"I am not afraid so; I know it."

"She will not tell me where she lives," said Matilda rather wistfully.

"Do you want to know?"

"Yes, I wanted to know; but I think she did not want I should."

"Did you think of going to see her, that you tried to find out?"

"I would have liked to go, if I could," said Matilda, looking perplexed. "But she seemed to think I wouldn't like it, or that I ought not, or something."

"She is right," said Mr. Wharncliffe. "You would not take any pleasure in seeing Sarah's home; and you cannot go there alone. But with me you may go. I will take you there, if you choose."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, sir. I would like it."

Truth to tell, Matilda would have liked a walk in any direction and for any purpose, in company with that quiet, pleasant, kind, strong face. She had taken a great fancy and given a great trust already to her new teacher. That walk did not lessen either. Hand in hand they went along, through poor streets and in a neighbourhood that grew more wretched as they went further; yet though Matilda was in a measure conscious of this, she seemed all the while to be walking in a sort of spotless companionship; which perhaps she was. The purity made more impression upon her than the impurity. And, withal that the part of the city they were coming to was very miserable, and more wicked than miserable, Matilda saw it through an atmosphere of very pure and sweet talk.

She drew a little closer to her guide, however, as one after another sight and sound of misery struck her senses. A knot of drunken men wrestling; single specimens, very ugly to see; voices loud and brutal coming out of drinking shops; haggard-looking, dirty women, in dismal rags or finery worse yet; crying children; scolding mothers; a population of boys and girls of all ages, who evidently knew no Sabbath, and to judge by appearances had no home; and streets and houses and doorways so squalid, so encumbered with garbage and filth, so morally distant from peace and purity, that Matilda felt as if she were walking with an angel through regions where angels never stay. Perhaps Mr. Wharncliffe noticed the tightening clasp of her fingers upon his. He paused at length; it was before a large, lofty brick building at the corner of a block. No better in its moral indications than other houses around; this was merely one of mammoth proportions. At the corner a flight of stone steps went down to a cellar floor. Standing just at the top of these steps, Matilda could look down and partly look in; though there seemed little light below but what came from this same entrance way. The stone steps were swept. But at the bottom there was nothing but a mud floor; doubtless dry in some weathers, but at this time of encumbering snow it was stamped into mud. Also down there, in the doubtful light, Matilda discerned an overturned broken chair and a brown jug; and even caught a glimpse of the corner of a small cooking stove. People lived there! or at least cooked and eat, or perhaps sold liquor. Matilda looked up, partly in wonder, partly in dismay, to Mr. Wharncliffe's face.

"This is the place," he said; and his face was grave enough then. "Would you like to go in?"

"This?" said Matilda bewildered. "This isn't the place? She don't live here? Does anybody live here?"

"Come down and let us see. You need not be afraid," he said. "There is no danger."

Very unwillingly Matilda let the hand that held her draw her on to descend the steps. If this was Sarah's home, she did not wonder at the girl's hesitation about making it known. Sarah was quite right; it was no place fit for Matilda to come to. How could she help letting Sarah see by her face how dreadful she thought it?

Meanwhile she was going down the stone steps. They landed her in a cellar room; it was nothing but a cellar; and without the clean dry paving of brick or stone which we have in the cellars of our houses. The little old cooking stove was nearly all the furniture; two or three chairs or stools were around, but not one of them whole; and in two corners were heaps, of what? Matilda could not make out anything but rags, except a token of straw in one place. There was a forlorn table besides with a few specimens of broken crockery upon it. A woman was there; very poor though not bad-looking; two bits of ragged boys; and lastly Sarah herself, decent and grave, as she had just come from Sunday school, sitting on a box with her lesson book in her hand. She got up quickly and came forward with a surprised face, in which there shone also that wintry gleam of pleasure that Matilda had seen in it before. The pleasure was for the sight of Mr. Wharncliffe; perhaps Sarah was shy of her other visiter. However, Mr. Wharncliffe took the conversation upon himself, and left it to nobody to feel or shew awkwardness; which both Matilda and Sarah were ready to do. He had none; Matilda thought he never could have any, anywhere; so gracious, so free, his words and manner were in this wretched place; so pleasant and kind, without a trace of consciousness that he had ever been in a better room than this. And yet his boot heels made prints in the damp earth floor. The poor slatternly woman roused up a little to meet his words of cheer and look of sympathy; and Sarah came and stood by his shoulder. It was an angel's visit. Matilda saw it, as well as she knew that she had been walking with one; he brought some warmth and light even into that drear region; some brightness even into those faces; though he staid but a few minutes. Giving then a hearty hand grasp, not to his scholar only but to the poor woman her mother, whom Matilda thought it must be very disagreeable to touch, he with his new scholar came away.

