"Hold on, Judy," cried Norton; "you are going too fast."

"Keep yourself out of the mess!" retorted Judy with great sharpness; "there's enough without you. I say, she is at the bottom of it all; and I wish it was the bottom of the Red Sea with Pharaoh's chariots!"

"Judy, Judy!" said Mrs. Bartholomew, angry and half laughing—"hold your tongue and don't be a fool."

"You've only one of that name among your children, mamma," said the young lady. "Half's enough."

"What has Matilda done?" Mrs. Laval asked calmly.

"She has been doing ever since she came here," Judy answered.

"What has bewitched you, David, though?" his mother inquired. "There was nothing of all this when you went to the catechizing?"

"No, mamma. But the study about that time put me on thinking and asking questions; nobody could answer my questions; not even our wise men; until at last I began to ask—where I found the answer."

"Matilda?" said Mrs. Bartholomew.

"Matilda helped me a great deal."

"Didn't I say so?" exclaimed Judy.

"But it was her Bible that answered me—hers and my own."

"When did she help you?" Norton broke out from his corner where he had been tossing his book. "You and she are not such particular friends, that ever I knew."

"O but I think we are now, Norton," said Matilda.

"Yes," said David, with a smile. "And she has been my friend for a good while."

"Very well," said Norton, returning to his book, which he tossed over and over with greater exactness than ever.

"I wash my hands of you, both of you," cried Judy. "You'll be a religious poke—O mamma! to think that we should have anything religious in our family. And Matilda always was a poke. Whatever will become of us, with two of them!"

"You have more to do with it than you think, Judy," said her brother. "The way Matilda bore your persecutions was the first thing that made me want to know about her religion."

"What persecutions?" Mrs. Bartholomew asked; but nobody seemed ready to answer her, and she went on—"Judy, you are a fool. David might change his opinions, surely, without being a poke. My son, you do not mean to be different from what you have always been,—do you?"

David hesitated, and said, "I hope so, mother."

"Different—how?" she asked quickly.

"I am the King's servant, mamma," he answered with a certain steadfastness which had much dignity about it.

"Well, what then? what does that mean?"

"Then of course I must do the King's commands, mamma."

"Didn't you always?"

David's answer was prevented by a fresh outburst of Judy's reproaches and charges, which lasted till her brother took himself out of hearing; then silence fell. Norton stopped the book exercise and looked about him. Matilda's face he had seen by glimpses; he knew it was flushed and anxious and glad at once. Mrs. Laval and her sister were grave, with different styles of gravity; one thoughtful, the other vexed. Old Mrs. Lloyd was in tears.



CHAPTER XII.

The atmosphere of the house was very quiet during several successive days, as far as Matilda could observe it. The boys were extremely busy at school; and at home there was no public recurrence of Monday night's discussion. In private Mrs. Laval questioned Matilda very closely as to all the particulars of their Shadywalk expedition and all that she had known for weeks past of David's state of mind. She made no comment on the answers; and Matilda heard no more about the matter, until Saturday morning came. Then when they were at breakfast, Mrs. Bartholomew said in a conciliating tone,

"David, my son, I don't see any necessity for that communication you are proposing to make to your uncles."

"I must go to see them, mamma."

"Certainly; that is all just and proper; but there is no occasion to talk to them about your change of views."

"Then they would believe me what I am not."

"Well—" said Mrs. Bartholomew; "they would a great deal rather believe so than know the truth."

"Would you have liked me to hide it from you, mamma?"

"I don't know; yes,—I think I should."

"What would have been your opinion of me by and by, when you came to find it out?"

"Just the truth," said Judy languidly. "Nothing can make you more of a sneak than you are already."

"One thing," said David firmly. "To get, or try to get, my uncles' money under false pretences. You know they would never give it to a Christian."

"Judy," said Mrs. Lloyd, "another ill-bred word like that, and I send you from the table."

"But my dear boy," Mrs. Bartholomew went on, "you said Monday night that you were as much of a Jew as ever."

"The poor fellow was afraid of falling between two stools," said Judy; "so he clutched at 'em both, without thinking."

