Weeks passed before she and David could be alone together; eager and curious and sympathetic as she was. David did not change; the gloom of his troublesome thoughts hung over him, she could see, all the while; though nobody else seemed to notice it. At last, one evening in March, it fell out that all the family were going to the theatre. Even Mrs. Lloyd; for some particular attraction was just then drawing crowds to the nightly spectacle; and Norton and Judy had put in their claim to be allowed to go, and it had been granted. David was invited, but he refused without ceremony. Mrs. Laval turned to Matilda; and Mrs. Lloyd asked graciously if she would like to go? Now Matilda would have liked very much to go, on one side of the question; yet her answer was a grateful negative.

"What's the reason?" said the old lady. "It is no use asking for Davy's reasons, for they are sure to be immovable; but you, Tilly, what's the matter with you? Were you ever there?"

"No, ma'am, never."

"It'll amuse you, child; come! Judy's going."

It was difficult to answer; but Matilda remembered words she had heard from Mr. Richmond, which shewed that he did not think the theatre a place for a Christian to be amused in; and without in the least understanding his reasons, Matilda did not dare go. She said, and truly, that she would rather stay at home; and so it fell out that she and David were left for a whole evening alone.

The carriage had driven off; the two came back into the little reception room where the family usually had tea and spent the evening; Matilda having slipped upstairs and brought down her two Bibles. David turned up the gas and looked at her.

"What have you got there, Tilly?"

"A book that will help us, I hope."

"I wish it would help me!" said David, as he sat down and buried his face in his hands.

"We've got all the evening to ourselves, if we want it," said Matilda a little timidly.

"Yes. They will not be home before twelve o' clock."

But David did not seem in a hurry to avail himself of his opportunity. He sat with his head in his hands, and then got up and walked about, looking dark enough. Matilda waited and watched him, wondering and anxious.

"What do you think of Judy?" he said suddenly, coming to a stand opposite Matilda.

"I think she likes to amuse herself," Matilda answered, very much surprised.

"How do you like her amusing herself at your expense?"

"I don't like it, David."

"Why don't you get angry?"

"I do."

"So do I, sometimes; but it is your affair. Why don't you speak out?"

"She wouldn't care, David; it wouldn't make any difference."

"Judy? No, not with her; but why don't you speak out to grandmamma, or aunt Zara? They would care."

Matilda's cheeks flushed, and her eyes even looked a little watery; she did not answer at once.

"I don't want to do that, David."

"Why not?"

"It wouldn't be returning good for evil, you know."

"Good for evil! no," said David; "but it would be right."

"I don't think it would be right," Matilda said gently.

"Why wouldn't it? Good for evil? that is not the law; and it is not justice. The law is, 'Life shall go for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.'"

"I don't want to do justice," said Matilda smiling.

"Why not?" He was observing the little girl closely.

"I don't know, David; it would be no pleasure. Besides—"

"Besides what?"

"Jesus says we mustn't."

"Mustn't what? Do justice?"

"Yes. No—not to ourselves sometimes. You asked me what I knew about him; this is one thing. He says we must not return evil for evil; nor be angry."

"You were angry at Judy, though?"

"Well, for a little while, sometimes. I couldn't always help it; or I could, I suppose, but I didn't."

"How could you?" said David. "I cannot. When I am angry, I am angry; and there is nothing to do but wait till I get over it."

"That's another thing I know about Jesus," said Matilda gravely. "He takes the anger away." She wished that David would begin upon his former line of inquiry, now that she had her little book to consult; but she could not hurry him. David looked hard at her, and then his gloom seemed to come over him. He sunk his head again; and Matilda waited.

"What can you tell me?" he said at last.

"I don't know. Perhaps, if you would try it, my book would tell you something."

"What could it tell me?"

"Answer some of your questions, perhaps."

David at last roused to action. He went off upstairs and brought down his Bible—half a Bible, it looked to Matilda's eyes; and under the bright gas lights the two sat down to compare notes.

"I don't know but a part of the things that are said about the Messiah," said David, turning over the leaves; "but what I do know, seem to me impossible to be fulfilled in him you Gentiles think the Messiah. And yet—they said—"

David stopped, in great perplexity.

"What are some of those things?"

"Well, this is one. He is to be of the seed of David; for so Isaiah prophesied."

"'And a rod hath come out from the stock of Jesse, and a branch from his roots is fruitful. Rested on him hath the Spirit of Jehovah, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and fear of Jehovah.'"

"Well, David, Jesus was that. See,—here is the whole list of the names of the people." And she put in the boy's hands the first chapter of Matthew.

"'The son of David, the son of Abraham'!" cried he; but then immediately became so absorbed in the chapter and in that list of names which Matilda had always thought very uninteresting, that she could only watch him and doubt if he would come back to talk with her any more that evening.

"But," said David at last, handing back her book, "that is only one thing. Listen to this. The promise was to David—' I have raised up thy seed after thee, who is of thy sons, and I have established his kingdom; he doth build for me a house, and I have established his throne unto the age.' Where is the throne of—of your Messiah, as you call him? And see here again, in the Psalms of David—

"'I have made a covenant for my chosen, 'I have sworn to David my servant, 'Even to the age do I establish thy seed, 'And have built from generation to generation thy throne.'"

"What is 'to the age'?" Matilda asked.

"For ever! Where is the throne of your Jesus?"

"It is in heaven," said Matilda promptly.

"But Messiah is to reign on earth."

"Now listen, David; this is what the angel said of Jesus, when he came to tell Mary that he should be her son. 'He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest; and the Lord God shall give unto him the throne of his father David; and he shall reign over the house of Jacob for ever; and of his kingdom there shall be no end.'"

"Well," said David, "but when? and where?"

"Here is another place that my book turns to, David; now listen. 'David himself saith in the book of Psalms, The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou on my right hand, till I make thine enemies thy footstool.'"

"Yes, I know, it says so."

"Well, David, then don't you see he will be up in heaven until the time comes? Here is another passage—it begins about something else, and then goes on; 'Which he wrought in Christ, when he raised him from the dead, and set him at his own right hand in the heavenly places, far above all principality, and power, and might, and dominion, and every name that is named, not only in this world, but also in that which is to come; and hath put all things under his feet.' And here again—'But this man, after he had offered one sacrifice for sins for ever, sat down on the right hand of God; from henceforth expecting till his enemies be made his footstool.'"

"When will that be?" said David.

"I don't know. I don't think it tells."

"But Messiah is to be a Conqueror," David went on, passing from one thing to another. It is written,—

"'Gird thy sword upon thy thigh, O mighty, 'Thy glory and thy majesty! 'As to thy majesty—prosper!—ride! 'Because of truth and meekness—righteousness.

'And thy right hand sheweth thee fearful things. 'Thine arrows are sharp, 'Peoples fall under thee— 'In the heart of the enemies of the king.'"

"Where is that?" Matilda asked, and David told her. She eagerly consulted her little book, and then cried out,

"Why it is the very same thing! Look here, David; or just listen, and I will read.

"'And I saw heaven opened'—"

"Stop. Who saw heaven opened? Who said that?"

Matilda paused. "It is in the Revelation," she said.

"Yes, but what is that?"

"I don't know exactly; but I know it is the things that were shown to John, the apostle, about what is going to be by and by."

"Who was that John?"

"Why, one of the apostles, David; one of the twelve apostles, that were always with Jesus, and went everywhere with him and saw all that he did. Then after he was gone, they preached to the people, and told what they had seen and heard."

"After he was gone where?"

"Back to heaven."

"Well—read," said David, with a troubled sigh.

"'And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat on him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew but he himself. And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood; and his name is called The Word of God. And the armies which were in heaven followed him upon white horses, clothed in white linen, white and clean. And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations; and he shall rule them with a rod of iron; and he treadeth the winepress of the fierceness and wrath of Almighty God. And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS.'"

"But he was to be a Prophet, like Moses," said David; "and he was to be born in Bethlehem in the land of Judah."

"Well, he was," said Matilda.

"Then how should he be all that?" And the boy's frame shook, as if a nervous shudder had taken him.

"Don't you remember the 110th Psalm?" said Matilda after a little more study. "'The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou at my right hand, until I make thine enemies thy footstool.' Look at it."

David did so, in his own Scriptures, and pondered the words a second time.

"And this is what the Lord Jesus said about those very words, David. 'While the Pharisees were gathered together, Jesus asked them, saying, What think ye of Christ? whose son is he? They say unto him, The son of David. He saith unto them, How then doth David in spirit call him Lord, saying, The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou on my right hand, till I make thine enemies thy footstool? If David then call him Lord, how is he his son?'"

"What did they say?" asked David eagerly.

"Who?"

"Those Pharisees. What did they answer?"

"It says 'no man was able to answer him a word.'"

Poor David was in the same condition. "Well, go on," he said, between puzzle and despondency.

Matilda consulted her references to see with what she should go on; and then read the three first verses of the epistle to the Hebrews.

"'God, who at sundry times and in divers manners spake in time past unto the fathers by the prophets, hath in these last days spoken unto us by his Son, whom he hath appointed heir of all things, by whom also he made the worlds; who being the brightness of his glory, and the express image of his person, and upholding all things by the word of his power, when he had by himself purged our sins, sat down on the right hand of the Majesty on high.'"

"But—but,—" said David looking up, "Messiah was to be born in Bethlehem of Judah, for so said the prophet Micah."

"Jesus was born in Bethlehem," Matilda replied.

