as she is. She calls people who are not fashionable, 'country people.'

"There is another thing. Having things made in this way costs a great deal of money. I don't know about that. The other day I paid two dollars more than I need, just to have the toes of my boots right. You would not understand that; but the fashion is to have them narrow and rounded, and last year they were square and wide. And it is so of other things. I buy my own boots and gloves; and I could save a good deal if I would buy the shapes and colours that are not fashionable. What ought I to do? and how can I tell? It troubles me very much.

"I think that is the most of what troubles me, that and spending my money; but that is part of it. I don't want to be unlike other people. Is that wrong, or is it pride? I didn't know but it was pride, partly; and then I thought I would ask you.

"Another thing is, ought I to speak to people about what they do that is not right? I don't mean grown up people, of course; but the boys and Judy. I don't like to do it; but yet I thought I must, as I had promised to do all I could in the cause of temperance; and I did, and some of them were very much offended. They drink wine a great deal here, and I did not like to see Norton do it. So I spoke, and I don't think it did any good.

"My letter is getting very long, but there is one other thing I want to ask about. There are a great many poor children in the streets; boys and girls; so dirty that you cannot imagine it; they sweep the street crossings. What can I do for them? Ought I not to give pennies always? all I can?

"I believe that is all. O and I wish you could tell me what to do Sundays. The people here do not care about going to church; and I have been once and I don't wonder. I could hardly keep my eyes open. I miss the Sunday school and you very much. I wish I could see you. Give my love to Miss Redwood. Your affectionate

"MATILDA ENGLEFIELD.

"It will be Matilda Laval after this, but I thought I would sign my own old name once.



This letter was duly posted the next day. And almost as soon as the mails up and down made it possible, Matilda received her answer.



"SHADYWALK PARSONAGE, Dec. 8, 18—.

"MY DEAR LITTLE TILLY,—I appreciate your difficulties to the full. They are difficulties, enough to puzzle an older head than yours. Yet I think there is a simple way out of them, not through your head however so much as your heart. Keep that right, and I think we can get at the answer to your questions.

"The answer to them all is, Live by your motto. 'Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus.' Try everything by this rule. In spending your money, in deciding between boot-tips and dollars, in the question of reproving wrong in others, in the matter of kindness to the street-sweepers, put your motto before you; and ask yourself, how would the Lord Jesus do if he were here in person and had the same point to decide? The answer to that will tell you how, doing in his name, you ought to act yourself. Pray for direction; and whether you dress or speak or spend money, take care that it is Christ you are trying to please—not yourself, nor yet Miss Judy; but indeed let it be your best pleasure to please Him.

"Now as to your Sundays. If your people do not go to church regularly, you can probably do what you like on Sunday afternoons. Go up your avenue two blocks, turn down then to your right for two blocks more, and you will come to a plain looking brick building, not exactly like a church, nor like a common house. There is Mr. Rush's Sunday school. Go in there, and you will find work and pleasure. And then write again to

"Your very affectionate friend,

"F. RICHMOND."



It would be hazardous to say how many times Matilda read this letter. I am afraid some tears were shed over it. For to tell truth, difficulties rather thickened upon the little girl this week. In the first place, Norton was away at school almost all day. David and he came home to luncheon, which now became the dinner time of the young ones; but even so, he was full of his studies and his mates, and his new skates, and the merits of different styles of those instruments, and Matilda could hardly get anything out of him. David talked little; but he was always more self-absorbed. And with Judy, this week, Matilda had nothing to do. That young lady ignored her. Matilda went out shopping a good deal with Mrs. Laval; that was her best resource. The shops were an unfailing amusement and occupation; for everywhere she had her Christmas work to think of, and everywhere accordingly she kept her eyes open and studied what was before her; weighed the merits and noted the prices even of stuffs and ribbands; and left nothing unexamined that eyes could examine in the fancy stores. And when she got home, Matilda went to her room and made notes of the things she had seen and liked that she thought might be good for a present to one or another of the friends she had to reckon for. The obelisk held its place in her favour for Mrs. Laval; but with respect to the other people a crowd of images filled her imagination. Japanese paperweights, and little tea-pots; so pretty, Matilda thought she must buy one; ivory and Scotch plaid and carved wood paper knives, and one with a deer's foot handle. Little Shaker work-baskets, elegantly fitted up; scent-bottles; a carved wood letter-holder at Goupil's; a bronze standish representing a country well with pole and bucket. At Goupil's, where Mrs. Laval had business to attend to, Matilda's happy eyes were full of treasure. She wandered round the room gazing at the pictures, in a dream of delight; finding soon some special favourites which she was sure to revisit with fresh interest every time she had a chance; and Mrs. Laval took her there several times. Once Mrs. Laval, having finished what she came to do, was at a loss where to find Matilda; and only after going half round the long gallery, discovered her, wrapt in contemplation, standing before a large engraving which hung high above her on the wall. Matilda's head was thrown back, gazing; her two little hands were carelessly crossed at her back; she was a sort of picture herself. Mrs. Laval came up softly.

"What are you looking at, my darling?"

Matilda started. "Have you got through, mamma? did you want me?"

"I have got through; but I do not want you unless you are ready. What have you found that pleases you?"

"Look, mamma. That one—the woman holding a lamp—don't you see?"

It was Holman Hunt's figure of the woman searching for the lost piece of money.

"What is it?" said Mrs. Laval.

"Don't you remember, mamma? the story of the woman who had ten pieces of silver and lost one of them? how she swept the house, and looked until she found it?"

"If I had nine left, I should not take so much trouble," said Mrs. Laval.

"Ah, but, mamma, you know the Lord Jesus does not think so."

"The Lord! What are you talking of, my child?"

"O you do not remember, mamma! It is a parable. The Lord Jesus means us to know how He cares for the lost ones."

Mrs. Laval looked from Matilda to the picture and back again.

"Do you like it so very much?" she said.

"O I do, mamma! it's beautiful. What an odd lamp she has."

"That is the shape lamps used to be," said Mrs. Laval. "Not so good as ours."

"Prettier," said Matilda. "And it seems to give a good light. No, it don't, though; it shines only on a little place. But it's pretty."

"You do love pretty things," said Mrs. Laval laughing. "We will come and look at it again."

Matilda, it shewed how enterprising she was getting to be, had already privately inquired the price of the picture. It was fifteen dollars without a frame. Far up over her little head indeed. She drew a long breath, and came away.

The latter part of the week another engrossment appeared, in the shape of her new dresses from Mme. Fournissons. Mrs. Laval tried them all on; and Matilda's head had almost more than it could stand. So many, so handsome, so elegantly made and trimmed, so very becoming they were; it was like a fairy tale. To these dresses Mrs. Laval had been all the week adding riches of under-clothing; a supply so abundant that Matilda had never dreamed of the like, and so elegant and fine in material and make as she had never until then even seen. Now Matilda had a natural liking for extreme neatness and particularity in all that concerned her little person; and to have such plenty of things to wear, so nice of their kind, and full liberty to put them on clean and fresh as often as she pleased, fulfilled her utmost notions of what was desirable. Her mental confusion arose from the articles furnished by Mme. Fournissons. The lustre of the silk, the colour of the blue, the richness of the green, the ruffles, the costly buttons, the tasteful trimmings, the stylish make, all raised a whirl in Matilda's mind. She was a little intoxicated. Nobody saw it; she was very demure about it all; made no show of what she felt; all the same she felt it. She could not help a deep satisfaction at being dressed to the full as well as Judy; a feeling that was not lessened by a certain sense that the satisfaction was on her part alone. Of the two, that is. Mrs. Laval openly expressed hers. Mrs. Lloyd nodded her dignified head and remarked, "That child will do you no discredit, Zara." Mrs. Bartholomew looked at her, which was much; and Norton declared that from a pink she had bloomed out into a carnation. All these things Matilda felt; and unconsciously in all that concerned dress and equipment she began to set a new standard for herself. One thing must match with another. "Of course, I must have round-toed boots," she said to herself now. She began to doubt whether she must not get at least one pair of gloves more elegant than any she found at Shadywalk, to go with her silk dresses and her new coat. She hesitated still, for the price was a dollar and a quarter.