"And you are very young; and you do not know what your opinions may be in a few years more. And in the mean while, I am very unwilling that you should offend your uncles. They would never get over it."

"I guess they wouldn't," said Judy. "What a time David will have with 'em!"

"Don't you see, my dear," pursued Mrs. Bartholomew, "it is unnecessary, and may be premature, and so unwise?"

"Mother," said David, evidently struggling with his feelings, "Messiah has said that he will not own those who do not own him."

"You'll get nothing out of him, mamma," said Judy. "He is one of Matilda's crazy kind. He is going to get rid of his money as fast as he can; and then he will turn chaplain of some jail, I should think; or else he will get a place as a Methodist parson and go poking into all the poor places of the earth; and then we shall see his name up in bills—'Preaching at the cross corners to-night—Rev. David Bartholomew will speak to the people from a candle box.'"

David changed colour once or twice, but he said nothing.

"Matilda Laval," said Judy sharply, "eat your breakfast! He won't want you to help him preach."

Matilda wondered privately that the elders were so patient of Judy's tongue and so very silent themselves. They seemed to have thoughts not ready for utterance. At any rate the breakfast party broke up with Judy having the last word, and scattered their several ways; and Matilda heard no more on David's subject for some time. How the Saturday's work issued she did not know; nothing was said about it in her hearing; and David looked as happy and as calm as he had done before Saturday. She watched him, and she was sure of that.

One afternoon, it was a Sunday, and the ladies of the family were shut up in their rooms, resting or dressing, Matilda and David were alone in the little reception room. It was the hour before dinner; Matilda had come in from Sunday school and was sitting there with a new book, when David joined her. He sat down beside her, Matilda knew immediately, for a talk; and she shut up her book.

"Matilda, I have been reading about the men with the talents; the five talents, and the ten talents, you know?"

"Yes, I know."

"I am afraid I don't know all my talents."

"What do you mean, David?"

"The talents are whatever is given to us to use for God—and that is, whatever is given to us; for we may use it all for him."

"Yes, David."

"Well—that means a great deal, Tilly."

"Yes, I know it does."

"And one might easily have talents that one didn't think of; lying by so, and not used at all."

"I dare say they often do," Matilda said thoughtfully.

"I want you to help me, if you can."

"I help you?" said Matilda very humbly.

"You have been longer in the way than I. You ought to know more about it."

"I am afraid I don't, though, David. But I guess Jesus will teach us, if we ask him."

"I am sure of that; but I think he means that we should help one another. What can I do, that I am not doing?"

Matilda thought a little, and then went upstairs and fetched the card of covenant and work of the old Band at Shadywalk. She put it in David's hands, and he studied it with great interest.

"There is help in this," he said. "There are things here I never thought of. 'Carrying the message'—of course I needn't wait till I have finished my studies and am grown up, to do that; it is easy to begin now."

"Are you going to do that, when you are grown up?" said Matilda a little timidly.

"As a profession, you mean. I don't know, Tilly; if the Lord pleases. I am all his anyway; I don't care how he uses me. What I want to know is my duty now. Then, Tilly, I have plenty of money."

"That's a very good thing," said Matilda smiling.

"What shall I do with it? Do your poor people want anything?"

"Sarah Staples? O no! they are getting on nicely. Sarah has learned how to sew on a machine, or partly learned; and she gets work to do now; and Mrs. Staples is stronger, and is able to take in washing. O no; they are getting along very well."

"There must be others," said David thoughtfully.

"Yes, plenty I suppose; only we don't know them, David! perhaps Sarah knows or her mother."

"What if we were to go and ask them?"

Matilda decided that it was a capital plan; and they arranged to go the next Saturday afternoon, when David would be at leisure. And the week seemed long till the Saturday came.

"Pink," said Norton at their dinner, "I will take you into the Park this afternoon."

"O thank you, Norton! But—I can't go. I have an engagement to go to see Sarah Staples."

"Sarah Staples! Sarah Staples can wait, and I can't. I have only one Saturday afternoon a week. It'll be splendid this afternoon, Pink. The Park is all green and flowery, and it's sure to be full. I'm going just at the fullest time."