"But—he was called the Nazarene," said David with a kind of shiver. The boy was terribly excited, though he controlled the outward expression of his excitement as much as possible.

"He lived in Nazareth," said Matilda eagerly; "that was his home."

"Then how could he be born in Bethlehem? it's near a hundred miles off, I think."

"But don't you know?" said Matilda. "Caesar Augustus ordered everybody to be—what is it you call it? I forget;—to have their names put down, in a list of all the families and tribes, so that they might be taxed—"

"Taking the census?"

"I don't know; maybe it's that. And so, Joseph and Mary had to go to Bethlehem to have their names put down there, because it was David's city, you know, and they were of the house of David. And while they were there, Jesus was born. But after a while they went back and lived in Nazareth."

David looked dark, and eager; he made no answer.

"And it says in the first chapter of Matthew, David, that the prophet said, 'they shall call his name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us.'"

"It is true," said David. "So spoke the prophet Isaiah. But how then did he speak also of Messiah's sufferings? how could that be?"

"Where, David? and how?"

The boy turned over gloomily the leaves of the book which he held, and began to read at the fifty-third chapter.

"'Who hath given credence to that which we heard? and the arm of Jehovah, on whom hath it been revealed?'"

"What chapter is that?" Matilda asked; and he told her. She turned to the place.

"'Who hath believed our report?' that is it exactly, David. Don't you see? You do not believe it, and all the Jews do not believe it, when it is told to them."

"What?" said David.

"Why, that Jesus is the Messiah; and all about him. 'He is despised and rejected of men'—see how it goes on."

"What does this mean, I wonder," said David as he looked over the chapter—"'He is pierced for our transgressions, Bruised for our iniquities, The chastisement of our peace is on him, And by his bruise there is healing to us'?"

"This is what it means, David; 'the Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give his life a ransom for many.' That is in Matthew. And here in Romans—'God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Much more then, being now justified by his blood, we shall be saved from wrath through him.' And in Corinthians—'He hath made him to be sin for us, who knew no sin, that we might be made the righteousness of God in him.' Don't you see?"

"O hush! stop!" said David; "you bewilder me. Here Isaiah goes on

"'Each to his own way we have turned, 'And Jehovah hath caused to meet on him 'The punishment of us all.

'It hath been exacted, and he hath answered. 'And he openeth not his mouth, 'As a lamb to the slaughter he is brought—'"

David stopped again, and Matilda searched for words to answer him, and presently read,

"'So Christ was once offered to bear the sin of many; and unto them that look for him shall he appear the second time without sin unto salvation.'"

"The second time?" said David.

"Yes; when he comes to take the kingdom, you know."

David sighed deeply.

"David," said Matilda hesitatingly, she had been watching for a chance to say it, "don't you know what Zechariah says about him?"

"Zechariah?"

"Yes; the prophet Zechariah. Mr. Wharncliffe says that is a time coming to your people;—in the twelfth chapter. You can read it best for yourself in your own book. It begins at the ninth verse—what I mean."

"This?" said David.

"'And I have poured on the house of David, 'And on the inhabitants of Jerusalem, 'A spirit of grace and supplications, 'And they have looked unto me whom they pierced, 'And they have mourned over it, 'Like a mourning over the only one, 'And they have been in bitterness for it, 'Like a bitterness over the first-born.

'In that day great is the mourning in Jerusalem, 'As the mourning of Hadadrimmon in the valley of Megiddon; 'And mourned hath the land—every family apart; 'The family of the house of David apart, 'And their women apart; 'The family of the house of Nathan apart, 'And their women apart; 'The family of the house of Levi apart, 'And their women apart; 'The family of Shimei apart, 'And their women apart, 'All the families that are left, 'Every family apart, and their women apart!'"

The boy's face grew darker and darker as he read, and he remained gloomily looking at the page after he had finished. "It looks like it!" he said at last.

"Looks like what, David?" Matilda asked timidly. His face was very cloudy as he lifted it to speak to her, and he spoke with difficulty.

"They are saying, Matilda,—my uncle, I mean, and the wise ones;—they are saying, I heard them saying it a few weeks ago, softly, to each other, that the time must be up; and that if Messiah does not come very soon—"

"What then?" Matilda asked, for he had stopped suddenly.

"Then—they say—it must be, or may be, that he has come!"

She was astonished at the changes in David's face. It flushed and paled, his lips quivered, his brows were knit; the dark eyes were like clouds and fire at once. Evidently there was a struggle going on which she had no means of gauging.

"What if he has?" she asked gently. "Would you care so very much?"

"Care!" exclaimed David, and his expression startled her. "Care!—whether our Messiah has come, and we have not known him, and have injured him and rejected him?"

"But that is just what Isaiah said would be."

"Don't!" said David. "I can't bear it! If that is true, there will be such a cry as Zechariah said, and I will begin it. But I don't believe it, Matilda; it cannot be. I will not believe it."

He threw down his book and walked up and down the room with folded arms and a brow black as night. Hardly a boy's action, but neither was it a boy's feeling which possessed him just then. Matilda looked on, very sorry, very much awed, and entirely at a loss to know what to say. She consulted her Bible again and found a passage which she wished to shew him; but she had to wait for the chance. David walked up and down, up and down, restlessly.

"I can't make it out!" he exclaimed. "It confuses me. If that were true, then all our whole nation have been wrong, all these years; and we have lost everything; the promise made to Abraham and all."

"But Jesus will fulfil all the promises," said Matilda gently.

"To those who disowned him?" David asked almost fiercely.

"I think he will," said Matilda. "Why the first Christians were some of those very Jews."

"How can that be?" said David standing still and looking at her.

Matilda found the second chapter of Acts and handed it to him. She thought her own words were best to be few. David looked unwillingly at her book, but however took it, sat down, and under the light of the gas burner began to read. Matilda could not help furtively watching him, and it almost frightened her; the changes in the boy's face were so quick and strong. He read like one reading for his life; he never knew that Matilda was watching him; his eyes seemed to pierce the book like steel lances; and through his parted lips the breath came and went hurriedly. Matilda thought he never would get through the chapter, he was so long over it.

"May I keep this a day or two?" he said at last. Matilda joyfully assented.

"I wish I had some one to talk with about this," he said; "somebody who could answer me, or who could not answer me."

"Your uncles?" Matilda suggested.

"They would only silence me."

"I wish you could see Mr. Richmond."

"Who's he?"

"He's a friend of mine, and O, the pleasantest and the nicest man! and he can answer anybody."

"Can he?" said David half smiling. "Where does he live?"

"Up in Shadywalk. I wish you could see him. He could tell you just everything, and I cannot."

"You have told me so much, though, that I must know more. What is this Mr. Richmond?"

"He is a minister, David. O you would like him."

"He would be the first, then," said David.

"He is not the least like Dr. Blandford not the least."

"Maybe there's some chance then. Matilda, don't tell anybody of all this; it is between you and me."

"No, David, of course I shall not. Are you going to bed?"

"I am going up."

"They won't be home yet for an hour."

"I don't want to see them when they do come."

"Nor have any supper?"

"I don't care about supper. Good night."

He went off, and Matilda's heart was very tender for him. What could she do? He had carried away with him the little reference Bible; she could not look out passages for his help any more. Had they been for his help? The whole talk looked very confused to Matilda as she remembered it; and David evidently was in much more trouble than he shewed. Matilda prayed for better help than she could give, prayed with all her heart; then found herself very sleepy and went to bed.



CHAPTER IX.

It was a few nights after this, that the children were amusing themselves in the same little reception room. Esther Francis was with them, and the elders were with company in the drawing-room. The young ones had it all their own way; they had taken tea together in what Norton declared to be a very jolly style; and now in a circle of sociable dimensions, that is, very much drawn together, they were talking over a great variety of things. All except David; he hardly said anything; he looked dark and jaded; nevertheless he listened to what was going on.

"I know one thing," said Norton; "I must be off to the country pretty soon."

"School term of no consequence"—said David.

"None at all. You see, bulbs keep no account with schoolmasters; the only account they keep is with the sun; and how they do that when the sun don't shew himself, passes me. It's one of the queer things."

"Find a good many of them, Norton?" asked Esther smiling.

"Queer things? Lots! Don't you?"

"Well, I don't know. There are some queer people."

"Some. Just a few, I should think there were," said Norton. "Enough to keep one from going to sleep with sameness."

"Well, but I don't find so many," said Esther. "Am I queer?"

"Not a bit of it?"

"You speak as if it was an honour to be queer," said the young lady, bridling her pretty head.

"An honour? I don't know about that," said Norton. "It certainly may be said to be a—distinction."

"Who is queer?" said Esther. "You?"

"Not he," said David.

"You know best," said Norton, shaking his curly head.

"He thinks he has so much else to distinguish him," said Judy, "he can do without that."

"Not your case," said Norton, politely nodding at her.

"Don't depend upon your word," said Judy scornfully.

"Not at all," rejoined Norton; "it is open to the most hasty observer."

"Is Matilda queer?" Esther asked laughing.

"She'd never let the world go to sleep," said Norton contentedly; "at least, not till all could sleep comfortably."

They laughed at that, and Matilda as much as anybody.

"But what did you mean, Norton," she said, "about the bulbs and the country?"

"Just what I said. It's the most mysterious thing, the way the roots down in the earth know when it is time for them to send up their green shoots. They will do it, too, and when things aren't ready for them by any means above ground. Spring may be ever so late, and the earth hard packed with frost, and snow and clouds making you believe it is winter yet; and there will come the little green shoots pushing up their heads and telling you they know what time of year it is, better than you do. How they get up through the frozen earth is more than I know. I tell you, they are queer."