Matilda's desire to talk or wish to hear talking had suddenly ended. She threaded the streets in a maze; and Mr. Wharncliffe was silent; till block after block was passed and gradually a region of comparative order and beauty was opening to them. At last he looked down at his little silent companion.

"This is a pleasanter part of the city, isn't it?"

"O Mr. Wharncliffe!" Matilda burst forth, "why do they live there?"

"Because they cannot live anywhere else."

"They are so poor as that?"

"So poor as that. And a great many other people are so poor as that."

"How much would it cost?"

"For them to move? Well, it would cost the rent of a better room; and they haven't got it. The mother cannot earn much; and Sarah is the chief stay of the family."

"Have they nothing to live upon, but the pennies she gets for sweeping the crossing?"

"Not much else. The mother makes slops, I believe; but that brings in only a few more coppers a week."

"How much would a better room cost, Mr. Wharncliffe?"

"A dollar a week, maybe; more or less, as the case might be."

There was silence again; until Mr. Wharncliffe and Matilda had come to Blessington avenue and were walking down its clean and spacious sideway.

"Mr. Wharncliffe," said Matilda suddenly, "why are some people so rich and other people so poor?"

"There are a great many reasons."

"What are some of them? can't I understand?"

"You can understand this; that people who are industrious, and careful, and who have a talent for business, get on in the world better than those who are idle or wasteful or self-indulgent or wanting in cleverness."

"Yes; I can understand that."

"The first class of people make money, and their children, who maybe are neither careful nor clever, inherit it; along with their business friends, and their advantages and opportunities; while the children of the idle and vicious inherit not merely the poverty but to some extent the other disadvantages of their parents. So one set are naturally growing richer and richer and the other naturally go on from poor to poorer."

"Yes, I understand that," said Matilda, with a perplexed look. "But some of these poor people are not bad nor idle?"

"Perhaps their parents have been. Or without business ability; and the one thing often leads to another."

"But"—said Matilda, and stopped.

"What is it?"

"It puzzles me, sir. I was going to say, God could make it all better; and why don't he?"

"He will do everything for us, Matilda," said her friend gravely, "except those things he has given us to do. He will help us to do those; but he will not prevent the consequences of our idleness or disobedience. Those we must suffer; and others suffer with us, and because of us."

"But then"—said Matilda looking up,—"the rich ought to take care of the poor."

"That is what the Lord meant we should do. We ought to find them work, and see that they get proper pay for it; and not let them die of hunger or disease in the mean while."

"Well, why don't people do so?" said Matilda.

"Some try. But in general, people have not come yet to love their neighbours as themselves."

"Thank you, Mr. Wharncliffe," Matilda said, as he stopped at the foot of Mrs. Lloyd's steps.

He smiled, and inquired, "For what?"

"For taking me there."

"Why?" said he, growing grave.

But a little to his surprise the little girl hurried up the steps without making him any answer.

In the house, she hurried in like manner up the first flight of stairs and up the second flight. Then, reaching her own floor, where nobody was apt to be at that time of Sunday afternoons, the child stopped and stood still.

She did not even wait to open her own door; but clasping the rail of the balusters she bent down her little head there and burst into a passion of weeping. Was there such utter misery in the world, and near her, and she could not relieve it? Was it possible that another child, like herself, could be so unlike herself in all the comforts and helps and hopes of life, and no remedy? Matilda could not accept the truth which her eyes had seen. She recalled Sarah's gentle, grave face, and sober looks, as she had seen her on her crossing, along with the gleam of a smile that had come over them two or three times; and her heart almost broke. She stood still, sobbing, thinking herself quite safe and alone; so that she started fearfully when she suddenly heard a voice close by her. It was David Bartholomew, come out of his room.