"I should like to go with you; but I have business, and I can't put it off."

"I'll wait, Tilly, if you wish," David said.

"I don't wish it at all, David. I would rather not wait."

"O it's your business too, is it!" said Norton. "And Pink would rather not wait. Very good."

"It is important business, really, Norton," Matilda pleaded; "it is not for myself."

"That's just what proves it of no importance," said Norton. "What is it?"

"David and I want to see Mrs. Staples to find out something we want to know."

"Might as well ask the Sphinx," said Norton discontentedly.

"I would just as lief tell you what, Norton; only it is something you don't care about, and it would give you no pleasure."

"May as well let 'em go, Norton," remarked Judy, eating strawberries at a tremendous rate; it was not strawberry time by any means, but these came from the South. "May as well let 'em go; there's a pair of 'em; and they'll run, I guess, till they run their heads against something or other and pull up so; or till they get swamped. I hope they'll get swamped."

"What do you mean?" said Norton, gruffly enough.

Judy nodded her head at him in a very lively way over her strawberries.

"They are latter-day saints, don't you know? They are going to feed everybody on custards—not us, you know; we've got strawberries; but the people that haven't. Matilda's going to make them, and Davy's going to carry them round; and they're going out to buy eggs this afternoon. They expect you and me to give 'em the sugar they want."

"Not so sanguine as that, Judy," said her brother good-humouredly.

Norton looked very much discomposed; but David and Matilda had no time to spend in further talking.

They found Mrs. Staples at home, and Sarah too, as it was Saturday afternoon. The little room looked cosy and comfortable; for it was very tidy and very clean, and the mother and daughter were peacefully at work. The pleasure manifested at sight of David and Matilda was very lively. Sarah set chairs, and her mother looked to the fire in the stove.

"How does the oven work, Mrs. Staples?" Matilda asked.

"Couldn't be no better, and couldn't do no better. I declare! it's beautiful. Why after I got my hand in, I baked a pan o' biscuits the other day; and they riz up and browned, you never see! and the boys was too happy for anything. I wisht you'd seen 'em, just. They thought nothin' ever was so good, afore or since. Yes 'm, it's a first-rate oven; bakes apples too, in the most likely manner."

"How is the neighbourhood, Mrs. Staples?" David asked.

"Well, sir, there's nothin' agin' the neighbourhood. They be's a little noisy, by times; you can't expect they wouldn't; now the sun's warm in the streets and the children gets out o' their holes and corners. I sometimes think, what a mercy it is the sun shines! and specially to them as hain't no fire or next to none. I often think the Lord's more merciful than what men is."

"Do you think it is men's fault then, other men's, that such poor people haven't fire to keep them warm?"

"Well whose should it be, sir, if it wouldn't?"

"Might it not be the people's own fault?"

"Sartain!" cried Mrs. Staples, "when the money goes for drink. But why does it go for drink? I tell you, sir, folks loses heart when they knows there ain't enough to make a fire and buy somethin' to cook on the fire; and they goes off for what'll be meat and fire and forgetfulness too, for a time. And that's because of the great rents, that people that has no mercy lays on; and the mean little prices for work that is all one can get often, and be thankful for that. It's just runnin' a race with your strength givin' out every foot o' the way. And it's allays the rich folks does it," added Mrs. Staples, not very coherently.

"Rich people that give the low wages and put on the high rents, do you mean?"

"That's what I just do mean; and I ought to know. If a body once gets down, there's no chance to get up again, and then the drink comes easy."

"Do you know of anybody in distress near here, Mrs. Staples?" Matilda asked.

"Half of 'em is, I guess," was the answer.

"But is there anybody you know?"

"Mrs. Binn's little boy is sick," remarked Sarah, as her mother was pondering.

"What's the matter with him?"

"It's a kind o' waste, they say."

"Not a fever, or anything of that kind?" inquired David.

"O no, sir; he's been wasting, now, these three or four months."

"And they are not comfortable, Sarah?" Matilda asked.

"There's few is, livin' where those lives," said Mrs. Staples; "and of course, sickness makes things wuss. No, they're fur from comfortable, I should say."