Upon all this came Mr. Richmond's letter; and Matilda found it did not exactly fit her mood of mind. She was confused already, and this made the confusion worse. Then Saturday came; and Norton was free; and he and Matilda made another round of shop-going. The matter was growing imminent now; Christmas would be in a fortnight. But the difficulty of deciding upon the choice of presents seemed as great as ever. Seeing more things to choose from, only increased the difficulty. They went this morning to Stewart's, to find out what might be displayed upon the variety counter; they went to a place where Swiss carvings were shewn; finally they went to Anthony's; and they could not get away from this last place.

"It's long past one o'clock, Pink," said Norton as they were going down the stairs.

"What shall we do, Norton? I'm very hungry."

"So am I. One can always do something in New York. We'll go and have dinner."

"At home?"

"No indeed. Short of home. We'll jump into an omnibus and be at the place in a minute."

It did not seem much more, and they went into a restaurant and took their places at a little marble table, and Norton ordered what they both liked; oyster pie and coffee.

"But mamma does not like me to drink coffee," said Matilda suddenly.

"No harm, just for once," said Norton. "She would let you, if she was here, I know."

"But she isn't here, and I don't like to do it, Norton."

"I have ordered it. You'll have to take it," said Norton. "Judy takes it every night, and her mother does not wish her to have any."

"What then?" said Matilda.

"Nothing; only that you two are not much alike."

"David don't look at me any more, since last week," said Matilda. "Do you suppose he never will again?"

"No hurt if he don't," said Norton. "He has my leave. Well, Pink, what are you going to get?"

"I don't know a bit, Norton—except one or two things. I am certain of nothing else but just one or two."

"I am going to get that ring for mamma; that's fixed. The one with that pale malachite. Grandmamma is disposed of. Then for aunt Judy a box of French bon-bons. I think I'll give Davy a standish—I haven't picked it out yet; but I don't know about Judy. It's hard to please her, I never did but once."

"Then I shall not," said Matilda.

"And it doesn't matter, either. Here's your coffee, Pink; and here's mine."

But after a little struggle with herself, Matilda pushed her cup as far away as she could, and drew the glass of ice-water up to her plate instead. The dinner was good enough, even so; and Norton called for ice-cream and fruit afterward. And all the time they consulted over their Christmas work, which made it wonderfully relishing. It was curious to see how other people too were evidently thinking of Christmas. Here there was a brown paper parcel; there somebody had an armful; crowds came to get their luncheon or dinner, as Norton and Matilda were doing; stowed their packages on the chair or sofa beside them and refitted themselves for more shop-going. All sorts of people,—and all sorts of lunches! Some had soup and steak and tartlets; some had coffee and muffins; some had oysters and ale; some took cups of tea and an omelet. It was as good to see what was going on, as to take her own part in it, almost, to Matilda; and yet her own part was very satisfactory. They went home only to order the horses and go to drive in the Park; Norton and she alone. It was a long afternoon of enchantment. The place, and the people, and the horses and the equipages; and the strange animals; and the lake and its boats; everything was a delight, and Norton had as much pleasure as he expected in seeing Matilda's enjoyment and answering her questions.

"Norton," said the little girl at length, "I don't believe anybody here is having such a good time as we are."

"Why?" said Norton.

"They don't look so."

"You can't tell about people from their looks."

"Can't you? But I am sure you can, Norton, partly. People don't look stupid when they feel bright, do they?"

Norton laughed a good deal at this. "But then, Pink," he remarked, "you must remember people are used to it. You have never seen it before, you know, and it's all fresh and new. It's an old story to them."

"Does everything grow to be an old story?" said Matilda rather thoughtfully.

"I suppose so," said Norton. "That makes people always hunting up new things."

Matilda wondered silently whether it was indeed so with everything. Would her new dresses come to be an old story too, and she lose her pleasure in them? Could the Park? could the flowers?

"Norton," she broke out, "there are some things that never grow to be an old story. Flowers don't."

"Flowers—no, they don't," said Norton; "that's a fact. But then, they're always new, Pink. They don't last. They are always coming up new; that's the beauty of them."

"I do not think that is the beauty of them," Matilda answered slowly.

"Well, you'd get tired of them if they didn't," said Norton.

"Do people get tired of coming here?" Matilda asked again, as her eye roved over the gay procession of carriages which just then they could trace along several turns in the road before them.

"I suppose so," said Norton. "Why not?"

"I do not see how they ever could. Why it's beautiful, Norton! And the air is so sweet."

"I never know how the air is."

"Don't you! But then you lose a great deal that I don't lose. I am smelling it all the while. Are there any flowers here in summer time?"

"Lots."

"It must be lovely then. Norton, it must be nice to come here and walk."

"Walking is stupid," said Norton. "I can't see any use in walking, except to get to a place."

"Norton, do you see a boy yonder, coming towards us, on a black pony?"

"I see him."

"It looks so like David Bartholomew."

"You'll see why, in another minute. It's himself."

"I didn't know he rode in the Park too," said Matilda, as David passed them with a bow.

"Everybody rides in the Park—or drives."

"That is what we are doing?"

"Exactly."

"I should think it was pleasant to ride on horseback."

"This is better," said Norton.

"I wonder whether David will ever look pleasant at me again."

"It don't signify, so far as I see," said Norton. "David Bartholomew has his own way of looking at every thing; the Park and all. He likes to take that all alone by himself, and so he does other things. He paddles his own canoe at school, in class and out of class; he don't want help and he don't give it."

"Don't he play either, in any of your school games?"

"Yes—sometimes; but he keeps himself to himself through it all."

"Norton, do the other boys dislike him because he is a Jew?"

"No!" said Norton vehemently. "He dislikes them because they are not Jews; that is a nearer account of the matter. Pink, you and I are going to have lessons together."

"Does mamma say so?"

"Yes; at last; because if you went to school you would be broken off half way when we go home to Shadywalk. So mamma says we may try, and if I teach well and you learn well, she will let it stand so. How do you like it?"

"O very much, Norton! But when will you have time?"

"I'll find the time. Now Pink, how much do you know?"

"O Norton, you know I don't know any thing."

"That's all in the air," said Norton. "You can read, I suppose, and write?"

"Yes, I can read and write. But then I haven't been to school in ever so long."

"Never mind that. If we go nine miles an hour, how far shall we have gone if we are out three hours and a half?"

Matilda answered this and several more puzzling questions with pretty prompt correctness.

"You'll do," said Norton. "I knew you were sharp. You can always tell whether a person has a head, by the way he takes hold of numbers." A partial judgment, perhaps; for Norton himself was very quick at them.

"Can you read any thing except English, Pink?" he went on.

"No, Norton."

"Never tried?"

"No, Norton. How could I try without being taught?"

"Of course," said Norton. "There's a jolly dog cart—isn't it? Mamma wants you to read a lot of things besides English, I can tell you."

"How many can you read, Norton?"

"Latin, and Greek, and German, and French, I am boring at now."

"Don't you like it? Is it boring?"

"I like figures better. David is great on languages. Well, Pink, you shan't have 'em all at once. Now I want to ask you another question. What do you think was the greatest battle that was ever fought in the world?"

"Battle? O I don't know any thing about battles, Norton."

"Well, who was the greatest hero, then; the greatest man?"

Matilda pondered, and Norton watched her slyly in the intervals of attending to his ponies.

"I think, Norton, the greatest man I ever heard about, was Moses."

Norton's face quivered with amusement, but he kept it a little turned away from Matilda and asked why she thought so?

"I never heard of anybody who did such great things; nor who had such great things?"

"Had? What did he have?" said Norton. "I never knew he had any thing particular."

"Don't you remember? the Lord spoke with him face to face, as we speak to each other; and once he had a sight of that wonderful glory. It must have been something so wonderful, Norton, for it made Moses' face itself shine with light."

"That's a figure of speech, Pink."

"What is a figure of speech?"

"I mean, that isn't to be taken for real and earnest, you know."

"Yes it is, Norton, for the people were frightened when they saw him, and ran away."

"Pink, Pink, Pink!" exclaimed Norton, and stopped.

"What?" said Matilda.

"Nothing. And so Moses is your greatest man! That is all you know!"

"Why, who do you know that is greater?" said Matilda.

"You never read any history but the Bible?"

"Not much. Who do you know that is greater, Norton?"

"Whom do I know. Well, Pink, if I were to tell you, you wouldn't understand, till you have read about them. Why you have got all to read about. I guess you'll have to begin back with Romulus and Remus."