"What in the world's to pay?" said he. "What is the matter? You needn't start as if I were a grisly bear! But what is the matter, Tilly?"

Matilda was less afraid of him lately; and she would have answered, but there was too much to say. The burden of her heart could not be put into words at first. She only cried aloud,—

"Oh David!—Oh David!"

"What then?" said David. "What has Judy been doing?"

"Judy! O nothing. I don't mind Judy."

"Very wise of you, I'm sure, and I am very glad to hear it. What has troubled you? something bad, I should judge."

"Something so bad, you could never think it was true," said Matilda, making vain efforts to dry off the tears which kept welling freshly forth.

"Have you lost something?"

"I? O no; I haven't got any thing to lose. Nothing particular, I mean. But I have seen such a place"—

"A place?" said David, very much puzzled. "What about the place?"

"Oh, David, such a place! And people live there!"—Matilda could not get on.

David was curious. He stood and waited, while Matilda sobbed and tried to stop and talk to him. For, seeing that he wanted to hear, it was a sort of satisfaction to tell to some one what filled her heart. And at last, being patient, he managed to get a tolerably clear report of the case. He did not run off at once then. He stood still looking at Matilda.

"It's disgraceful," he said. "It didn't use to be so among my people."

"And, oh David, what can we do? What can I do? I don't feel as if I could bear to think that Sarah must sleep in that place to-night. Why the floor was just earth, damp and wet. And not a bedstead—just think! What can I do, David?"

"I don't see that you can do much. You cannot build houses to lodge all the poor of the city. That would take a good deal of money; more than you have got, little one."

"But—I can't reach them all, but I can do something for this one," said Matilda. "I must do something."

"Even that would take a good deal of money," said David.

"I must do something," Matilda repeated. And she went to her own room to ponder how, while she was getting ready for dinner. Could she save anything from her Christmas money?



CHAPTER XII.

Matilda's thoughts about Christmas took now another character. Instead of the delightful confusion of pretty things for rich hands, among which she had only to choose, her meditations dwelt now upon the homelier supplies of the wants of her poor little neighbour. What could be had instead of that damp cellar with its mud floor? how might some beginnings of comfort be brought to cluster round the little street-sweeper, who except in Sunday school had hardly known what comfort was? It lay upon Matilda's heart; she dreamed about it at night and thought about it nearly all day, while she was mending Mrs. Lloyd's lace shawl.

The shawl was getting mended; that was a satisfactory certainty; but it took a great deal of time. Slowly the delicate fabric seemed to grow, and the place that the candle flame had entered seemed to be less and less; very slowly, for the lace was exceedingly fine and the tracery of embroidered or wrought flowers was exceeding rich. Matilda was shut up in her room the most part of the time that week; it was the Christmas week, and the shawl must be finished before the party of Friday night. Mrs. Laval sometimes came in to look at the little worker and kiss her. And one afternoon Norton came pounding at her door.

"Is it you, Norton?"

"Of course. Come out, Pink; we want you."

Matilda put down her work and opened the door.

"Come out; we are going to rehearse, and we want you, Pink."

"I should like to come, Norton, but I can't."

"What's the mischief? Why do you whisper?"

"I am not about any mischief; but I am busy, Norton. I cannot come, indeed."

Norton pushed himself a little way into the room.

"Busy about what?" said he. "That's all bosh. What are you busy about? What is that? Hullo!"

For Norton's eye, roving round the room, caught the rich lace drapery which lay upon one of Matilda's chairs. He went closer to look at it, and then turned an amazed eye upon her.

"I know what this is, Pink. Whatever have you got it here for?"

"Hush, Norton; I am mending it."

"Mending it! have you broken it?"

"No, not I; but Judy would wear it one night when we were practising; and it got in the flame of the candle and was burnt; and Judy was frightened, and I thought maybe I could mend it; and see, Norton,—you can hardly tell the place, or you won't, when I have finished."

Norton fairly drew a low whistle and sat down to consider the matter.

"And this is what keeps you away so. Judy will be obliged to you, I hope. She doesn't deserve it. And grandmamma don't know! Well, Pink, I always said you were a brick."