"Then you mean something good by being queer, Norton," Matilda said.

"Don't know about that; they are ahead of the year, you see, and that don't always do. They have a hard time of it, sometimes."

"But are you going up to see them?"

"Yes; pretty soon. The coverings must be taken off the beds, you see; and I must look after it."

"I am so glad spring is come again!" said Esther.

"What for, you?" said Norton. "You don't make garden."

"No; but I can eat strawberries."

"Strawberries! O ho, that's it. That's what you want spring for."

"I am sure strawberries are good, Norton," said Matilda. "Do you remember how you and I eat strawberries on the bank last summer?—and made lists?"

Norton gave her a very intelligent glance of acknowledgment.

"Lists of what?" Judy asked.

"Things we were going to have for tea," Norton answered coolly.

"O no, Norton—they were not," said Matilda.

"Well, it was something in the housekeeping department."

"Housekeeping!" cried Esther.

"What is strange in that?" inquired Norton coolly.

"Why you are rather young, you and Matilda, to set up housekeeping."

"Rather," said Norton; "so it was somebody else, you see."

"O it was for somebody else?" said Esther.

"When are you going, Norton?" Matilda asked eagerly.

"Pretty soon; in a week or two more; just as soon as we have a few more spring days."

"O how nice the spring days are!" said Matilda. "I am so glad they are come again."

"For the strawberries?" Esther asked archly.

"O no, not the strawberries; but it is so pleasant to see the green grass again, and the dandelions."

"Dandelions!" exclaimed Judy.

"Yes indeed; and the locust blossoms; and the cows going to pasture; and yellow butterflies skimming about; and the nice warm days; and pinks and roses."

"And croquet—" said Norton.

"O croquet is delicious!" said Esther.

"I am glad, because I like the driving," said Norton. "It is better than all the Central Parks in the world. And the fishing is jolly, too; when you have good sport. It's jolly altogether, at Shadywalk."

"But Norton, the house is shut up," said Matilda.

"What about it?"

"What will you do? you can't manage all alone."

"Go to Kepple's. That's easy."

"How long will you stay?"

"Two or three days. I guess I'll take the Easter holidays—that's just the thing."

What was said next for a few minutes, Matilda did not hear; she was musing so intently; then she broke out,—

"O Norton! I wonder if I might go with you?"

"You? That would be jolly," said Norton.

"I could go to Mr. Richmond's, you know; and then we could see all about our tulip and hyacinth beds; and it would be so pleasant!"

"Well; suppose you do. I'm agreed."

"Do you think mamma would like it?"

"We'll coax her into thinking it's a splendid plan," said Norton; "and that's what it is."

Matilda's eye went furtively over to David; he met it, but she could not tell what he thought. Hope and pleasure made her cheeks flush high. Judy tossed her head.

"Why don't you ask me?" she said.

"I haven't asked anybody yet," said Norton.

"I should like to go too. Will you take me?"

"Would you like to say what you would do if you got there?"

"I don't know!" laughed Judy.

"I do. All the mischief you could manage. No, thank you. I should have to sit next you at the hotel table."

"What harm would that do?" said Esther, laughing.

"I should find mustard in my coffee and pepper in my pudding sauce," said Norton. "No harm, only rather spoils the coffee and rather hurts the pudding sauce."

Matilda looked suddenly at Norton, and so did Judy, but they saw he was only speaking at random and did not know how close he was coming to the truth. Then the two pairs of eyes met involuntarily. Judy laughed carelessly.

"I'll go, if you go," she said to Norton. "At least, if Matilda goes, I'll go."

This time Matilda's and David's eyes met. He smiled, and she took comfort.

As soon as a good opportunity could be found, the plan was broached to Mrs. Laval, and urged by both her children. She demurred a little; but finally consented, on the strength of Norton's plea that it would do Matilda good. From this time the days were full of delightful hope and preparation. Only David lay on Matilda's thoughts with a weight of care and longing. Once she caught an opportunity, when they were alone, to seize his hand and whisper, "Oh David, can't you come too, and see Mr. Richmond?" And he had answered very gravely that he did not know; he would see.

Easter fell this year rather late in April; late, that is, for Easter. Schools were dismissed on Thursday; and Thursday afternoon Matilda and Norton were to take the cars for Shadywalk. She could not say another word to David, or about him; she made her happy preparations with a secret unsatisfied longing running through them all. Judy had made an earnest endeavour to be one of the party; and Matilda did not know how, but the endeavour had failed. And now the early dinner was eaten, her little travelling bag was packed, the carriage was at the door, good byes were said, and Matilda got into the carriage. At that exact minute David came out of the house with his travelling bag in hand, and in a minute more the house door was shut, so was the carriage door, and they were all three rolling off towards the Station.

"O David, I'm so glad!" burst from Matilda. "How did you manage it?"

"Like himself," said Norton; "kept his own counsel and had his own way. It's a good thing to be Davy Bartholomew."

"I don't know about that," said David.

"Don't you? Never heard a doubt on that subject expressed before. But anyhow, it's jolly to have you along, Davy. Why you've never seen Shadywalk, nor Briery Bank."

Matilda smiled a very bright and expressive smile at David which said, "nor Mr. Richmond either." The smile was so genial and glad and winsome that it cheated David out of some part of his gloom; or perhaps he thought it unworthy to shew it before his kind little companion. He brightened up, and talked about the things that were interesting her and Norton; and at the station behaved like the manly boy he was; getting tickets and taking care of Matilda and finding a good place in the cars where they could all sit together. The moment was so full of joy to Matilda that it made her sober. Going to see her old haunts and old friends was a great deal of itself; going on an expedition with Norton was delightsome; but that David should really be going too, to see Mr. Richmond, almost took away her breath with gladness. The slow movement of the cars, beginning to roll away from the station, was accompanied by a perfect leap and bound of her little heart making an aerial flight on the instant to the end of the journey.

The end of the journey, however, had to be reached by the usual patient, or impatient, stages. Patient in this case, to Matilda. She was so happy that she enjoyed every foot of the way. The spring sunlight on the river it was quite delightful to see again; the different stations on the road were passed with curious recollections of the last time, and comparisons of herself now and herself then. The evening fell by the time they reached Poughkeepsie; and shadowy visions of Maria seemed to occupy all the place while the train stopped there. Poor Maria! Matilda was glad to have the cars move on, since she could get no nearer than visions. Then it grew dark; and she sat musing and dreaming pleasant dreams, till the station of Shadywalk was whistled for.

The old omnibus was in waiting, as usual, and it happened that no other passenger occupied it to-night except their three selves and one cosy old lady, who "didn't count," Norton said. It was dark; they could not see the landscape.

"Briery Bank ought to be worth a good deal," said David, "when it takes so long to reach it."

"So it is," said Norton.

"O it's lovely, David!" cried Matilda. "Not so much now, though, when the leaves are not out."

"Are you going to the minister's to-night?"

"To be sure I am. Mr. Richmond would be very much surprised if I went anywhere else."

"Well, when I get the beds uncovered, Pink, I'll come for you; and we can see what we will do."

"You'll come with me to-night, Norton?"

"I'll let Davy see you there, while I make arrangements."

"What arrangements? O come now, Norton. Mr. Richmond will like to see you."

"He can wait till to-morrow, I dare say," replied Norton. "Anyhow, I can. You will be enough for to-night."

"What sort of a man is the one you are talking of?" David asked Norton.

"He's a brick," said Norton, and began to whistle; then interrupted himself. "But he is Pink's friend, you understand, much more than mine."

"Some old tutor of yours?" said David smiling.

"Old! not exactly. Nor a tutor neither, that ever I heard; though he does teach folks, or tries to. No, you're out, Davy. I tell you, he's a brick."

"O we're going over the bridge now, Norton!" Matilda exclaimed. "We're almost there. Look! I can see lights, can't I?"

There was no question about it in a few minutes more. Norton got out at the Shadywalk hotel; and the omnibus lumbered on through Butternut Street to the parsonage gate and drew up at last before the old brown door. But it was too dark to see colours. Indeed David had some difficulty in finding the knocker; and meanwhile the omnibus lumbered off, while they were not attending. David knocked and knocked again. Matilda was trembling with delight.

"There's nobody at home," said David. "It is all dark."

But at that instant a step was heard in the hall, and the door was opened. A little light that came from within a door somewhere beyond revealed nothing except the outline of a figure.

"Who is it?" said a voice. "My lamp's gone out; I guess it wants a new wick. Who's here?"

"Don't you know me, Miss Redwood?" said Matilda's voice, quivering with pleasure.

"Don't know anybody without I see 'em. I ain't called to guess who you be, as I know. Come in, if you want to, and tell your errand. Is it me or the minister you're after?"

"Miss Redwood, it's Matilda Laval. And I'm so glad to see you!" said Matilda, waiving further recognition and throwing her arms round the housekeeper's neck. "O I'm so glad to see you! Is Mr. Richmond at home?"

"Tilly Englefield!" exclaimed the housekeeper in her turn. "Wherever did the child come from? Mr. Richmond?—no, he ain't to home yet, but he will be directly. Come in, child, and take off your things. Who's this other one?"

"My cousin David Bartholomew, Miss Redwood. O David, come in! Don't go, till Mr. Richmond comes."

"Yes, come right in," said Miss Redwood heartily. "You're just in time for tea; for the minister's been out as usual all the afternoon; he had to ride to Suffield, and he ain't home yet. Come right in here."