"How far back were they?"

"How far back? Ages; almost before history."

"Before Moses?"

"Before Moses! No, I suppose not. I declare I don't know when that old fellow was about."

"But there is history before Moses, Norton?"

"Not Roman history," said Norton; "and that is what we are talking about."

"Were they great, Norton?"

"Who?"

"Those two men you spoke of."

"Romulus and Remus? O!—Well, Romulus founded Rome."

"And when was that?"

"Well, I don't know, that's a fact. I believe, somewhere about eight or nine centuries before our era."

"I would like to read about it," said Matilda meekly.

"And you shall," said Norton, firing up; "and there's Grecian history too, Pink; and French and English history; and German."

"And American history too?" ventured Matilda.

"Well, yes; but you see we haven't a great deal of history yet, Pink; because we are a young people."

"A young people?" said Matilda, puzzled. "What do you mean by that?"

"Why yes; it was only in 1776 that we set up for ourselves."

"Seventeen seventy six," repeated Matilda. "And now it is eighteen"—

"Near a hundred years; that is all."

Matilda pondered a little.

"Where must I begin, Norton?"

"O with Romulus and Remus, I guess. And then there's grammar, Pink; did you ever study grammar?"

"A little. I didn't like it."

"No, and I don't like it; but you have to learn it, for all that. And geography, Pink?"

"O I was drawing maps, Norton; but then I had to come away from school, and I was busy at aunt Candy's, and I have forgot nearly all I knew, I am afraid."

"Never mind," said Norton delightedly; "we'll find it again, and a great deal more. I'll get you some nice sheets of paper for your maps, and a box of colours; so that you can make a pretty affair of them. I declare! I don't know whether we can begin, though, before Christmas."

"O yes, Norton. I have more time than I know what to do with. I would like to begin about Romus"—

"Romulus. Yes, you shall. And now, if we turn round here we shall not have too much time to get home, I'm thinking."



CHAPTER X.

Matilda hardly knew whether to welcome Sunday. Her mind was in such a whirl, she was half afraid to have leisure to think. There was little chance however for that in the morning; late breakfast and dressing disposed of the time nicely. The whole family went to church to-day, David alone excepted; and Matilda was divided between delight in her new cloak and rich dress, and a certain troubled feeling that all the sweetness which used to belong to her Sundays in church at Shadywalk was here missing. Nothing in the service gave her any help. Her dress, to be sure, was merged in a crowd of just such dresses; silks and laces and velvets and feathers and bright colours were on every side of her and other brilliant colours streamed down from the painted windows of the church. They were altogether distracting. It was impossible not to notice the dash of golden light which lay across her own green silk dress and glorified it, so far; or to help watching the effect of a stream of crimson rays on Judy's blue. What a purple it made! The colouring was not any more splendid or delicious indeed than one may see in a summer sunset sky many a day; but somehow the effect on the feelings was different. And when Matilda looked up again at the minister and tried to get at the thread of what he was saying, she found she had lost the connection; and began instead to marvel how he would look, if the streak of blue which bathed his forehead were to fall a little lower and lie across his mouth and chin. Altogether, when the service was ended and the party walked home, Matilda did not feel as if she had got any good or refreshment out of Sunday yet; more than out of a kaleidoscope.

"I'll go to Mr. Rush's Sunday school this afternoon"—she determined, as she was laying off her cloak.

There was no hindrance to this determination; but as Matilda crossed the lower hall, ready to go out, she was met by Norton.

"Hollo," said he. "What's up now?"

"Nothing is up, Norton."

"Where are you going?"

So Matilda told him.

"Nothing else'll do, hey," said Norton. "Well,—hold on, till I get into my coat."

"Why, are you going?"

"Looks like it," said Norton. "Why Pink, you are not fit to be trusted in New York streets alone."

"I know where to go, Norton. But I am very glad you will go too."

"To take care of you," said Norton. "Why Pink, New York is a big trap; and you would find yourself at the wrong end of a puzzle before you knew it."

"I have only got two blocks more to go, Norton. I could hardly be puzzled. Here, we turn down here."

It was no church, nor near a church, the building before which the two paused. They went up a few steps and entered a little hare vestibule. The doors giving further entrance were closed; a boy stood there as if to guard them; and a placard with a few words on it was hung up on one of them. The words were these

"And the door was shut."

"What sort of a place is this?" said Norton.

"This is the Sunday school," said Matilda. "They are singing; don't you hear them? We are late."

"It seems a queer Sunday school," said Norton. "Don't they let folks in here?"

"In ten minutes"—said the boy who stood by the door.

"Ten minutes!" echoed Norton. "It's quite an idea, to shut the door in people's faces and then hang out a sign to tell them it is shut!"

"O no, Norton;—that door isn't this door."

"That isn't this?" said Norton. "What do you mean, Pink? Of course I know so much; but it seems to me this is this."

"No, Norton; it means the door spoken of in the Bible—in the New Testament;—don't you know? don't you remember?"

"Not a bit," said Norton. "I can't say, Pink, but it seems to me this is not just exactly the place for you to come to Sunday school. Don't look like it."

"Mr. Richmond told me to come here, you know, Norton."

But Norton looked with a disapproving eye upon what he could see of the neighbourhood; and it is true that nobody would have guessed it was near such a region as Blessington avenue. The houses were uncomely and the people were poor; and more than that. There was a look of positive want of respectability. But the little boy who was keeping the door was decent enough; and presently now he opened the door and stood by to let Norton and Matilda pass in.

There they found a large plain room, airy and roomy and light, filled with children and teachers all in a great breeze of business. Everybody seemed to be quite engrossed with something or other; and Norton and Matilda slowly went up one of the long aisles between rows of classes, waiting and looking for somebody to speak to them. The children seemed to have no eyes to give to strangers; the teachers seemed to have no time. Suddenly a young man stood in front of Norton and greeted the two very cordially.

"Are you coming to join us?" he asked with a keen glance at them. And as they did not deny it, though Norton hardly made an intelligible answer, he led them up the room and at the very top introduced them to a gentleman.

"Mr. Wharncliffe, will you take charge of these new comers? For to-day, perhaps it will be the best thing."

So Norton and Matilda found themselves at one end of a circular seat which was filled with the boys and girls of a large class. Very different from themselves these boys and girls were; belonging to another stratum of what is called society. If their dress was decent, it was as much as could be said of it; no elegance or style was within the aim of any of them; a faded frock was in one place, and a patched pair of trowsers in another place, and not one of the little company but shewed all over poverty of means and ignorance of fashion. Yet the faces testified to no poverty of wits; intelligence and interest were manifest on every one, along with the somewhat spare and pinched look of ill supplied appetites. Norton read the signs, and thought himself much out of place. Matilda read them; and shrank a little from the association. However, she reflected that this was the first day of her being in the school; doubtless when the people saw who and what she was they would put her into a class more suited to her station. Then she looked at the teacher; and she forgot her companions. He was a young man, with a very calm face and very quiet manner, whose least word and motion however was watched by the children, and his least look and gesture obeyed. He sent one of the boys to fetch a couple of Bibles for Matilda and Norton, and then bade them all open their books at the first chapter of Daniel.

The first questions were about Nebuchadnezzar and his kingdom of Babylon. Unknown subjects to most of the members of the class; Mr. Wharncliffe had to tell a great deal about ancient history and geography. He had a map, and he had a clear head of his own, for he made the talk very interesting and very easy to understand; Matilda found herself listening with much enjoyment. A question at last came to her; why the Lord gave Jehoiakim, king of Judah, into the hands of the king of Babylon? Matilda did not know. She was told to find the 25th chapter of Jeremiah and read aloud nine verses.

"Now why was it?" said the teacher.

"Because the people would not mind the Lord's words."

The next question came to Norton. "Could the king of Babylon have taken Jerusalem, if the Lord had not given it into his hands?"

Norton hesitated. "I don't know, sir," he said at length.

"What do you think?"

"I think he could."

"I should like to know why you think so."

"Because the king of Babylon was a strong king, and had plenty of soldiers and everything; and Jehoiakim had only a little kingdom anyhow."

"The Bible says 'there is no king saved by the multitude of an host.' How do you account for the fact that when strong kings and great armies came against Jerusalem at times that she was serving and trusting God, they never could do anything, but were miserably beaten?"

"I did not know it, sir," said Norton flushing a little.