Matilda smiled and took up her mending.

"But how are you going to be ready for Christmas?"

"O I think about it, Norton, while I am working."

"Yes, but thinking will not buy your things."

"That won't take very long. I do not think I shall get a great deal now. O Norton, I have found something else that wants money."

"Money! I dare say," said Norton. "Everything wants money. What is it, Pink? It isn't Lilac lane, anyhow."

"No, Norton; but worse."

"Go on," said Norton. "You needn't stop and look so.I can stand it. What is it?"

Matilda dropped her lace for the minute, and told her walk and visit of Sunday afternoon. As she told it, the tears gathered; and at the end she dropped her face upon her knees and sobbed. Norton did not know what to do.

"There's lots of such places," he said at last. "You needn't fret so. This isn't the only one."

"O Norton, that makes it worse. One is enough; and I cannot help that; and I must."

"Must what?" said Norton. "Help them? You cannot, Pink. It is no use for you to try to lift all New York on your shoulders. It's no use to think about it."

"I am not going to try to lift all New York," said the little girl, making an effort to dry her eyes.

"And it is no good crying about it, you know."

"No, no good," said Matilda. "But I don't know, Norton; perhaps it is. If other people cried about it, the thing would get mended."

"Not so easy as lace work," said Norton, looking at the cobweb tracery tissue before him.

"But it must be mended, Norton?" said Matilda inquiringly, and almost imploringly.

"Well, Pink, anybody that tries it will get mired. That's all I have to say. There's no end to New York mud."

"But we can lift people out of it."

"I can't," said Norton. "Nor you neither. No, you can't. There's lots of societies and institutions and committees and boards, and all that sort of thing; and no end of collections and contributions; and the people that get the collections must attend to the people they are collected for. We can't, you know. Well, I must go and rehearse."

He went off; but immediately after another tap at the door announced David. He stepped inside the door; a great mark of condescension. He had never come to Matilda's room until now.

"So busy you can't spare time for proverbs?" he said. "But what is the matter?" For Norton's want of sympathy had disappointed Matilda, and she had tears in her eyes and on her cheeks again. What should she do now? she thought. She had half counted on Norton's helping her. David was quite earnest to know the cause of trouble; and Matilda at last confessed she was thinking about the people that lived in that cellar room.

"Where is the place?" David inquired.

"I can't tell; and I am sure you couldn't find it. We turned and turned, going and coming. It's an ugly way too. You couldn't find it, David."

"But your crying will not help them, Tilly."

"No," said Matilda, trying to dash the tears away. "If I could help them, I wouldn't cry. But I must. O think of living so, David! No beds, that we would call beds; and those on the dirty ground; and living without anything. O I didn't know people lived so! What can I do?"

"I'll tell you," said David. "We'll try to find another place for them to live, and see how much that would cost; and then we can lay our plans."

Matilda was breathless for a minute. "O thank you. How can we find out about that? I might ask Mr. Wharncliffe! mightn't I?"

"I should think you might."

"Then I'll do that, next time I see him. But I haven't got much money, David."

"Well, we'll see about that. Find out how much a decent lodging would cost; and then we can tell, you know. I'll make Judy help; and Norton will shell out something. He always keeps holes in his purse."

"I don't see how he can have much in it, then," said Matilda, trying to laugh. "But you are very good, David."

"Well, you are good, I am sure," said he glancing at the lace. "Is that thing going to keep you prisoner much longer?"

"No; it is getting done; it will be done in time," the little girl answered gratefully and happily; and with a smile David left her.

The work went on nicely after that day. Matilda's visions grew glorious, not of Christmas toys, but of changed human life, in one place, at least. She went over and over all sorts of plans and additions to plans; and half unconsciously her lace work grew like her visions, fine and smooth, under her hands. However, Christmas gifts were not to be quite despised or neglected, either; Matilda took time once or twice to go out and make purchases. They were as modest and carefully made purchases as could be. Mrs. Laval she had already provided for, and Norton. For Judy Matilda bought a Scotch book mark or leaf cutter, which cost two shillings. For David, a nice photograph view of Jerusalem. A basket of fruit she sent by express to Poughkeepsie to Maria; and Letitia's dress she matched with a silk cravat for Anne. When these things were off her mind, and out of her purse, Matilda counted carefully the money that was left, and put it away in her trunk with tolerable satisfaction. It was, she thought, a good little fund yet.