"They haven't anything to give him," said Sarah low to Matilda.

"Any medicine, you mean?"

"No, Miss Matilda; nothing to eat, that he can eat."

"O David!" exclaimed Matilda, "let us go there. Where is it?"

David inquired again carefully about the sickness, to be sure that he might take Matilda there; and then they went. Sarah volunteered to guide them. But how shall I tell what they found. It was not far off, a few blocks only; in one of a tall row of tenement houses, grim and dismal, confronted by a like row on the other side of the street. Every one like every other. But inside, Matilda only remembered how unlike it was to all she had ever seen in her life before. Even Lilac lane was pleasantness and comfort comparatively. The house was sound indeed; there was no tumble-down condition of staircase or walls; the steps were safe, as they mounted flight after flight. But the entries were narrow and dirty; the stairways had never seen water; the walls were begrimed with the countless touches of countless dirty hands and with the sweeping by of foul draperies. Instinctively Matilda drew her own close round her. And as they went up and up, further from the street door, the air grew more close and unbearable; heavy with vapours and odours that had no chance at any time to feel the purification of a draught of free air. Poor cookery, soapsuds, unclean humanity and dirty still life, mingled their various smell in one heavy undistinguishable oppression.

"Oh, why do people build houses so high!" said little Matilda, as she toiled with her tired feet up the fourth staircase.

"For more rents, Miss Matilda," said Sarah who preceded them.

"For money!" said Matilda. "How tired the people must be that live here."

"They don't go down often," Sarah remarked.

At the very top of the house they were at last. There, in the end of the narrow entry-way, on the floor, was—what? A tumbled heap of dirty clothes, Matilda thought at first, and was about to pass it to go to the door which she supposed Sarah was making for; when Sarah stopped and drew aside a piece of netting that was stretched there. And then they saw, on the rags which served for his bed covers, the child they had come to see. A little, withered, shrunken piece of humanity, so nearly the colour of the rags he lay upon that his dark shock of matted curly hair made a startling spot in the picture.

"What's the matter, Sarah?" said Matilda in a distressed whisper.

"This is Mrs. Binn's boy, Miss Matilda, that you came to see."

"That? Why does he—why do they put him there?"

"Mrs. Binn's room is so small and so hot. It's there, Miss Matilda; you'll see it. When she's doing her washing and ironing, the place is so full of steam and so hot; and there ain't no room for the bed neither; and so she put Josh here."

Sarah led the way to Mrs. Binn's room, and Matilda followed her in a bewildered state of mind. She saw as soon as the door was opened the truth of Sarah's statements. The attic room was so small that Mrs. Binn's operations must have been carried on with the greatest difficulty; impossible Matilda would have thought them, but there were the facts. One dormer window in the roof was effectually shut up and hindered from its office of admitting air, by the pipe of the stove which passed out through the sash. As it was the end of the week, no washing encumbered the six feet clear of space; but the stove was fired up and Mrs. Binn was ironing and some clothes were hung up to air. It was neither desirable nor very practicable to go in; only Matilda edged a little way within the door, and David and Sarah stood at the opening.

"What's all to do?" said Mrs. Binn at this unlooked-for interruption, stopping iron in hand and peering at them between shirts and overalls hanging on the cords stretched across the room. She was a red-faced woman; no wonder! a small, incapable-looking, worn-out-seeming woman besides.

"This lady has come to see Josh, Mrs. Binn."

"What does she want of him?"

"Nothing," said Matilda gently; "Sarah told us how he had been sick a long while; and we came to see how he was and what he wanted."

"He won't want anything soon, but a coffin and a grave," said his mother. Matilda wondered how she could speak so; she did not know yet how long misery makes people seem hard. "How he'll get them, I don't know," Mrs. Binn went on; "but I s'pose—"

Her voice choked; she stopped there.

"Have you no place to put him but where he is lying?" Matilda asked, by way of leading on to something else.

"No, miss; no place," said the woman, feeling of her iron and taking up another one from the stove. "He'd perish in here, if he wouldn't be under my feet. An' I must stand, to live."