"I thought you probably did not know it," said Mr. Wharncliffe quietly. "You did not know that many a time, when the people of the Jews were following God, one man of them could chase a thousand?"

"No, sir."

"Who remembers such a case?"

Norton pricked up his ears and listened; for the members of the class spoke out and gave instance after instance, till the teacher stopped them for want of time to hear more. The lesson went on. The carrying away of Daniel and his companions was told of, and "the learning and the tongue of the Chaldeans" was explained. Gradually the question came round to Matilda again. Why Daniel and the other three noble young Jews would not eat of the king's meat?

Matilda could not guess.

"You remember that the Jews, as the Lord's people, were required to keep themselves ceremonially clean, as it was called. If they eat certain things or touched certain other things, they were not allowed to go into the temple to worship, until at least that day was ended and they had washed themselves and changed their clothes. Sometimes many more days than one must pass before they could be 'clean' again, in that sense. This was ceremony, but it served to teach and remind them of something that was not ceremony, but deep inward truth. What?"

Mr. Wharncliffe abruptly stopped with the question, and a tall boy at one end of the class answered him.

"People must keep themselves from what is not good."

"The people of God must keep themselves from every thing that is not pure, in word, thought, and deed. And how if they fail sometimes, Joanna, and get soiled by falling into some temptation? what must they do?"

"Get washed."

"What shall they wash in, when it is the heart and conscience that must be made clean?"

"The blood of Christ."

"How will that make us clean?"

There was hesitation in the class; then as Mr. Wharncliffe's eye came to her and rested slightly, Matilda could not help speaking.

"Because it was shed for our sins, and it takes them all away."

"How shall we wash in it then?" the teacher asked, still looking at Matilda.

"If we trust him?"—she began.

"To do what?"

"To forgive,—and to take away our wrong feelings."

"For his blood's sake!" said the teacher. "'They have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.' And as the sacrifices of old time were a sort of picture and token of the pouring out of that blood; so the outward cleanness about which the Jews had to be so particular was a sort of sign and token of the pure heart-cleanness which every one must have who follows the Lord Jesus.

"And so we come back to Daniel. If he eat the food sent from the king's table he would be certain to touch and eat now and then something which would be, for him, ceremonially unclean. More than that. Often the king's meat was prepared from part of an animal which had been sacrificed to an idol; to eat of the sacrifice was part of the worship of the idol; and so Daniel and his fellows might have been thought to share in that worship."

"But it wouldn't have been true," said a boy in the class.

"What would not have been true?"

"He would not have been worshipping the idol. He didn't mean it."

"So you think he might just as well have eaten the idol's meat? not meaning any thing."

"It wouldn't have been service of the idol."

"What would it have been?"

"Why, nothing at all. I don't see as he would have done no harm."

"What harm would it have been, or what harm would it have done, if Daniel had really joined in the worship of Nebuchadnezzar's idol?"

"He would have displeased God," said one.

"I guess God would have punished him," said another.

"He would not have been God's child any longer," said Matilda.

"All true. But is no other harm done when a child of God forgets his Father's commands?"

"He helps others to do wrong," said Matilda softly.

"He makes them think 'tain't no odds about the commands," a girl remarked.

"How's they to know what the commands is?" a second boy asked, "if he don't shew 'em?"

"Very true, Robert," said Mr. Wharncliffe. "I have heard it said, that Christians are the only Bible some folks ever read."

"'Cause they hain't got none?" asked one of the class.

"Perhaps. Or if they have got one, they do not study it. But a true, beautiful life they cannot help reading; and it tells them what they ought to be."

"Daniel gave a good example," said the slim lad at the end of the class.

"That we can all do, if we have a mind, Peter. But in that case we must not seem to do what we ought not to do really. We help the devil that way. Now read the 9th and 10th verses. What was Daniel's friend afraid of?"

"Afraid the king would not like it."

"If Daniel and his friends did not eat like the others. Do our friends sometimes object to our doing right, on the ground that we shall not be like other people if we do?"

There was a general chorus of assent.

"Well, we don't want to be unlike other people, do we?"

Some said yes, and some said no; conflicting opinions.

"You say no, Heath; give us your reasons."

"They make fun of you"—said the boy, a little under breath.

"They fight you"—said another more boldly.

"They don't want to have nothing to do with you," a girl said.

"Laugh, and quarrel, and separate you from their company," repeated the teacher. "Not very pleasant things. But some of you said yes. Give us your reasons, if you please."

"We can't be like Christ and like the world," Peter answered.

"'Ye are not of the world, even as I am not of the world,'" said Mr. Wharncliffe. "Most true! And some of us do want to be like our Master. Well? who else has a reason?"

"I think it is very hard," said Matilda, "to do right and not be unlike other people."

"So hard, my dear, that it is impossible," said the teacher, looking somewhat steadily at his new scholar. "And are you one of those who want to do right?"

Matilda answered; but as she did so something made her voice tremble and her eyes fill.

"For the sake of doing right, then, and for the sake of being like Jesus, some of us are willing to be unlike other people; though the consequences of that are not always pleasant. Is there nothing more to be said on the subject?"

"The people that have the Lord's name in their foreheads, will be with him by and by," remarked a girl who had not yet spoken.

"And he is with them now," said Mr. Wharncliffe. "Yes, Sarah."

"And then there will be a great gulf between," said a boy.

"Well, I think we have got reason enough," said Mr. Wharncliffe. "To be on the right side of the dividing gulf then, we must be content to be on the same side of it now. Daniel judged so, it is clear. On the whole, did he lose anything?"

The teacher's eyes were looking at Norton, and he was constrained to answer no.

"What did he gain?"

Norton was still the one looked at, and he fidgeted. Mr. Wharncliffe waited.

"I suppose, God gave him learning and wisdom."

"In consequence of his learning and wisdom, which were very remarkable, what then?"

"The king's favour," said Norton.

"Just what the friends of the young Jews had been afraid they would lose. They 'stood before the king;' that means they were appointed to be king's officers; they served him, not any meaner man. Now how does this all come home to us? How are we tempted, as Daniel and his fellows were tempted?"

Norton, at whom Mr. Wharncliffe glanced, replied that he did not know. Matilda also was silent, though longing to utter her confession. The questioning eyes passed on.

"The fellows think you must do as they does," said a lad who sat next Matilda.

"In what?"

That boy hesitated; the next spoke up, and said, "Lying, and lifting."

"And swearing," added a third.

"How if you do not follow their ways?"

"Some thinks you won't never get along, nohow."

"What is your opinion, Lawrence?"

The boy shifted his position a little uneasily. "They say you won't, teacher."

"So Daniel's friend was afraid he would not get along, if he did not eat the king's meat. Girls, does the temptation come to you?"

There was a general chorus of "Yes, sir," and "Yes, sir."

"Have you tried following the Lord's word against people's opinion?"

Again "Yes, sir"—came modestly from several lips.

"Do you find any ill come from it?"

"Yes, sir, a little," said a girl who might have been two or three years older than Matilda. "You get made game of, and scolded, sometimes. And they say you are lofty, or mean. Sometimes they say one to me, and sometimes the other."

"And they plague a feller," said a boy; "the worst kind."

"Is it hard to bear?"

"I think it is," said the girl; and one or two of the boys said again, "Yes, sir."

"Reckon you'd think so, if you tried, teacher," another put in. "They rolled Sam in the mud, the other day. There was six of 'em, you see, and he hadn't no chance."

"Sam, how did it feel? And how did you feel?"

"Teacher, 'twarn't easy to feel right."

"Could you manage it?"

"I guess not, at first. But afterwards I remembered."

"What did you remember?"

"I remembered they didn't know no better, sir."

"I think you are mistaken. They knew they were doing wrong; how wrong, I suppose they did not know. Well, Sam—'if any man suffer as a Christian, let him not be ashamed, but let him glorify God on this behalf.' Were you ashamed?"

"No, sir."

"God says, 'Them that honour me, I will honour;' and,—'Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.' The honour that he gives will be real honour. It is worth while waiting for it. Now our time will be up in two minutes—Peter, what lesson do you get from all this? for yourself?"

"To be more careful, sir."

"Of what, my boy?"

"Careful not to have anything to do with bad ways."

"Can't be too careful; the temptation comes strong. Ellen, what is your lesson?"

"I never saw before how much a good example is."