She drew Matilda, and David followed, into the little dining room, where the lamp shone and the tea table stood looking very hospitable. David made some proposition of going back to the hotel and Norton; but Matilda was very urgent that he should not, and Miss Redwood very positive on the same subject; and to Matilda's surprise David made no great opposition. He sat down quietly enough. Meanwhile the housekeeper took off Matilda's wrappings and examined her with her eyes.

"La! it does look natural to see you!" she broke out. "But you ain't so little as you was; and, my!—but I suppose it's New York."

"What's New York?" inquired Matilda laughing.

"Well, 'taint so easy to tell. I don't know myself. But it's all over you, from the hair of your head down to the soles of your boots. You ain't the same you was."

"Yes, I am, Miss Redwood; just the same!"

"La, child, you don't feel that you've growed, do you? Folks grow in'ardly and out'ardly; and they change, too, in'ardly and out'ardly; and it's other folks that see it, not them."

"But how do you think I'm changed, Miss Redwood? I am sure you're mistaken."

The housekeeper gave another benevolent, keen look at her, smiling a little, and then went off into her pantry without answering.

"It's all right I made gingerbread to-day," she said, coming out with a beautiful loaf of that article. "Have you had any dinner? I'll be bound you'd like some beef and eggs. Wait a bit, and you shall have it. Mr. Richmond will be all ready for it too, after his ride. I reckon you hain't much to do with handling of spiders now?" This with a sidelong glance at Matilda.

"No, Miss Redwood; I haven't time for such things."

"How do ye expect to keep house one o' these days, if you don't know how?"

"That's a great way off," said Matilda smiling.

"Just as it happens," said the housekeeper. "You're eleven or twelve this summer; which is it? and you won't be any wiser in the kitchen just by growing older in the parlour."

"I know some things now, Miss Redwood."

"La, child, knowledge ain't all; it's practice; and you ain't in the way to practise much, I can see. That's the fashion now-a-days; young heads filled full and clever, maybe; and hands as empty and useless as ever hands kin be. Now I don't believe, for my part, that our hands was given us to do nothin'."

"O no, nor I," said Matilda.

"Well, then, what be your hands learning? See if I'm wrong."

Matilda cast about how to answer, for in truth her hands had got no new skill in the past months, although the old skill had come in play very conveniently. While she hesitated, came the welcome sound of the opening and closing front door. Mr. Richmond was returned. His steps went however first upstairs, and then came down and went into the study. Miss Redwood had disappeared and was getting her beef ready in the kitchen. Matilda could wait no longer. Taking David's hand and gently persuading him to allow of her leading, she went to the study door and knocked.

Mr. Richmond had just made the fire blaze up; so they had light to see each other by. David stood by and watched the greeting; it was very glad and affectionate, he saw, on both sides, with a certain tender confidence that impressed him. He was surprised also to see that Mr. Richmond was so young a man and so handsome a man; and when the brilliant eyes were turned on himself he was quite susceptible to their fascination. Matilda lost no time.

"David Bartholomew, Mr. Richmond; one of my new cousins, you know. And Mr. Richmond,—David knows about the Messiah in the Old Testament, and he wants to know if the Messiah is Jesus; and so I wanted him to see you, because you could tell him; and so I got him to come with me."

If David's shyness was at all disturbed by this speech, it was entirely soothed again by Mr. Richmond's reception of it, and of him. The genial, frank clasp of his hand, the kindly, free glance of the blue eyes, quite won David, as it was apt to win everybody; and in a minute more he found himself sitting at his ease in this strange house, perfectly contented to be then, and interested to watch Matilda's intercourse with her old friend and her pleasure in it. There was time for but little, however, before Miss Redwood's activity had got the "beef and eggs" and all the rest of the tea-table in a state of readiness, and her call summoned them into the other room. David made a little demur about staying, instantly overruled both by Mr. Richmond and Matilda, and he sat down with the rest. And if he said little, the other three tongues were busy enough.

"And how do you like New York?" inquired the housekeeper. Matilda's answer was very unqualified.

"'Tain't no better a place than this, is it?" the lady asked rather defiantly.

"It is a larger place, Miss Redwood," said the minister.

"Ain't Shadywalk big enough for a little mite of a thing like her?"

"I don't know," said the minister. "'Big enough' depends upon what she wants, or what anybody wants. I knew a man once who said he had seen everything in the world there was to be seen, and he was quite at a loss what to do with himself. You perceive the world was not 'big enough' for him. And another man once wrote, 'My mind to me a kingdom is.' Difference of taste, you see."

"That first fellow thought his head was only made to set his eyes in, I s'pose," said the housekeeper dryly.

"Seemed to be all the use he had for it," said the minister.

"But that other man," said Matilda,—"was he contented with himself all alone, and wanted nothing else?"

"I hope not," said Mr. Richmond smiling. "That's a new view of the case. Your king David hit the truth more surely," he went on addressing David, "when he said, 'The Lord is the portion of my inheritance.'"

David's eye brightened; but then he said,

"I have read the words, but I never understood exactly what he meant."

"Your people, you remember, on taking possession of the promised land, had it divided to them by lot; each tribe and family took its share as it was portioned out to them by Joshua."

"Yes, I know," David answered.

"So from that time each family had its own inalienable lands, which were the inheritance of that family; its portion and riches; for the Hebrews were not in those days a commercial people."

David assented, looking a little surprised.

"What should a man mean, who declared, disregarding all this, that his portion and inheritance was the Lord himself?"

The boy's keen, intelligent eyes looked deep into the intent blue ones regarding him.

"Sir, I do not know," he said at length. "Was it, that he expected the Highest would give him greater possessions?"

"Notice, he says not his inheritance is from the Lord, but is the Lord himself."

"I don't understand it," said David.

"In another place, when he was nearly done with earthly possessions, he says again, 'My flesh and my heart faileth; but God is the strength of my heart and my portion for ever.' It is an inheritance that exists beyond time, you see."

"I don't understand it, sir," David repeated.

"And in that sixteenth psalm he goes on to declare his content in his portion, in that it is not of earth. 'The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places; yea, I have a goodly heritage.' There is a word in the New Testament that explains it," Mr. Richmond went on, looking keenly at David; "a word of one who was in the same case; and he says of the children of God, 'And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint heirs with Messiah.'"

David started and shivered, as if a nerve had suddenly been touched; but Mr. Richmond went on to something else, as if he had not observed it. All through supper time he was so gentle, pleasant, and spirited too in his talk, that the boy who was unaccustomed to such society felt the charm holding him; and Matilda who had not known it for long, felt like a flower opening to the sunshine.



CHAPTER X.

After tea Mr. Richmond led the way back to his study. The first thing he did there was to make the fire blaze up merrily; and then, just as David was thinking how to take leave, the blue eyes came full round upon him, with a look as bright as the fire shine.

"And so," he said, "you are seeking after your Messiah?"

David seemed tongue-tied; he said nothing; he bowed slightly.

"How far have you got?"

"Far enough to be confused, sir."

"Ay? How is that?"

"I feel myself too ignorant yet to be able to judge. Our wise men are saying—I heard them saying—that if Messiah come not soon, he must have come." David's colour changed even as he spoke.

"Do you know anything of the New Testament, the record of the life and teaching, and death and resurrection, of Jesus?"

"Very little," David answered. "Matilda has shewn me passages in those writings—which have struck me very much," he added, as if with difficulty.

"I should think they would. Well, when a thing is to be done, the best way is to do it. Suppose you take the book in your hands now, and let me direct your attention to one or two things more."

David was very ready. He took the book Mr. Richmond placed in his hands and drew near to the table, while Matilda on her part seized another Bible and did likewise. Mr. Richmond had been lighting the lamp. Before he had finished his preparations, David began.

"But that story of the resurrection is a very unlikely one."

"Do you think so? The same might be said of the crossing of the Red Sea by your fathers."

"That is well enough attested by witnesses," said David, proudly raising his head.

"So is this. If a thing can be made sure by the testimony of credible witnesses, this has been; witnesses who were ready to go to the death in support of their words, and who did so die, many of them."

"But," said David, "our Messiah was to be the King of our people; and your Christ belongs to the Gentiles."

"Thank God he does!" said Mr. Richmond smiling. "But now let us see if you are correct in that first statement."

"He was to be a King on David's throne," interrupted the boy.

"He is. Wait. Do you remember, in the promise to Abraham it was said that all the families of the earth should be blessed in him?"

"Yes."

"And Isaiah declares, 'In that day there shall be a root of Jesse, which shall stand for an ensign of the people; to it shall the Gentiles seek.'"

"Yes, but they will come to Messiah; not the Messiah go to them," said David, lifting his head with the same air again.

Mr. Richmond answered in words of Isaiah. "'Behold my servant, whom I uphold; mine elect, in whom my soul delighteth; I have put my Spirit upon him: he shall bring forth judgment to the Gentiles.' And again in the forty-ninth chapter—and Master Bartholomew, you know that these words were spoken of Messiah—'And now, saith the Lord that formed me from the womb to be his servant, to bring Jacob again to him. Though Israel be not gathered, yet shall I be glorious in the eyes of the Lord, and my God shall be my strength. And he said, It is a light thing that thou shouldest be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob, and to restore the preserved of Israel: I will also give thee for a light to the Gentiles, that thou mayest be my salvation unto the end of the earth.'"

Matilda looked eagerly at David as these words were finished; the boy's face was troubled and dark. He made no answer.