"Where do you dry the clothes you wash?"

"Here. I haven't an inch besides."

"I don't see how you can."

"Rich folks don't see a sight o' things," said poor Mrs. Binn; "don't like to, I guess."

"Is there not another room in the house that you could have for the sick boy, or that you could do your washing in and give him this?"

"Room in this house?" repeated the woman. "I'll tell you. There's nigh upon three hundred people living in it; do you think there'd be a room to spare?"

"Three hundred people in this house?" repeated Matilda.

"Nigh upon that. O it's close livin', and all sorts, and all ways o' livin', too. I like my room, cause it's so high and atop o' everything; but I hear thunder below me sometimes. I wouldn't care, only for the child," she said in a tone a little subdued.

"David, what can we do?" said Matilda, in a half despairing whisper. David edged himself a little forward and put his question.

"What does the doctor say about him?"

"Doctor!" echoed Mrs. Binn. "Did you say doctor? There's no doctor has seen him. Is it likely one would walk up to this chimbley top to see a poor boy like that? No, no; doctors has to be paid, and I can't do that."

"What do you give him to eat? what does he like?"

"What does he like!" the woman repeated. "He don't like nothin' he has, and he don't eat nothin'. 'Tain't 'what we like,' young sir, that lives in these places. Some days he can't swaller dry bread, and he don't care for mush; he'll take a sup o' milk now and then, when I can get it; but it's poor thin stuff; somethin' you call milk, and that's all."

"Good bye," said David. "I'll bring him something he will like, perhaps. I hope we haven't hindered you."

"I don't have so many visits I need quarrel with this one," said the woman, coming to her door to shew them so much civility; "Sarah wouldn't bring anybody to make a spectacle of me."

They cast looks on the poor little brown heap in the corner of the entry, and groped their way down stairs again. But when they got out into the street and drew breaths of fresh air, David and Matilda stood still and looked at each other.

"I never knew what good air meant before," said the latter.

"And even this is not good," replied David.

"How does he live, that poor little creature, with not one breath of it?"

"He doesn't live; he is dying slowly," said David.

"Oh David, what can we do?"

"We'll think, Tilly. I'll carry him some grapes presently. I fancy he wants nothing but food and air. We will contrive something."

"I wonder if there are any other sick children in that house, Sarah?" Matilda asked.

"I can't say, Miss Matilda; I don't know nobody there but Mrs. Binn; and we used to know her before she moved there. Do you want to know of anybody else in trouble?"

"Do you think of somebody else?"

"Not a child," said Sarah; "she's an old woman, or kind of old."

"Well; who is she?"

"She's Mrs. Kitteredge; her husband's a brick mason. Mother used to know her long ago, and she was a smart woman; but she's had a deal o' pulling down."

"What does she want now, Sarah?"

"It's too bad to tell you, Miss Matilda; you've done so much for us already."

"Never mind," said David; "go on; let us hear."

"Well"—Sarah hesitated.

"Is she sick too?"

"No, she ain't sick; she has been."

"What then?"

"I don't feel as if I had no right to tell you, sir; you and Miss Matilda. I spoke before I thought enough about it. She ain't noways sick; but she has had some sort o' sickness that has made her fingers all crumple up, like; they have bent in so, and she can't straighten 'em out, not a bit; and if you take hold of 'em you can only pull 'em open a little bit. And it hurts her so to do her work, poor thing!"

"Do what work?"

"All her work, Miss Matilda—same as if her hands was good. She washes and irons her clothes and his, and cooks for him, and makes her room clean; but it takes her all day 'most; and sometimes, she says, she gets out o' heart and feels like sittin' down and givin' up; but she never does, leastways when I see her. I go in and make her bed when I can; that's what she hardly can do for herself."

"I should think not!" said Matilda.

"She can't lift her hands to her head to put up her hair; and she suffers a deal."

"Is she so very poor too, Sarah?"

"No, Miss Matilda, it ain't that. He gets good wages and brings 'em home; but he's a pertiklar man and he expects she'll have everything just as smart as if she had her fingers."

"Then what can we do for her, Sarah?"