"Ay. God often is pleased to make it very much. Well, Dick."

"Teacher, I don't think New York is like that 'ere place."

"Don't you? Why not?"

"Folks can't get along that way in our streets."

"How do you find it, Sam? and what is your conclusion from the lesson."

"I wish I was more like Dan'l, teacher."

"So I wish. You and I are agreed, Sam. And Daniel's God is ours, remember. Heath?"

"They was rum fellers, teacher, them 'ere."

"That is your conclusion. Well! so some people thought then. But Daniel and his fellows came to glory. What have you to say, Joanna?"

"I think I hain't been keerful enough, teacher."

"Robert?"

"I think it is best to let go everything else and trust God."

"You'll make no mistake so, my boy. Sarah, what is the lesson to you?"

The girl, a very poorly dressed one, hesitated, and then said a little falteringly,—

"It's nice to be clean inside, teacher."

The teacher paused a moment also before his eye came to Matilda, and then it was very soft.

"What does my new scholar say?"

Matilda struggled with herself, looked down and looked up, and met the kind eyes again.

"One must be willing to be unlike the world," she said.

"Is it easy?"

"I think it is very hard, sir."

"Do you find it so, my friend?" he asked, his eye going on to Norton. But the bell rang just then; and in the bustle of rising and finding the hymn Norton contrived to escape the answering and yet without being rude.

As they were turning away, after the services were ended, Matilda felt a light touch on her shoulder and her teacher said quietly, "Wait." She stood still, while he went up to speak to somebody. All the other children passed out, and she was quite alone when Mr. Wharncliffe came back to her.

"Which way are you going?"

"Down the avenue, sir."

"What avenue?"

"Blessington avenue. But only to 40th street."

"Let us go together."

They had the walk to themselves; for though Norton had waited for Matilda till she came out, he sheered off when he saw what company she was in, and contented himself with keeping her in sight. Just then Norton did not care to come to closer quarters with Mr. Wharncliffe. This gentleman talked pleasantly with Matilda; asked how she happened to come to the school, how long she had been in the city, and something about her life at Shadywalk. At last he came back to the subject of the afternoon's lesson.

"You think it is difficult to be as loyal as Daniel was?"

"What is 'loyal,' sir?"

"It is being a true subject, in heart;—faithful to the honour and will of one's king."

"I think it is difficult"—Matilda said in a subdued tone.

"How come you to find it so?"

"Mr. Wharncliffe," said Matilda suddenly making up her mind, "it is very hard not to want to be fashionable."

"I don't know that there is any harm in being fashionable," said her teacher quietly. But though his face was quiet, it was so strong and good that Matilda felt great reliance on all it said.

"Isn't there?" she asked quite eagerly.

"Why should there be?"

"But—it costs so much!" Matilda could not help confessing it.

"To be fashionable?"

"Yes, sir."

"You do not dress yourself, I suppose. The money is not your money, is it?"

"Yes, sir, some of it is my money; because I have an allowance, and get my own shoes and gloves."

"And you find it costs a great deal to be fashionable?"

"Yes, sir; a great deal."

"What would you like to do with your money?"

"There is a great deal to do," said Matilda soberly. "A great many people want help, don't they?"

"More than you think. I could tell you of several in the class you have just been with."

"Then, sir, what ought I to do?"—and Matilda lifted two earnest, troubled eyes to the face of her teacher.

"I think you ought to look carefully to see what the Lord has given you to do, and ask him to shew you."

"But about spending my money?"

"Then you will better be able to tell. When you see clearly what you can do with a dollar, it will not be very hard to find out whether Jesus means you should do that with it, or buy a pair of gloves, for instance. We will talk more about this and I will help you. Here is your house. Good bye."

"But Mr. Wharncliffe," said Matilda, eagerly, as she met the clasp of his hand,—"one thing; I want to stay in your class. May I?"

"I shall be very glad to have you. Good bye."

He went off down the avenue, and Matilda stood looking after him. He was a young man; he was hardly what people call a handsome man; his figure had nothing imposing; but the child's heart went after him down the avenue. His face had so much of the strength and the sweetness and the beauty of goodness, that it attracted inevitably those who saw it; there was a look of self-poise and calm which as surely invited trust; truth and power were in the face, to such a degree that it is not wonderful a child's heart, or an older person's, for that matter, should be won and his confidence given even on a very short acquaintance. Matilda stood still in the street, following the teacher's receding figure with her eye.

"What are you looking at?" said Norton, now coming up.

"O Norton! didn't you like the school very much?"

"They're a queer set," said Norton. "They're a poor set, Pink! a miserable poor set."

"Well, what then? Don't you like the teacher?"

"He's well enough; but I don't like the company."

"They were very well behaved, Norton; quite as well as the children at Shadywalk."

"Shadywalk was Shadywalk," said Norton, "but here it is another thing. It won't do. Why Pink, I shouldn't wonder if some of them were street boys."

"I think some of those in the class were good, Norton; boys and girls too."

"Maybe so," said Norton; "but their clothes weren't. Faugh!"

Matilda went into the house, wondering at her old problem, but soon forgetting wonder in mixed sorrow and joy. All the beauty of being a true child of God rose up fresh before her eyes; some of the honour and dignity of it; nothing in all the world, Matilda was sure, could be so lovely or so happy. But she had not honoured her King like Daniel; and that grieved her. She was very sure now what she wanted to be.

The next morning she took up the matter of her Christmas gifts in a new spirit. What was she meant to do with her twenty dollars? Before she could decide that, she must know a little better what it was possible to do; and for that Mr. Wharncliffe had promised his help. She must wait. In the meanwhile she studied carefully the question, what it was best for her to give to her sisters and the members of her immediate family circle; and very grave became Matilda's consideration of the shops. Her little face was almost comical now and then in its absorbed pondering of articles and prices and calculation of sums. An incredible number and variety of the latter, both in addition and subtraction, were done in her head those days, resolving twenty dollars into an unheard of number of parts and forming an unknown number of combinations with them. She bought the bronze obelisk for Mrs. Laval; partly that she might have some pennies on hand for the street sweepers; but then came a time of fair weather days, and the street sweepers were not at the crossings. Matilda purchased furthermore some dark brown silk braid for Norton's watchguard, and was happy making it, whenever she could be shut up in her room. She dared not trust Judy's eyes or tongue.

One day she was busy at this, her fingers flying over the braid and her thoughts as busy, when somebody tried to open her door, and then tapped at it. Matilda hid her work and opened, to let in Judy. She was a good deal surprised, for she had not been so honoured before. Judith and her brother were very cool and distant since the purchase of the liqueur stand.

"What do you keep your door locked for?" was the young lady's salutation now, while her eyes roved over all the furniture and filling of Matilda's apartment.

"I was busy."

"Didn't you want anybody to come in?"

"Not without my knowing it."

"What were you doing then?"

"If I had wanted everybody to know, I should not have shut myself up."

"No, I suppose not. I suppose you want me out of the way, too. Well, I am not going."

"I do not want you to go, Judy, if you like to stay. That is, if you will be good."

"Good?" said the other, her eyes snapping. "What do you call good?"

"Everybody knows what good means, don't they?" said Matilda.

"I don't," said Judy. "I have my way of being good—that's all. Everybody has his own way. What is yours?"

"But there is only one real way."

"Ain't there, though!" exclaimed Judy. "I'll shew you a dozen."

"They can't be all good, Judy."

"Who's to say they are not?"

"Why, the Bible." The minute she had said it the colour flushed to Matilda's face. But Judy went on with the greatest coolness.

"Your Bible, or my Bible?"

"There isn't but one Bible, Judy, that I know."

"Yes, there is!" said the young lady fiercely. "There's our Bible, that's the true. There's yours, that's nothing, that you dare bind up with it."

"They both say the same thing," said Matilda.

"They DON'T!" said the girl, sitting upright, and her eyes darted fire. "They don't say a word alike; don't you dare say it."

"Why Judy, what the one says is good, the other says is good; there is no difference in that. Did you ever read the New Testament?"

"No! and I don't want to; nor the other either. But I didn't come to talk about that."

"What do you call goodness, then?"

"Goodness?" said Judy, relapsing into comparatively harmless mischief; "goodness? It's a sweet apple—and I hate sweet apples."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that. Goody folks are stupid. Aren't they, though!"

"But then, what is your notion of real goodness?"