"Now let us see how those words were to be fulfilled," Mr. Richmond went on. "It is a hard reading for you; but we are seeking the truth, and you are seeking it. The apostle John, one of the servants and witnesses of Christ, says, 'He came unto his own, and his own received him not.'"

David looked up with a white face. "If that is true"—he said. "I just want to know whether that is true!"

"You know Isaiah said it would be true. 'Who has believed our report?' 'He is despised and rejected of men;... we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.'"

"Some of the rabbis held that there were two Messiahs," David said.

"Because they knew not how to understand of one the various seemingly contradictory things, which were and are all fulfilled in Jesus."

"Of Nazareth," said David.

"Yes, he lived there; but he was born in the city of David. Come, you do not know him, and it is needful you should. Let us read this first chapter of John all through."

They read slowly, with many interruptions. David had explanations to ask, and then there were prophecies to consult. The boy's eagerness and excitement infected his companions; the reading began to take on a sort of life and death interest, though Mr. Richmond kept it calm, with some difficulty.

His next proposition was, that they should go through the life of Christ regularly; and they began with the first chapters of Luke. Nothing that Matilda had ever known in her life was like the interest of that reading. David was startled, curious, excited, as if he were beginning to find the clue to a mystery; though he did not admit that. On the contrary, he studied every step, would understand every allusion, and verify every reference to the Old Testament scriptures. The boy's cheeks were flushed now, like one in a fever. The hours flew.

"My boy," said Mr. Richmond, laying his hand on David's open book, "we cannot finish what we want to do this evening."

David looked up, pushed his hair off his face, and recollected himself.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said. "I have taken up a great deal of your time."

"You shall have a great deal more," said Mr. Richmond smiling; "but we had better sleep upon it first. And pray," he added soberly. "Pray, that if this Jesus is indeed He whom you seek, you may know him."

David bowed silently, feeling too much apparently to say anything. When, however, he would have taken leave, Mr. Richmond detained him and would not hear of it. Norton, he said, would not miss him; he would be gone to bed by this time, tired of waiting; and they would send and invite him to breakfast. To Matilda's surprise, and as well to her huge delight, she saw that David was won by the influence that had long been so potent with her, and made no very great opposition. Miss Redwood was called in to prayers, and after that the little family separated for the night.

Matilda thought she surely would not go to sleep soon; but she did, nearly as her face touched the pillow. So it was not till she awoke in the morning that she could think over her happiness. It was early yet; the sunbeams striking the old cream coloured tower of the church and glittering on the pine leaves here and there. How delicious it was! The spring light on the old things that she loved, and the peaceful Shadywalk stillness after New York's bustle and roar. And David Bartholomew in Mr. Richmond's house! and Norton coming to breakfast! With that, Matilda jumped up. Perhaps she might help Miss Redwood; at any rate she could see her.

Miss Redwood was in full blast of business by the time Matilda's little figure appeared at the kitchen door.

"Don't say you're up, and down!" said the housekeeper.

"Yes, Miss Redwood; I thought perhaps I could help you."

"Do you wear dresses like that into the kitchen?" the housekeeper asked, with a sidelong glance at the beautiful merino Matilda had on.

"I don't go into the kitchen now-a-days."

"Thought not. Nor you don't never put on a frock fit to make gingerbread in, now do you?"

"I don't think I do."

"Well, what are your gowns good for, then?"

"Good for?" said Matilda; "why, they are good for other things, Miss Redwood."

"I don't think a gown is worth much that is too good to work in; it is just a bag to pack so many hours of your life in, and lose 'em."

"Lose them how?"

"By not doin' anythin', child! What's life if it ain't busy?"

"But don't you have company dresses, Miss Redwood?"

"I don't let company hinder my work much," said Miss Redwood, as she shoved a pan of biscuits into the oven of the stove. "What do you think 'ud become of the minister?"

"O yes!" said Matilda laughing; "but then, you see, I haven't got any minister to take care of."

"Maybe you will, some day," said Miss Redwood with a kind of grim smile; "and if you don't know how, what'll become of you? or of him either?"

It seemed a very funny and very unlikely supposition to Matilda. "I don't think I shall ever have anybody to take care of but mamma and Norton," she said smiling.

"I s'pose they've money enough to make it easy," said Miss Redwood. "But somehow—that don't seem to me livin'."

"What, Miss Redwood?"

"That sort o' way o' goin' on;—havin' money do all for you and you do nothin'. Havin' it do all for your friends too. I don't think life's life, without you have somebody to work for; somebody that wants you and that can't get along without you."

"O they want me," said Matilda.

"Maybe; but that ain't what I mean. 'Tain't dependin' on you for their breakfast in the morning and their tea at night, and their comfort all day. You have folks to do that. Now I wouldn't give much for life, if I couldn't make nice light biscuits for somebody and see that their coffee was right and the beefsteak just as it had oughter be, and all that. I used to have some one to do it for," said Miss Redwood, with something of pathetic intonation in her voice;—"and now," she added cheerily, "it's a blessin' to do it for the minister."

"I should think it was," said Matilda.

"There is another friend one may always work for,"—said the voice of the person they were speaking of. Both his hearers started. The door of the dining-room was a little ajar and he had quietly pushed it open and come in. "Miss Redwood, how about breakfast? I have a sudden summons to go to Suffield."

"Again!" said the housekeeper. "Well, Mr. Richmond—in two minutes. La, it's never safe to speak of you; you're sure to know it."

"I didn't hear anything very bad," said the minister smiling.

Norton had come to breakfast. David made his appearance looking pale and heavy-eyed, as if he had sat up half the night. Mr. Richmond looked at him attentively but made no remark; only to both the boys he was exceedingly kind and gracious; engaging them in talk that could not fail to interest them; so that it was a gay breakfast. David was not gay, indeed; that was rarely a characteristic of his; but he was gentle, and gentlemanly, and very attentive to his host. After prayers Mr. Richmond went out into the hall and came back in his overcoat.

"My boy," he said, laying his hand affectionately on David's shoulder, "I should like to sit down with you and go on with our reading; I meant to give the first of the morning to it; but I have a call of duty that takes me away. I shall see you at dinner or this evening; meanwhile, this is your home. Take care of him, Matilda."

So Mr. Richmond went away. Norton had received, and refused, a similar invitation. David did not refuse it.

"No," said Norton, "I must be nearer those flower-beds. Come along, Pink; we'll go and make our calculations. Davy, you'll come and see Briery Bank? it's jolly, this morning; and this afternoon we'll go take a drive."

"I should like to do a great many things," said Matilda; "only there'll never be time for them all. However, we'll go first and see about the tulips and hyacinths."

David went with them so far and looked at the place; but after that he disappeared. Matilda and Norton had a delightful day, overseeing the garden work and arranging for more garden work to be done; then lunching together at the hotel, for so he persuaded her, and going on with their operations afterwards. At tea time Matilda went back to the parsonage alone; Norton said he was tired and sleepy and did not want to hear reading, but he would come to breakfast again.

David was not pale but flushed now, with excited eyes. All Mr. Richmond's talk and manner at table were kindly and soothing as possible; and Matilda could see that he liked David and that David liked him; but the look of the latter puzzled her. It came from disturbance so much deeper than her little head had ever known. Immediately after tea the study lamp was lit and the books were opened.

"What have you read to-day, Master Bartholomew?" Mr. Richmond asked.

"Just those two chapters," said the boy.

"Of Luke?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Richmond, those people, Zechariah and Simeon and the rest, they were Jews?"

"Yes."

"And they kept the law of Moses?"

"Faithfully."

"And—they thought that Jesus was the Promised One?"

"They did not think—they knew, by the teaching of the Spirit of God."

"But," said David, "the writer of this did not wish to discredit the law of Moses?"

"Not at all. Let us go on with our his story."

The reading began again and went on steadily for some hours. As before, David wanted to verify everything by references to the prophets. His voice trembled sometimes; but he kept as close to business as possible. The first chapters of Matthew excited him very much, with their declarations of things done "that the scriptures might be fulfilled;" and the sermon on the mount seemed to stagger the boy. He was silent a while when it had come to his turn to read; and at last looking up, he said,

"If people took this for a rule of life, everything in the world would have to be turned round?"

"Precisely," said Mr. Richmond. "And so the word says—'If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature; old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.'"

"Do you think anybody really lives like this?"

"O yes," said Mr. Richmond.

"I never saw anybody who did," said David; "nor anything like it;—unless," he added looking up, "it is Matilda there."

Matilda started and flushed. Mr. Richmond's eyes fell on her with a very moved pleasure in them. Neither spoke, and David went on with the reading. He was greatly struck again, in another way, with the quotation from Isaiah in the thirteenth chapter, and its application; indeed with the whole chapter. But when they came to the talk with the woman of Samaria, David stopped short.

"'I that speak unto thee am he.' Then he said himself that he was Messiah?"

"To this woman, to his twelve disciples, and to two or three more."

"Why not to the whole people?"

"Is it likely they would have believed him?"

David pondered.

"They asked him once the direct question—'How long dost thou make us to doubt? If thou be Messiah, tell us plainly.'"

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'I told you, and ye believed not; the works that I do in my Father's name, they bear witness of me.'"

"Then they thought perhaps he was Messiah."

"The people on one or two occasions were so persuaded of it that they wanted to take him by force and make him king."

"And he refused?"

"He refused. You know, he came 'to give his life a ransom for many;' not to enjoy worldly honour."

"But how then should he save Israel from all their enemies?"