"I don't know, ma'am;—I was thinkin', if she could have one o' them rollers that wrings clothes—it tries her awful to wring 'em with her hands."

"A clothes-wringer! O yes," cried Matilda.

"What is that?" said David.

"I will shew you. Thank you, Sarah; it was quite right to tell us. We'll see what we can do."

But after they had parted from Sarah the little girl walked quite silently and soberly homeward. David stopped at a grocer's to get some white grapes, and turned back to carry them to the sick child; and Matilda went the rest of her way alone.



CHAPTER XIII.

David was busy with his books all the evening, and Matilda, however much she wished for it, could get no talk with him. The opportunity did not come before Sunday evening, when they were all at tea in the little reception room. Then David took his cup and his piece of cake and came to Matilda's side and sat down.

"Dr. Berger has been to see that little boy," he said.

"Has he! And what does he say?"

"Says nothing ails him but want."

"Want?" Matilda repeated.

"Want, of everything. Specially, want of food—food good for anything; and of air."

"Want of air!" cried Matilda. "I don't wonder at it. I felt as if I should be unable to breathe if we staid there much longer. And I was strong and well. Just think, to anybody sick!—"

"He says, if he could be taken into the country he would begin to get well immediately; and he asked Mrs. Binn if she had friends anywhere out of the city."

"What did she say?"

"Said her father and mother and her aunt were all dead long ago; and that he hadn't a friend in the city or out of it. And she gave up work then for a minute or two, and sat down with her apron over her head; the only time I have seen her stop work at all. I think it was her apron, but I don't know; she hid her face in something. But she didn't cry, Matilda; not a drop."

"What can we do, David?"

"I took him some grapes, you know."

"Yes. Could he eat them?"

"Had no sort of difficulty about that."

"What can we do, David?" Matilda repeated anxiously.

"I have thought of this. We might pay the woman for a week or two as much as she gets by her washing and let her take him into her room and put down her fire and make him comfortable. She cannot open her window; but we can send them a decent bed and some clean coverings and some good things to feed the fellow with. I spoke to Mrs. Binn about giving up her washing; she said she couldn't afford to lose her customers. She might manage it for a week or so, though."

"And then? A week or two would not cure him, David?"

"I doubt if any time would, in that air. Perhaps we can get him out into the country by the end of the week or two."

"Oh, David!"—Matilda exclaimed after a few minutes of perplexed thinking. What more she would have said was cut short. They had been speaking very low, but those last two words had come out with a little energy, and Judy caught them up.

"O David, what? You have been plotting mischief long enough, you two; what are you up to? Grandmamma, make them tell. Matilda is making a fool of David. I wish you'd stop it."

David looked up and over towards Mrs. Lloyd with a frank smile.

"He don't look much like it," said the old lady composedly. "What are you afraid of, Judy?"

"Grandmamma, the whole house is getting on end," said the young lady, who was not always choice in the use of her words. "David and Matilda are busy contriving how to make a big hole in the bottom of their two purses that will let out the money easy; and Norton's hair is bristling already with fear."

"Fear of what, you goose?" said Norton in towering displeasure. "What's their money to me?"

"I thought you wanted it," said Judy coolly.

"Come here, Norton," said David; "come over here and let her alone. What are you afraid of, old fellow? Come! smooth out your wrinkles and let us know."

"I don't know anything about it," said Norton distantly. "You and Matilda went on an errand yesterday that lets anybody guess what you are up to to-day."

"Guess," said David. "Come, sit down here and guess."

"You are doing what Judy says."

"Holes in purses?" said David. "Go on; what do you think we are making the holes with?"

"Ridiculous stories about poor folks."

"I'll let you judge how ridiculous they are," said David; and he told about the sick boy and Mrs. Binn's six foot apartment. Norton's face would not unbend.

"Is that the only sick child in New York?" he asked.

"I am afraid not."

"Then what are you going to do about the others?"

"Help as many of them as ever I can," David answered gravely.

"Go on, and your money will go too. That's what I said," Norton responded. "Matilda will be only too glad to help you and throw in all her pennies."