"I don't believe there is such a thing. Come! you don't either."

"I don't believe in goodness?"

"Goodness!" repeated Judy impatiently, "you needn't stare. I don't choose to be stared at. You know it as well as I. When you are what you call good, you just want the name of it. So do I sometimes; and then I get it. That's cheap work."

"Want the name of what?"

"Why, of being good."

"Then goodness is something. You wouldn't want the name of nothing."

Judy laughed. "I haven't come here to be good to-day," she said; "nor to talk nonsense. I want to tell you about something. We are going to have a party."

"A party! when?"

"Christmas eve. Now it is our party, you understand; mine and Norton's and David's; mamma has nothing to do with it, nor grandmamma, except to prepare everything. That she'll do; but we have got to prepare the entertainment; and we are going to play games and act proverbs; and I have come to see how much you know, and whether you can help."

"What do you want me to know?" said Matilda. "I'll help all I can."

"How much do you know about games? Can you play 'What's my thought like?' or 'Consequences?' or anything?"

"I never played games much," said Matilda, with a sudden feeling of inferiority. "I never had much chance."

"I dare say!" said Judy. "I knew that before I came. Well of course you can't act proverbs. You don't know anything."

"What is it?" said Matilda. "Tell me. Perhaps I can learn."

"You can't learn in a minute," said Judy with a slight toss of her head, which indeed was much given to wagging in various directions.

"But tell me, please."

"Well, there's no harm in that. We choose a proverb, of course, first; for instance the boys are going to play 'It's ill talking between a full man and a fasting.' This is how they are going to do it. Nobody knows, you understand, what the proverb is, but they must guess it. Norton will be a rich man who wants to buy a piece of land; and David is the man who owns the land and has come to see him; but he has come a good way, and he is without his dinner, and he feels as cross as can be, and no terms will suit him. So they talk and talk, and disagree and quarrel and are ridiculous; till at last Norton finds out that Davy hasn't dined; and then he orders up everything in the house he can think of, that is good, and makes him eat; and when he has eaten everything and drunk wine and they are cracking nuts, then Norton begins again about the piece of land; and the poor man is so comfortable now he is willing to sell anything he has got; and Norton gets it for his own price. Won't it be good?"

"I should think it would be very interesting," said Matilda; whom indeed the description interested mightily. "But how could I help? I don't see."

"O not in that you couldn't, of course; Davy and Norton don't want any help, I guess, from anybody; they know all about it. But I want you to help me. I wonder if you can. I don't believe you can, either. I shall have to get somebody else."

"What do you want me to do?" said Matilda, feeling socially very small indeed.

"I am going to play 'Riches bring care.' I am a rich old woman, like grandmamma, only not like her, for she is never worried about anything; but I am worried to death for fear this or that will come to harm. And I want you to be my maid. I must have somebody, you know, to talk to and worry with."

"If that is all," said Matilda, "I should think I could be talked to."

"But it isn't all, stupid!" said Judy. "You must know how to answer back, and try to make me believe things are going right, and so worry me more and more."

"Suppose we try," said Matilda. "I don't know how I could do, but maybe I might learn."

"I'd rather have it all in the house," said Judy, "if I can. Two proverbs will be enough; for they take a good while—dressing and all, you know."

"Dressing for the proverbs?"

"Of course! Dressing, indeed! Do I look like an old woman without dressing? Not just yet. We must be dressed up to the work. But we can practise without being dressed. When the boys come home to-night, we'll come up here to the lobby and practise. But I don't believe you'll do."

"Will it be a large party, Judy?"

"Hm—I don't know. I guess not. Grandmamma doesn't like large parties. I dare say she won't have more than fifty."

Fifty seemed a very large party to Matilda; but she would not expose her ignorance, and so held her peace. Judy pottered about the room for a while longer, looking at everything in it, and out of it, Matilda thought; for she lounged at the windows with her arms on the sill, gazing up and down at all that was going on in the street. Finally said they would try a practice in the evening, and she departed.



CHAPTER XI.

The acted proverbs that night went pretty well; so the boys said; and Matilda went to bed feeling that life was very delightful where such rare diversions were to be had, and such fine accomplishments acquired. The next time, Judy said, they would dress for the acting; that needed practising too.

The day following, when she got up, Matilda was astonished to find the air thick with snow and her window sills quite filled up with it already. She had meant to take a walk down town to make a purchase she had determined on; and her first thought was, how bad the walking would be now, after the dry clean streets they had rejoiced in for a week or two past. The next thought was, that the street sweepers would be out. For some time she had not seen them. They would be out in force to-day. Matilda had pennies ready; she was quite determined on the propriety of that; and she thought besides that a kind word or two might be given where she had a chance. "I am sure Jesus would speak to them," she said to herself. "He would try to do them good. I wonder, can I? But I can try."

She had the opportunity even sooner than she expected; for while she was eating her breakfast the snow stopped and the sun came out. So about eleven o'clock she made ready and set forth. There was a very convenient little pocket on the outside of her grey pelisse, in which she could bestow her pennies. Matilda put eleven coppers there, all she had, and one silver dime. What she was to do with that she did not know; but she thought she would have it ready.

Clear, bright and beautiful, the day was; not cold; and the city all for the moment whitened by the new fall of snow. So she thought at first; but Matilda soon found there was no whitening New York. The roadway was cut up and dirty, of course; and the multitudes of feet abroad dragged the dirt upon the sidewalks. However, the sky was blue; and defilement could not reach the sunlight; so she went along happy. But before she got to Fourteenth Street, nine of her eleven pennies were gone. Some timid words had gone with them too, sometimes; and Matilda had seen the look of dull asking change to surprise and take on a gleam of life in more than one instance; that was all that could be said. Two boys had assured her they went to Sunday school; one or two others of whom she had asked the question had not seemed to understand her. Had it done any good? She could not tell; how could she tell? Perhaps her look and her words and her penny, all together, might have brought a bit of cheer into lives as much trampled into the dirt as the very snow they swept. Perhaps; and that was worth working for; "anyhow, all I can do, is all I can do," thought Matilda. She mused too on the swift way money has of disappearing in New York. Norton's watchguard had cost twenty eight cents; the obelisk, two dollars; now the dress she was on her way to buy for Letitia would take two dollars and a half more; there was already almost five gone of her twenty. And of even her pennies she had only two left, with the silver bit. "However, they won't expect me to give them anything again as I go back," she thought, referring to the street sweepers. "Once in one morning will do, I suppose."

Just as she said this to herself, she had come to another crossing, a very busy one, where carts and carriages were incessantly turning down or coming up; keeping the sweeper in work. It was a girl this time; as old or older than herself; a little tidy, with a grim old shawl tied round her waist and shoulders, but bare feet in the snow. Matilda might have crossed in the crowd without meeting her, but she waited to speak and give her penny. The girl's face encouraged her.

"Are you not very cold?" Matilda asked.

"No—I don't think of it." The answer seemed to come doubtfully.

"Do you go to Sunday school anywhere?"

The girl sprang from her at this minute to clear the way for some dainty steppers, where the muddy snow had been flung by the horses' feet just a moment before; and to hold her hand for the penny, which was not given. Slowly she came back to Matilda.

"Do most of the people give you something?"

"No," said the girl. "Most of 'em don't."

"Do you go to Sunday school on Sundays?"

"O yes: I go to Mr. Rush's Sunday school, in Forty Second street."

"Why, I go there," said Matilda. "Who's your teacher?"

The girl's face quite changed as she now looked at her; it grew into a sort of answering sympathy of humanity; there was almost a dawning smile.

"I remember you," she said; "I didn't at first, but I do now. You were in the class last Sunday. I am in Mr. Wharncliffe's class."

"Why so do I remember you!" cried Matilda. "You are Sarah?"

The conversation was interrupted again, for the little street-sweeper was neglecting her duties, and she ran to attend to them. Out and in among the carriages and horses' feet. Matilda wondered why she did not get thrown down and trampled upon; but she was skilful and seemed to have eyes in the back of her head, for she constantly kept just out of danger. Matilda waited to say a little more to her, for the talk had become interesting; in vain, the little street-sweeper was too busy, and the morning was going; Matilda had to attend to her own business and be home by one o'clock. She had found, she thought, the place where her silver dime belonged; so she dropped it into Sarah's hand as she passed, with a smile, and went on her way. This time she got an unmistakable smile in return, and it made her glad.