"Who are Israel's enemies? 'He shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities;' and when once they turn to the Lord, there will be no other enemies that can work them harm. You know it was always so."

David sighed and the reading went on. But again he started at the fourth chapter of Luke and the words read by the Lord from Isaiah and his appropriation of them. David stopped.

"Here it is again," he said. "'This day is this scripture fulfilled—' That is plain."

"Nothing could be plainer. But they would not see it."

David paused still, and then said with some difficulty, "I want to know the truth. Because—if he is Messiah,—he is my King!" And a dark gleam, partly of pain, partly of incipient loyalty, crossed his face. Mr. Richmond's eyes flashed.

"Come on," he said; "let us see whether he is Messiah."

The parables indicating the taking away of their privileges from the Jews and giving them to the Gentiles, were hard reading. David stopped to understand them, and looked very black. When they came to the discourses of Christ with the Jews, David's excitement grew very great, though he controlled himself. And just there came a summons to Mr. Richmond which it was impossible to pass by. He was forced to go, and left the two younger ones at the table. For a few minutes they were silent; and then David rose up, pale with intense feeling, and took his book. Matilda looked at him inquiringly.

"I must find it out by myself," he said; and walked to the door.

"David!" cried Matilda, "shall I call you when dinner is ready?"

"No, don't. I don't want dinner. And I can't go with you to look up Norton. Can you do without me?"

Matilda assured him of that, feeling quite at home in Shadywalk. And as it was about eleven o' clock, she thought to look up Norton would be the best thing she could do.

So she went down the old village street, where every step was full of memories, feeling very glad to see it again. She would have liked to stop and visit several people; but she knew Norton would be impatient for her; and so he was. He was overseeing the uncovering of his bulbs to-day.

"Twelve o' clock, Pink; twelve o' clock! and this is the first I have seen of you since breakfast. What have you been doing?"

"We've been busy, Norton."

"Where's Davy?"

"At the parsonage. He's busy."

"Look at those hyacinths,—up already, all of an inch above ground. It's well I came to see after them."

"What makes them so yellow, Norton, instead of green?"

"Why because they've been covered up and shaded from the sun. A little longer, and they would have been spoiled."

"How beautiful it would be, Norton, if we had our two new beds planted! all full of roses and hyacinths."

"Ah, wouldn't it!" repeated Norton. "You see, we were a bit too late about it last fall; or, I'll tell you! it was that sickness kept us away. We'll have 'em next year. What have you and David been doing yonder?"

"Reading"—said Matilda doubtfully.

"Reading what?"

"Mr. Richmond and David were reading together."

"That's jolly!" said Norton. "David and the parson! What's come over Bartholomew? Where's he going to get dinner?"

"He didn't come with me, and I don't think he was coming."

"Let him stay and read, then," said Norton. "If he can afford it, we can. Pink, we'll go and get something presently—as soon as I see all this mulching off."

They managed to employ themselves all the rest of the day; dining at the hotel, overseeing work in the grounds of Briery Bank, roaming about the place and enjoying its spring sweetness; talking over what they thought ought to be done; and making a very nice holiday of it generally. Towards evening Norton was persuaded to return with Matilda to the parsonage; perhaps urged by a little curiosity of his own. David had not been seen, Miss Redwood reported.

Neither did he come when tea-time came; and when sought in his room it was discovered that he was not there. Matilda was very much exercised on this subject; but Mr. Richmond took it quietly. Norton declared it was just like David Bartholomew.

"I don't think it it, Norton," said Matilda; "for he is always polite."

"Except this time," said Norton.

"We'll not except this time, if you please," said Mr. Richmond pleasantly. "Things are different from their seeming, oftentimes."

It was Saturday evening, and the minister was busy in his study. The two children kept Miss Redwood company in the dining room. It was a great falling off from last evening, Matilda thought; nevertheless she had a very entertaining talk with Miss Redwood about people and things in Shadywalk; and Norton listened, half amused and half sleepy. Mrs. Candy had been absent from Shadywalk near all winter; in New York.

"In New York!" exclaimed Matilda. "And I never saw her or Clarissa!"

"She didn't come to see you then," said Miss Redwood. "I guess she was skeered o' something. But la! New York must be a queer place."

"Why now?" Norton asked.

"Seems as if folks couldn't be runnin' round in it all winter long and manage to keep out o' sight."

"That's its peculiarity," said Norton.

"I s'pect a great deal could happen there, and the world not know," the housekeeper went on.

"Much more than what it does know," said Norton.

"I allays think sich must be poor kind o' places. Corners that the world can't see into ain't healthy. Now I like a place like Shadywalk, that you know all through; and if there's something wrong, why it has a chance to get mended. There's wrong enough here, no doubt; but most of it'll bear the light of day. And most of us are pretty good sort o' folks."

"Now that Mrs. Candy is out of town," Norton remarked.

Matilda had a great deal to hear about Sunday school people, and her friends in Lilac Lane. For Lilac Lane was there yet, Miss Redwood observed. Through it all, Matilda watched for David's coming in. But the evening ended and he came not.

It hurt a little the joy of her Sunday waking up, which else would have been most joyous. Norton was in the house this time; he had consented to be at the parsonage for the Sunday. Monday morning they were all to go home by the earliest train. So there was no drawback to Matilda's joy except this one. It was delightful to hear the old bell once more; delightful to see the spring light streaming between the pines and lighting the ugly old church tower; pleasanter than any other beautiful one to Matilda's eyes. With all the coming delights of the day crowding upon her mind, she rose and dressed, hoping that David would come to breakfast.

But he did not.

The sweet Sabbath day moved on slowly, with its services in the old church and its pleasant talk and society in the house; the Sunday school hours; the meeting old friends and acquaintances; but dinner and Sunday school were over, and nothing was heard of David Bartholomew.

"What has become of him?" said Mr. Richmond, as he and Matilda came in after Sunday school.

"What can have become of him, Mr. Richmond?" said Matilda.

"Nothing very bad," said Mr. Richmond, smiling at her distressed face. "Suppose we go and look him up?"

"Where would you go, Mr. Richmond? he has not been here since yesterday morning."

"I think I should try the hotel."

"Do you think he is there!—Shall we go?"

"I think we will," said Mr. Richmond; and hand in hand he and Matilda went down the street, to the corner. Just opposite, a little below, was the Shadywalk house of public entertainment.

Nobody knew David Bartholomew there by name. But in answer to Mr. Richmond's enquiries and description of him, the barkeeper stated that such a young gentleman had certainly come there the day before and was in Room No. 45. He had scarcely been seen since he entered the house, the man said; had refused almost everything that was offered him; but anyhow, he was there.

Where was Room No. 45? A man was sent to direct them to it; and Mr. Richmond and Matilda went up the stairs and along a gallery. No. 45 was at the end of the gallery.

"I will wait here for you, Matilda," Mr. Richmond said. "I think you had better go alone to see him—at first."



CHAPTER XI.

Matilda went to the door and knocked. She heard nothing, and was obliged to knock again. Then the door opened, and David stood before her. What to say to him Matilda had not just determined, and while she hesitated he stepped back, mutely inviting her to enter. Matilda went in and he closed the door. She was afraid to speak when she saw his face, it was so pale and disturbed. But he prevented her.

"I have found it out, Matilda," he said. "It's all true."

Matilda started and looked up at him to see what he meant.

"I know it now," he said. "He is the Messiah! he is my Messiah; he is my King But—my people, my people!—"

Breaking off abruptly with this cry, David sat down at a little table where he had been sitting,—for his Bible was open upon it,—and put his head down in his hands and burst into tears. And Matilda had never seen anybody weep as she saw him then; nor in her childishness had supposed that a boy could; the little deal table shook under the strength of his sobs. Matilda was bewildered and half frightened; she stepped back into the gallery, meaning to summon Mr. Richmond; but Mr. Richmond was not there; and she went back again, and stood, much distressed, waiting until this paroxysm of pain should have passed by. It lasted some time. Probably David had not shed a tear until then, and speaking to her had broken down the barrier. Matilda did not know what to do. At last she put her hand timidly among the thick dark curls which lay lower than she had ever seen them before, and spoke.

"Dear David! don't,—please don't do so!"

He heard and heeded the anxious little voice, for the sobs lessened, and presently he raised himself up and as it were shook them off. But Matilda thought he looked very sad yet. She waited silently.

"You see, Matilda," he said, "I understand it all now. And they don't!"

"Who don't, David?"

"My people," he said sadly. "I see it all now. They did not know him—they did not know him! And so they lost him. You know what he said,—the kingdom is 'taken from them, and given to another nation, bringing forth the fruits thereof.' So they are scattered abroad on the face of the whole earth. And still they don't know him!"

"But you do, David?" said Matilda earnestly.

"Tilly, I wish my life was longer, to use it for him. I wish my hands were stronger, to do his service! But all I am is his, every bit of it, and all I have; from this day for ever."

The boy stood, with a kind of sad joyfulness, very quiet, with folded hands, speaking hardly as it seemed to Matilda, but perhaps to angels and the Lord himself.

"Won't you come and tell Mr. Richmond?"

"Certainly!" he said, starting from his attitude.

"When we heard nothing of you for ever so long, I grew troubled; I didn't know what had become of you; and then Mr. Richmond proposed that we should come here and look after you. You'll come to the parsonage to-night, David? you know we are all going away to-morrow morning."

"I'll be ready in two minutes."