Meanwhile the lace-mending was almost done. Mrs. Laval came into Matilda's room on the Thursday morning before Christmas, when Matilda was putting her last touches to the work; and sat for some time watching her. Then suddenly broke out with a new thought, as it seemed.

"You have no dress to wear to-morrow night!"

Matilda looked up in great astonishment.

"Mamma!—there is my red silk—and my green—and my blue crape."

"No white dress. I must have you in white."

"I have a white frock. It is old."

"That wouldn't do, you dear child," said Mrs. Laval. "I'll have a muslin for you. Judy will be in white, and so must you."

Matilda bent over her work again with pulses throbbing and cheeks tingling with pleasure. But in another minute she looked up, and her face had changed.

"How much would that new white dress cost, mamma?"

"I don't know," Mrs. Laval answered carelessly. "Sash and all—twenty or twenty-five dollars perhaps."

Matilda went at her work again, but her fingers trembled. A minute more, and she had thrown it down and was kneeling at Mrs. Laval's knee.

"Mamma, I want to ask you something."

"You may," said Mrs. Laval smiling.

"It is a great something."

"I dare say you think so. Well, ask it."

"Mamma, I wish you would let me go without that white dress, and do something else with the money!"

"Something else? What?" said Mrs. Laval, with inward amusement.

In answer to which, Matilda poured out the story of Sarah and her wants, and her own wishes respecting them. Mrs. Laval heard her till she had done, and then put both arms around her and kissed her.

"You dear child!" she said. "You would like all the world to be saints; wouldn't you?"

"And so would you, mamma?"

"I am not one myself," said Mrs. Laval.

"But mamma, you would like all the world to be comfortable?"

"Yes, but I cannot reach all the world. I can reach you."

"This would make me—so very comfortable! mamma."

"But I want you to be as well dressed as Judy. And I cannot do everything."

"Mamma," said Matilda, "I don't care at all,—in comparison to this."

"I care," said Mrs. Laval. "Is that dreadful piece of work nearly finished?"

"Almost, now, mamma." And with a sigh Matilda sat down to it. She had ventured as far as she thought best. In a few minutes more the long job was finished. The shawl was exactly as good as new, Mrs. Laval declared. She made Matilda tell her all about her learning the art of lace-mending; and then broke faith; for she went straight to her mother with the mended shawl and gave her the whole story over again. Matilda did not suspect this; she thought Mrs. Laval had only taken the scarf to put it safely away. Nobody else suspected it, for Mrs. Lloyd gave no token of having become wiser than she was before.

Every thing now centred towards Christmas and the party of Christmas eve. Even Sarah's affairs had to go into the background for the time, though Matilda did not forget them. The Christmas gifts were all ready and safe. An air of mystery and expectation was about all the young people; and a good bustle of preparation occupied the thoughts and the tongues at least of the old. An immense Christmas tree was brought in and planted in a huge green tub in the drawing-room. Mrs. Lloyd and Mrs. Laval and Mrs. Bartholomew were out a great deal, driving about in the carriage; and bundles and boxes and packages of all shapes came to the house. Matilda and Norton went out Friday morning on some remaining errand of Christmas work; and they found that all the world was more or less in the condition of Mrs. Lloyd's house. Everybody out, everybody busy, everybody happy, more or less; a great quantity of parcels in brown paper travelling about; a universal stir of pleasant intention. Cars and busses went very full, at all times of day, and of all sorts of people; and a certain genial Christmas light was upon the dingy city streets. Only when Matilda passed Sarah Staples at her crossing, or some other child such as she, there came a sort of tightness at her heart; and she felt as if something was wrong even about the holidays.



Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son.



Typographical errors silently corrected:



Chapter 3: They seemed frightened replaced by "They seemed frightened

Chapter 4: "let him impart replaced by 'let him impart

Chapter 7: "The conversation had got replaced by The conversation had got

Chapter 9: know how he cares replaced by know how He cares

THE END