So she was in a class with a street-sweeper! Matilda reflected as she went on down Broadway. Well, what of it? They would think it very odd at home! And somehow it seemed odd to Matilda herself. Had she got a little out of her place in going to Mr. Rush's Sunday school? Could it be best that such elegant robes, made by Mme. Fournissons, should sit in the same seat with a little street girl's brown rags? "She was not ragged on Sunday, though," thought Matilda; "poor enough; and some of those boys were street boys, I dare say. However, Mr. Wharncliffe is a gentleman; there is no doubt of that; and he likes his class; some of them are good, I think. And if they are, Jesus loves them. He loves them whether or no. How odd it is that we don't!"—

Matilda went on trying to remember all that Sarah had said in the school; but the different speakers and words were all jumbled up in her mind, and she could not quite separate them. She forgot Sarah then in the delightful business of choosing a dress for Letitia; a business so difficult withal that it was like to last a long time, if Matilda had not remembered one o'clock. She feared she would be late; yet a single minute more of talk with the street girl she must have; she walked up to Fourteenth street. Sarah was there yet, busy at her post. She had a smile again for Matilda.

"Are you not tired?" the rich child asked of the poor one.

"I don't think of being tired," was the answer.

"What time do you go home to dinner?"

"Dinner?" said Sarah; and she shook her head. "I don't go home till night. I can't."

"But how do you take your dinner?" Matilda asked.

The girl flushed a little, and hesitated. "I can take it here," she said.

"Standing? and in this crowd?"

"No.—I go and sit down somewheres. 'Tain't such a dinner as you have. It's easy took."

"Sarah," said Matilda suddenly, "you love Jesus, don't you?"

"Who?" she said, for the noise and rush of horses and carriages in the streets was tremendous, and the children both sprang back to the sidewalk just then out of the way of something. "Jesus? Was it that you asked?"

She stood leaning on her broom and looking at her questioner. Matilda could see better now how thin the face was, how marked with care; but at the same time a light came into it like a sunbeam on a winter landscape; the grey changed to golden somehow; and the set of the girl's lips, gentle and glad, was very sweet.

"Do I love him?" she repeated. "He is with me here all the day when I am sweeping the snow. Yes, I love him! and he loves me. That is how I live."

"That's how I want to live too," said Matilda; "but sometimes I forget."

"I shouldn't think you'd forget," said Sarah. "It must be easy for you."

"What must be easy?"

"I should think it would be easy to be good," said the poor girl, her eye going unconsciously up and down over the tokens of Matilda's comfortable condition.

"I don't think having things helps one to be good," said Matilda. "It makes it hard, sometimes."

"I sometimes think not having things makes it hard," said the other, a little wistfully. "But Jesus is good, anyhow!" she added with a content of face which was unshadowed.

"Good bye," said Matilda. "I shall see you again." And she ran off to get into a horse car. The little street-sweeper stood and looked after her. There was not a thing that the one had but the other had it not. She looked, and turned to her sweeping again.

Matilda on her part hurried along, with a heart quite full, but remembering at the same time that she would be late at lunch. At the corner where she stopped to wait for a car there was a fruit stall, stocked with oranges, apples, candies and gingerbread. It brought back a thought which had filled her head a few minutes ago; but she was afraid she would be late. She glanced down the line of rails to the car seen coming in the distance, balanced probabilities a moment, then turned to the fruit woman. She bought a cake of gingerbread and an orange and an apple; had to wait what seemed a long time to receive her change; then rushed across the block to where she had left Sarah, stopped only to put the things in her hands, and rushed back again; not in time to catch her car, which was going on merrily out of her hail. But the next one was not far behind; and Matilda enjoyed Sarah's lunch all the way to her own.

"But this is only for one day. And there are so many days, and so many people that want things. I must save every bit of money I can."

She was late; but she was so happy and hungry, that her elders looked on her very indulgently, it being, as in truth she was, a pleasant sight.

That evening Judith proposed another practising of the proverb she and Matilda were to act together; and this time she dressed up for it. A robe of her mother's, which trailed ridiculously over the floor; jewels of value in her ears and on her hands and neck; and finally a lace scarf of Mrs. Lloyd's, which was very rich and extremely costly. Norton was absent on some business of his own; David was the only critic on hand. He objected.

"You can act just as well without all that trumpery, Judith."

"Trumpery! That's what it is to you. My shawl is worth five hundred dollars if it is worth a dollar. It is worth a great deal more than that, I believe; but I declare I get confused among the prices of things. That is one of the cares of riches, that try me most."

"You can act just as well without all that, Judy."

"I can't!"

"You can just as well, if you would only think so."

"Very likely; but I don't think so; that just makes it, you see. I want to feel that I am rich; how am I going to get the idea in my head, boy?—I declare, Satinalia, I think this satin dress is getting frayed already."

"How ought I to be dressed?" inquired Matilda.

"O just as you are. You haven't to make believe, you know; you have got only to act yourself. Come, begin.—I declare, Satinalia, I think this satin dress is getting frayed already."

Matilda hesitated, then put by the displeasure which rose at Judy's rudeness, and entered into the play.

"And how shouldn't it, ma'am, when it's dragging and streaming all over the floor for yards behind you. Satin won't bear every thing."

"No, the satin one gets now-a-days won't. I could buy satin once, that would wear out two of this; and this cost five dollars a yard. Dear me! I shall be a poor woman yet."

"If you were to cut off the train, ma'am, the dress wouldn't drag so."

"Wouldn't it! you Irish stupid. O I hear something breaking downstairs! Robert has smashed a tray-ful, I'll be bound. I heard the breaking of glass. Run, Satinalia, run down as hard as you can and find out what it is. Run before he gets the pieces picked up; for then I shall never know what has happened."

"You'd miss the broken things," said Matilda; not exactly as Satinalia.

"You're an impudent hussy, to answer me so. Run and see what it is, I tell you, or I shall never know."

"What must I say it is?" said Matilda, out of character.

"Haven't you wit enough for that?" said Judith, also speaking in her own proper. "Say any thing you have a mind; but don't stand poking there. La! you haven't seen any thing in all your life, except a liqueur stand. Say any thing! and be quick."

Matilda ran down a few stairs, and paused, not quite certain whether she would go back. She was angry. But she wanted to be friends with Judy and her brother; and the thought of her motto came to her help. "Do all in the name of the Lord Jesus;"—then certainly with courtesy and patience and kindness, as his servant should. She prayed for a kind spirit, and went back again.

"You've been five ages," cried the rich woman. "Well, what's broke?"

"Ma'am, Robert has let fall a tray full of claret glasses, and the salad dish with a pointed edge."

"That salad dish!" exclaimed Judy. "It was the richest in New York. The Queen of England had one like it; and nobody else but me in this country. I told Robert to keep it carefully done up in cotton; and never to wash it. That is what it is to have things."

"Don't it have to be washed?" inquired Matilda.

"I wish I could get into your head," said Judy impatiently and speaking quite as Judy, "that you are a maid servant and have no business to ask questions. I suppose you never knew anything about maid-servants till you came here; but you have been here long enough to learn that, if you were not perfectly bourgeoise!"

"Hush, Judy; you forget yourself," said David.

"She don't understand!" said the polite young lady.

"You do not get on with your proverb at this rate," he went on, glancing at Matilda, whose cheek gave token of some understanding.

"Stupid!" said Judy, returning to her charge and play,—"don't you understand that when that dish is used I wash it myself? And what claret glasses were they? I'll be bound they are the yellow set with my crest?"

"Those are the ones," Satinalia assented.

"That is what it is to have things! My life is one trouble. Satinalia!"—

"Ma'am."

"I haven't got my diamond bracelet on."

"No, ma'am; I do not see it."

"Well, go and see it. Find it and bring it to me. I want it on with this dress."

Matilda being instructed in this part of her duties, reported that she could not find the bracelet. The jewel box was ordered in, and examined, with a great many lamentations and conjectures as to the missing article. Finally the supposed owner declared she must write immediately to her jewellers to know if they had the bracelet, either for repair or safe keeping. Satinalia was despatched for a writing desk; and then for a candle.

"There are no tapers in this concern," Judy remarked; "and the note must be sealed. Somebody might find out that the bracelet is missing, and so it would be missing for ever, from me. Satinalia, what do you stand there for? Do you not hear me say I want a candle?"