Matilda waited while he washed his face and brushed his hair; then they went downstairs and found Mr. Richmond. He stretched out his hand to David, which the boy took with a flitting change of colour that told of some difficulty of self-command. However in a moment his words were firm.

"I have found my Messiah, sir, where you bade me look for him. He is my Messiah, and my King, and I am his servant. I wish I could be his servant twenty times over!"

"Why?"

"One life is too little to give."

"You may serve him to the ages of the ages. Service shall not end with this life, do you think so?"

Then David lifted up his dark eyes and smiled. Matilda had always known him a very grave boy; perhaps partly for that reason this smile seemed to her like a rift of light between clouds, so sweet and bright. It filled Matilda with so much awe that she did not open her lips all the way to the parsonage. Nor did Mr. Richmond say much.

They were in danger of being a silent party at tea, too; only I think the minister exerted himself to prevent it. Matilda had no words for anything, and indeed could hardly eat her supper; as often as she dared, she stole a look at David. For he did not look at all like himself. He was grave; to be sure that was like him; only now it was a new sort of high, sweet gravity, even gentle and humble in its seeming; and if he was silent, it was not that he was not ready and willing to speak when there was occasion. But Matilda guessed he had too much to think of to want to talk much. Norton was perhaps a little curious as to what there was between his three companions; and Miss Redwood was seldom free with her tongue in the minister's presence. Mr. Richmond, as I said, had to exert himself, or the silence of the tea-table would have been too marked.

They all went to church together. Matilda caught a look of extreme surprise on Norton's face when he saw that David was one of the party; but there was no time for explanations then. Little Matilda thought she had hardly ever been so happy in her life. In the old place, Mr. Richmond preaching, and David and Norton beside her, one of them there in heart as well as in person. The singing was sweet, and the prayers were happy.

Coming back from church, Matilda and Norton fell a little behind the others.

"What's come over David Bartholomew?" Norton whispered. "Politeness?"

"O no, Norton; not politeness. He will tell you himself."

"Davy's strong on politeness," said Norton. "I didn't know but it was that. Politeness took me; but of course, to take Davy, it would have to be a most extraordinary and uncommon sort of politeness. I can hardly believe my eyes yet."

"You always said Mr. Richmond was a brick, Norton," said Matilda.

"Yes, but you never heard me say David Bartholomew was another, did you?"

"Well, but he is, Norton."

"He is! Phew! that's news."

They came to the parsonage door and Matilda could not reply. Going in, Mr. Richmond said to them that he had something to talk with David about, and that they must not sit up if they were tired. So he and David turned into the study, and Norton and Matilda went on into the dining-room, where Miss Redwood was sitting with her Bible. Then David's head was put into the room after them. "Tell Norton for me, please, Matilda," he said; and went back.

"Tell me what?" said Norton.

Matilda did not know how to begin.

"Well, you've got home," remarked the housekeeper closing her book. "Was there many out?"

"Would have been more if you hadn't staid at home, Miss Redwood," Norton replied.

"When you're as old as I am, my young gentleman, you'll know that folks don't do things without reasons."

"Ah!" said Norton. "But are they always good reasons?"

"That's their own look out," said the housekeeper. "What did you go to church for this evening, for instance?"

"I've just been telling my sister," said Norton. "But what, in the name of Rabbi Solomon, and all the Rabbis, ever took David Bartholomew there?"

"Ain't he a Jew?" said the housekeeper.

"Of course he is. And he don't love Christians, I can tell you, except one here and there."

"He does now," said Matilda in a low voice.

"What?" said Norton.

"He loves Christians now, Norton. And he loves Jesus. He is a Christian himself."

"David Bartholomew a Christian!" exclaimed Norton.

Matilda nodded. Her eyes were full and her lips were trembling.

"I thought there was something to pay," said the good housekeeper, whose eyes watered for company. But Norton was transfixed with astonishment.

"Pink, what do you mean?"

"It's true, Norton," said Matilda nodding again.

"What's made him?"

"He has been studying the Bible and the New Testament this long while. Now, he says, he knows."

"And he means it!" said the housekeeper. "I can tell by the look of him."

"Means what?"

"He means what he says—whatever that is."

"But you said, you were thinking, something in particular, Miss Redwood."

"Yes; just what he was thinking," said the housekeeper. "He'll never be one o' those Christians that stand on one leg at a time; that's what I mean. Whoever wants to walk alongside of him, 'll have to step up to the mark."

Norton looked at her, in somewhat disdainful want of comprehension, and then turned to Matilda again.

"Pink, I don't believe a word of it!"

"Why, Norton, I heard him myself, all that he said."

"Mind, he may have found out that his famous old uncles of rabbis don't know anything; that's very likely; but I don't believe David Bartholomew has given up being a Jew."

"Why he can't do that, Norton; he's born so; but he is a Christian too."

"A man can't be a Christian and a Jew too," said Norton.

"Miss Redwood, can't he?"

"I reckon it's difficult," said the good housekeeper; "and you may depend he's found that out; but he's found it's possible too. Why what 'ud become of all the Jewish nation if it warn't possible?"

"What should become of them?" Norton asked scornfully.

"Well, there's wonderful things about the Jews in the Bible," said the housekeeper rising; "if the minister was here he'd tell you. And there was an old promise to Abraham, that if I was you I wouldn't run against."

"Run against a promise to Abraham!" said Norton.

"Well, yes," said the housekeeper, setting her chair back at the wall in its place. "I wouldn't like to run against none o' the Lord's words, and this is one of 'em. 'I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee.'"

The housekeeper went off and left Matilda and Norton looking at each other. Norton wore a vexed face.

"This is all trumpery," he said. "It will blow away like smoke."

"No it won't, Norton," said Matilda. "I hope not."

"And how long have you and David been holding secret meetings together to talk about this?"

"I don't know, Norton. But we had better go to bed, I suppose; for Miss Redwood will call us very early to have breakfast before the omnibus comes for us."

"Nonsense to have breakfast!" said Norton. "We shall be home time enough."

"But then you and Davy will have to rush right off to school. Good night."

"Good night"—said Norton, in an uncomfortable tone. And they went up to their rooms, leaving David and Mr. Richmond still shut up in the study.

It was early, dawn just breaking, when the summons came for them to get up; the dawn of a fair spring morning. What a visit it had been! Matilda thought to herself, as she dressed and put up her things in her little hand bag. And as the first sunbeams were glinting on the top of the old tower, she ran down to breakfast. Mr. Richmond gave her a very warm greeting, in his quiet way. So did David. He looked bright and well, Matilda saw at a glance. Norton had not by any means got over his discomfiture. He seemed embarrassed as well as uneasy; watched David with furtive glances, and eat his breakfast in silence. Mr. Richmond and Matilda were the talkers.

"Have you had any more difficulties about boots?" he asked in the course of the conversation. Matilda looked at him in bewilderment.

"You wrote me some time ago, on the subject of a deep question that had to do with boots."

Matilda coloured and laughed, while Norton remarked that boots were a queer subject for deep questions to have to do with.

"Deep questions can spring out of anything—out of your bread and butter," said Mr. Richmond. "How is it, Tilly, about the matter of boots?"

"I have hardly thought about it, Mr. Richmond, this long while."

"How is that?"

"I have had so much else to think of, I believe."

"Studies?"

"No, sir; my studies have been a good deal broken off by my being sick."

"What then? Can you tell me?"

Matilda gave briefly the history of her connexion with Sarah Staples. She meant to give it briefly; but the story was too sweet in the telling; it rather grew long. Yet she did by no means put herself or her own doings in the foreground; that place was given as much as possible to Mr. Wharncliffe and David and the poor family themselves. The minister and the housekeeper were both very much interested.

"Yes," said the former, in conclusion, "I understand, and am satisfied. I see that now boots are boots; and nothing more."

Matilda laughed, for the boys looked mystified.

"Will you tell me, sir," inquired Norton, "how deep questions could spring out of my bread and butter?"

The minister could have smiled at the boy's air, which had much the effect of seeming to put a "poser" to him; but he controlled himself and answered quite gravely.

"Shall we consider them together? or apart?"

"Apart, if you please."

"Well—Bread, you know, daily bread, stands for the matters which support life, in all variety. This question arises.—Who gives this daily bread to you, and gives you power to eat it? And what use does He wish to make of you, that he should give you both?"

Norton was silent.

"You are not prepared with an answer?" said the minister.

"I never thought of the questions before, sir. The second one sounds to me very strange."

"Does it? Do you think the Lord had no purpose to serve, in putting you here and nourishing you up to strength and power?"

"That's for the bread," said Norton after a pause, but not rudely; lifting his eyes to the minister as he spoke. "You were going to consider the bread and butter."

"I think you do not seem disposed to 'consider' anything," said Mr. Richmond smiling; "but, however, I will hope the time of consideration may come. Now for deep question Number three, or Number four,—You have butter to your bread, and plenty of it; what is your duty towards others who have no butter, and others still who have no bread?"

"There's the omnibus, Mr. Richmond," said the housekeeper. And there was no more talk. Only a hurried putting on of hats and seizing of hand bags; eager, warm, hearty grasping of hands in good bye; and then the three travellers were in the omnibus and rolling along the parsonage lane and out at the gate.

What a visit it had been! Matilda was so full of content that she was still. Not a very noisy child at any time, she was now as quiet as a mouse, just with content. Three days of sweet pleasure, three days of country skies and greening grass and free sunshine; three nights and mornings of parsonage delights. And more than that; more than all she had hoped for; David going home with his deep questions solved and his calls of duty and privilege met. What would they think at home? and how would they find out about it? "He was one of those lost pieces of silver," thought Matilda, smiling to herself; "and Jesus has found him!"

"What's so amusing?" inquired Norton. He was rather in a disordered state of mind, and certainly seemed to see nothing amusing himself.

Matilda looked up, still smiling, though her eyes were dewy, and from him glanced at David. Their eyes met. His smile answered hers, quite recognizing its meaning. Norton whistled. There was no other passenger in the omnibus; and he whistled half way to the station.

In the cars the same content possessed Matilda. It was still early morning; she thought the river had never looked so pretty as in the crisp light of that hour; nor the opposite hills so lovely as under those wreaths of bright vapour which lay along the hillsides; nor ever was there a blue sky more smiling. She glanced at her two companions. Norton was not smiling by any means; his discomposure had not gone off, whatever it might mean; and he eyed David now and then with a jealous, doubtful expression. David was grave enough, but not as usual. Matilda looked again and again, to see how different the thoughtful bright calm of his face was from the old dark gloom that used to be there; and then her eyes turned to the sunny river and sky and hills, with a glad feeling of the harmony between things outward and inward. Before long, David had taken out a little book and was deep in the study of it; which he never interrupted till they reached Poughkeepsie. There Norton rushed out, to get something to eat, he said; though Matilda guessed it was rather to get rid of himself for a minute. Many other people left the car on the same errand; and David looked up from his book and came over to Matilda.

"Well," said he, "how are you getting along?"

"Nicely. I am so happy, David!"

"So am I," said he gravely. "All the world is new, and it seems to me I see the sun shine for the first time."

"See the sun shine?" repeated Matilda doubtfully.

"Yes," said he smiling.

"But you don't look at it, David. You are reading all the while."

"I see it, though. Now I know what the prophet Malachi meant by the sun of righteousness. Do you remember, Matilda? I guess you don't; but I know the words.

'And risen to you, ye who fear my name, Hath the sun of righteousness and healing in its wings.'

I feel that now. I never could understand it before."

"There are a great many things that we cannot understand till we feel them,—are there not, David?"

"I suppose so," he said thoughtfully.

Their talk stopped there; and presently the people who had gone out came pouring back. Norton brought a great piece of sponge-cake to Matilda.

"Thank you, Norton, but I'm not hungry, I've just had breakfast a few minutes ago."

"You hadn't time to eat."

"Yes, I had. You spent your time talking, I suppose; you and Mr. Richmond; that's the reason you are hungry."

Norton sat down and eat his sponge-cake; and spoke no more till the train got in. The carriage was in waiting; took the two boys immediately to school, and carried Matilda and the bags home.

She wondered all day how and when David's disclosure would be made, and how it would be taken at home. She had a good many questions to answer herself, even Judy seeming curious to know what they had been doing and how they had spent the time, and why they had not come home Saturday; especially what David had done with himself and why he had taken it into his head to go at all. Matilda declined to enter into any discussion of David's affairs, and left him to speak for himself. But much she wondered how he would, and whether he would, and when he would.

It happened that evening that there was no company, and the family were all gathered together in the little reception room; talking over the children's reports and discussing plans for the coming summer. Matilda's heart began to beat; for she saw that David was thoughtfully still, and that Norton, in a corner, only talked by jerks, as it were, and sat turning over and over one of his school-books, with an odd air of expectancy. Yes, certainly he knew that David was going to speak, and was waiting for it. Matilda could think of nothing else; her talk all came to an end.

"Norton hasn't much to say to-night," Mrs. Bartholomew remarked. "No more than if he were my boy."

"I haven't anything to talk about," said Norton, looking at nothing but his book.

"Matilda has lost her tongue too," said Judy.

"She never had such a one as yours," replied her grandmother; "you must remember that. It isn't such a loss in the house."

Judy seemed inclined to pout at this; but then her attention was turned to her brother, who began rather suddenly.

"May I speak, grandmamma?"

"I shall be very happy to hear," said Mrs. Lloyd smiling.

"I am not so sure of that," said David; "at least, not of you all; though I really have something to say."

All eyes turned to David. Norton looked up at him from under his brows, with a strange expression of curiosity and displeasure. Matilda only looked away. David hesitated, then went on very calmly and gently.

"You know, mother and grandmother, that I have been very strong in my love for my own people, and very strong in my sympathies with them."

"Is it in the past tense?" asked Mrs. Lloyd.

"And very fixed in my prejudices against what was not Jewish; against what in your beliefs was contrary to mine."

"We all know that," said his mother a little bitterly.

"Is that in the past tense?" demanded Judy.

"I joined with my people in expecting the Messiah and hoping for him."

"Did you?" said his mother.

"I have changed," said David slowly. "I have been studying these things for some time past; I have studied and studied; and now I know. Our Messiah has come; our people did not know him, and—they lost him. I know now that Jesus of Nazareth is the Messiah."

A scream of startled rage from Judy broke in upon the closing utterances of this speech. She prevented everybody else.

"You do not mean to say that, David Bartholomew!" she exclaimed, jumping out of her chair and standing before him. "You don't mean it."

"Do I ever say what I do not mean, Judy?" he answered gravely.

"Say it again. Say you have left us and gone over to the Christians."

"Judy! are you not ashamed!" cried Mrs. Bartholomew. "What do you think of your mother?"

"Nothing," said Judy. "I'm not talking of you, mamma. You are neither one thing nor the other. You are nothing. Have you gone over, David?"

"You know what I said," her brother answered. "I believe that Jesus of Nazareth is the Messiah."

"The Christians' Messiah," said Judy scornfully.

"Theirs and ours," said David sorrowfully. "Messiah ben David, the King of Israel."

"Take that!" said Judy, administering a slap on the cheek which was heartily delivered. "You are a mean good-for-nothing, David Bartholomew! and I wish your name was something else."

All the voices in the room cried out upon Judy except her brother's. His colour changed, back and forth, but he was silent She stood in the centre of the room like a little fury.

"Judy, Judy! Sit down!" said Mrs. Bartholomew. But it was doubtful if Judy heard.

"What do you think your uncle Solomon and Rabbi Nathan will say to you, you mean boy!" she cried. "I am going straight to tell them."

"I will tell them myself, Judy," said David.

"And what do you think they will say to you, hey? You deserve all you'll get. Ugh! What is a Jew who isn't a Jew any longer?"

"I was going to tell you what I am," said David. "Grandmamma, I had not finished what I had to say to you."

"Let him speak, Judy," said Mrs. Lloyd.

"If the rest is like the beginning, I don't want to hear it," said Judy.

"You need not hear it," said her mother. "Leave the room, then."

"I won't!" said Judy. "There is nobody here but me to make him ashamed."

"I wish something would make you ashamed," said her mother. "Judy Bartholomew, hold your tongue. Go on, David."

"Mamma, you don't like all this stuff any better than I do."

"I choose to hear it out, though," said Mrs. Bartholomew. "Sit down and be silent."

"I will—till I get something else to talk about," said Judy, sitting down as requested. And all eyes turned once more upon David. He was very quiet, outwardly: he had been quietly waiting.

"Grandmamma," he said with a slight smile, "I am as good a Jew as ever I was"—("It's a lie," put in Judy;—"unless the rest was!")—"I am as good a Jew as ever I was, and better. I had studied about the Messiah, and knew about him, and knew that he was promised—the hope of Israel, and the King of Israel. Now I know that he has come, and I know him; and he isn't the Messiah that I am hoping for, but"—he hesitated and smiled again,—"the Christ I am glad for; the Hope of Israel and the King, and so my King and my Hope. I have given myself to him to be his servant. I believe in him—I love him—and all that I am is his."

Possibly Judy was bewildered by this speech; perhaps she was astonished into silence; at any rate she sat still and was quiet. Norton tossed his book over and over. Matilda was in such a tumult of delight that she could hardly contain herself, but she made a great effort and kept it from observation. The ladies seemed somewhat in Judy's condition. At last Mrs. Bartholomew spoke.

"By your last words, what do you mean, David?"

"Mamma," he said, "I meant to make them quite plain. I thought it was right to tell you all. I am the servant of the Lord Jesus Christ."

"Well, so are we all," said his mother. "What do you mean to do, that you proclaim it so publicly?"

"Nothing, mamma; only to follow my Master."

"Follow him how?"

"In his own way—obeying his words."

"But people that talk in that way often go into extremes, and do ridiculous things—unlike all the world. I hope that is not what you mean, David?"

"I don't know, mamma," said the boy gravely. "I will do ridiculous things if He command me"—and again a flicker of a smile that came like a flicker of light passed over his face. "The first thing I thought I had to do was to tell you all; he says his servants must confess him; and to-morrow I will go to my uncles." The smile had faded and he was very grave then.

"And do you know what they will say to you?"

"I suppose I know," he answered slowly.

"Is this a very new thing, David Bartholomew?"

"No, mamma. The finishing of it is new; it has been growing and preparing for a long while."

"Like you!" said his mother discontentedly. "Think and think and say nothing,—and then come out with your mind, when nobody can change it!"

"And it's all because of her!" Judy exclaimed, starting from her silence and her seat together, and pointing to Matilda. "She has made the mischief. David would never have thought of these low ways, if there had not been somebody to put it into his head. That's what you get, aunt Zara, by your works."

"Hush!" said Mrs. Bartholomew sharply. "Matilda has nothing to do with it."

"Hasn't she though?" Judy retorted. "Just ask her. Or ask this boy. Mean little spy! coming into such a house as this to upset it!"