"Can't you make believe as well?" asked Matilda, not Satinalia.

"You are too tiresome!" exclaimed Judy. "What do you know about it, at all, I should like to know. I think, when I give you the favour of playing with me, that is enough. You do as I tell you."

Matilda went for the candle, inwardly resolving that she would not enjoy the privilege of practising with Judy another time unless Norton were by. In his presence she was protected. A tear or two came from the little girl's eyes, before she got back to the lobby with the lighted candle. Judy perhaps wanted to make a tableau of herself at the letter sealing; for she took an elegant attitude, that threw her satin drapery imposingly about her and displayed her bare arm somewhat theatrically, gleaming with jewels and softened by the delicate lace of the scarf. But thereby came trouble. In a careless sweep of her arm, sealing-wax in hand, no doubt intended to be very graceful, the lace came in contact with the flame of the candle; and a hole was burnt in the precious fabric before anybody could do any thing to prevent it. Then there was dismay. Judy shrieked and flung herself down with her head on her arms. David and Matilda looked at the lace damage, and looked at each other. Even he looked grave.

"It's a pretty bad business," he concluded.

"O what shall I do! O what shall I do!" Judith cried. "O what will grandmamma say! O I wish Christmas never came!"—

"What sort of lace is this?" Matilda asked, still examining the scarf which David had let fall from his fingers. He thought it an odd question and did not answer. Judy was crying and did not hear.

"The best thing is to own up now, Judy," said her brother. "It is no use to cry."

"Yes, it is!" said Judy vehemently. "That's all a boy knows about it; but they don't know everything."

"I don't see the use of it, at all events," said David. "If tears were spiders, they might mend it."

"Spiders mend it!" repeated Judy. "David, you are enough to provoke a saint."

"But you are not a saint," said her brother. "It need not provoke you. What are you going to do?"

"Judy," said Matilda suddenly, "look here. Does your grandmother often wear this?"

"She'll be sure to want it now," said Judy, "if she never did before."

"It doesn't help the matter either," said David. "Putting off discovery is no comfort. I always think it is best to be out with a thing and have done with it."

"No," said Matilda. "Yes;—that isn't what I mean; but I mean, will Mrs. Lloyd want to wear this now for a few days—four or five?"

"She won't wear it before our party," said Judy. "There's nothing going on or coming off before that. O I wish our party was in Egypt."

"Then don't," said Matilda. "Look here,—listen. I think perhaps,—I don't promise, you know, for I am not sure, but I think perhaps I can mend this."

"You can't, my girl," said David, "unless you are a witch."

"You might as well mend the house!" said Judy impatiently. "It isn't like darning stockings, I can tell you."

"I know how to darn stockings," said Matilda; "and I do not mean to mend this that way. But I can mend some lace; and I think—perhaps—I can this. If you will let me, I'll try."

"How come you to think you can?" David asked. "I should say it was impossible, to anything but a fairy."

"I have been taught," said Matilda. "I did not like to learn, but I am very glad now I did. Do you like to have me try?"

"It is very kind of you," said David; "but I can't think you can manage it."

"Of course she can't!" said Judy contemptuously.

"If I only had the right thread," said Matilda, re-examining the material she had to deal with.

"What must it be?" David inquired.

"Look," said Matilda. "Very, very, very fine, to match this."

"Where can it be had? You are sure you will not make matters worse by doing any thing with it? Though I don't see how they could be worse, that's a fact. I'll get the thread."

So it was arranged between them, without reference to Judy. Matilda carried the scarf to her room; and Judy ungraciously and ungracefully let her go without a word.

"You are not very civil, Judy," said her brother.

"Civil, to that creature!"

"Civil to anybody," said David; "and she is a very well-behaved creature, as you call her."

"She was well-behaved at Candello's the other day, wasn't she?"

"Perhaps she was, after her fashion. Come, Judy, you have tried her to-night, and she has borne it as you wouldn't have borne it; or I either."

"She knew better than not to bear it," said Judy insolently.

"I wish you had known better than to give it her to bear. She was not obliged to bear it, either. Aunt Zara would not take it very well, if she was to hear it."

Judy only pouted, and then went on with a little more crying for the matter of the shawl. David gave up his part of the business.

Except looking for the thread. That he did faithfully; but he did not know where to go to find the article and of course did not find it. What he brought to Matilda might as well have been a cable, for all the use she could make of it in the premises. There was no more to do but to tell Mrs. Laval and get her help; and this was the course finally agreed upon between Matilda and David; Judy was not consulted.

Mrs. Laval heard the story very calmly; and immediately promised to get the thread, which she did. Matilda could not also obtain from her an absolute promise of secrecy. Mrs. Laval reserved that; only assuring Matilda that she would do no harm, and that she would say nothing at least until it should be seen whether or no Matilda had succeeded in the repair of the scarf.

And now for days thereafter Matilda was most of the time shut up in her room, with the door locked. It was necessary to keep out Judy; the work called for Matilda's whole and best attention. It was not an easy or a small undertaking. If anybody could have looked in through the closed door those days, he would have seen a little figure seated on a low foot-cushion, with a magnificent lace drapery lying over her lap and falling to the floor. On a chair at her side were her thread and needles and scissors; and very delicately and slowly Matilda's fingers were busy trying to weave again the lost meshes of the exquisite lace. They worked and worked, hour after hour, before she could be certain whether she was going to succeed; and the blood flushed into Matilda's cheeks with the excitement and the intense application. At last, Saturday afternoon, enough progress was made to let the little girl see that, as she said to herself, "it would do;" and she put the scarf away that afternoon feeling that she was all ready for Sunday to come now, and could enjoy it without a drawback of any sort.

And so she did—even Dr. Broadman and his parti-coloured church. Matilda's whole heart had turned back to its old course; that course which looks to Jesus all the way. Sunlight lies all along that way, as surely as one's face is turned to the sun; so Matilda felt very happy. She hoped, too, that she was gaining in the goodwill of her adopted cousins; David certainly had spoken and looked civilly and pleasantly again; and Matilda's heart to-day was without a cloud.

Norton declined to go with her to Sunday school, however, and she went alone. No stranger now, she took her place in the class as one at home; and all the business and talk of the hour was delightful to her. Sarah was there of course; after the school services were ended Matilda seized her opportunity.

"Whereabouts do you live, Sarah?"

Matilda had been turning over various vague thoughts in her mind, compounded from experiences of Lilac lane and the snowy corner of Fourteenth street; her question was not without a purpose. But Sarah answered generally, that it was not very far off.

"Where is it?" said Matilda. "I should like, if I can, and maybe I can, I should like to come and see you."

"It is a poor place," said Sarah. "I don't think you would like to come into it."

"But you live there," said the other child.

"Yes"—said Sarah uneasily; "I live there when I ain't somewheres else; and I'm that mostly."

"Where is that 'somewhere else'? I'll come to see you there, if I can."

"You have seen me there," said the street-sweeper. "'Most days I'm there."

"I have been past that corner a good many times, Sarah, when I couldn't see you anywhere."

"'Cos the streets was clean. There warn't no use for my broom then. Nobody'd ha' wanted it, or me. I'd ha' been took up, maybe."

"What do you do then, Sarah?"

"Some days I does nothing; some days I gets something to sell, and then I does that."

"But I would like to know where you live."

"You wouldn't like it, I guess, if you saw it. Best not," said Sarah. "They wouldn't let you come to such a place, and they hadn't ought to. I'd like to see you at my crossing," she added with a smile as she moved off. Matilda, quite lost in wonderment, stood looking after her as she went slowly down the aisle. Her clothes were scarcely whole, yet put on with an evident attempt at tidiness; her bonnet was not a bonnet, but the unshapely and discoloured remains of what had once had the distinction. Her dress was scarcely clean; yet as evidently there was an effort to be as neat as circumstances permitted. What sort of a home could it be, where so nice a girl as Matilda believed this one was, could reach no more actual and outward nicety in her appearance?

"You have made Sarah Staples' acquaintance, I see;" Mr. Wharncliffe's voice broke her meditations.

"I saw her at her crossing one day. Isn't she a good girl?"

"She is a good girl, I think. What do you think?"

"O I think so," said Matilda; "I thought so before; but—Mr. Wharncliffe—I am afraid she is very poor."