"How would you like to be sick, old fellow, with no lemons at hand, and no grapes?"

"And no wine, Norton, and no sago, and no clean sheets? I know who likes to have his bed changed often. And no cups of tea, and soda biscuit, and blancmange, and jelly, and nice slices of toast."

"What do they have?" Norton asked with some curiosity.

"Some coarse mush; now and then a piece of dry bread; and water. Not ice water, Norton; no ice gets up there."

"Bread and water," said Norton, summing up.

"And to lie in a corner of the entry, Norton, under the roof, because there is no room for you in the only room they have; and no open window ever; and oh, such want of it!"

"Look here!" exclaimed Norton, seizing upon a diversion, "how came you, Davy, to take Pink to such a place? I just want to know."

"Not a place for a Pink, I acknowledge," said David. "I didn't know myself, Norton, till I got there, what sort of a place it was; or she would not have gone."

"Upon my word!" said Norton. "This is what your goodness is up to. Mamma—"

"Hush," said David good-humouredly; "she is not going there again, I tell you. Come here and sit down, and tell us what you think ought to be done about such a case."

"The city ought to manage it," said Norton grumly, sitting down however.

"How shall we get the city to manage it?"

"I don't know. Davy Bartholomew! you'll never make me understand that it is our business to look up all the people that want something or other and give them all they want until our own hands are empty."

"You are dealing in generals," said David smiling. "Come back to the particular case. What ought we to do about this?"

"How came you to know of it?"

"We were told."

"Well—there must be poor people in the world," said Norton; "there always were and there always will be."

"I suppose so. And the question is, what ought we to do for them?"

"You can't do much," said Norton. "You can make yourself poor, easy enough. Then you'll expect Judy and me to take care of you."

"Are you afraid of that, Norton?" said Matilda laughingly.

"No, Pink, I am not," said Norton; "but you and Davy are just in the way to get into trouble. There's no bottom to New York mud."

"Norton," said David, "will you grant that we ought to do in this matter as the word of God says?"

"It don't say we are to make fools of ourselves," Norton responded.

"Yes it does," said Matilda quickly. Both her hearers looked at her.

"I don't believe it," said Norton.

"Where?" asked David.

"I can't tell,—but I know it's there. If I had that little reference Bible, Davy;—it's up in your room—"

"Yes, I can get it," said David; "but wouldn't a Concordance be better for you? I'll fetch one."

"What are you talking about, children?" said Mrs. Bartholomew, as David went out of the room.

"We have got into a knot, aunt Judith," said Norton. "Don't you get in, or we shall never get out."

"Do get in, mamma," urged Judy, "or David will be tied up. Matilda holding one end of the string, and Norton the other, between them they'll fix him."

"David is able to cut his own knots, or other people's," said Mrs. Bartholomew coolly. "What is all this about, David?"

David had come back in a minute with the Concordance, which he handed to Matilda. "It's a question of Scripture, mamma," he answered. Mrs. Bartholomew said "Oh!"—and turned away. But Mrs. Lloyd watched the group. Matilda was earnestly searching in the pages of the Concordance; David sat waiting, with a little curiosity; Norton with impatient defiance. Matilda was busy for some minutes with one page and another; then, "Here it is!" she said; and looked up. She saw that Mrs. Lloyd's attention was fixed, and that Mrs. Laval also was listening. She glanced at Norton, then met David's eyes; and then bent her head over her book and read.

"'Let no man deceive himself. If any man among you seemeth to be wise in this world, let him become a fool, that he may be wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.' And then again in the next chapter—'We are fools for Christ's sake.'"

How would her various hearers take the words? She would not look up to see.

"I am content," said David.

"With what, Davy my dear?" asked his aunt.

"Content to be a fool for Christ's sake, aunt Zara."

"Is there any necessity?" she asked gently.

"Seems so," said David smiling. "At least, it seems that one must be judged so, aunt Zara."

"Can't it be avoided by judicious action, Davy?"

"Come and see, aunt Zara. Draw up here and join our consultation," said the boy, with a certain sweet gracefulness which won her to do just what he asked. She took a chair nearer the group.

"The question is, aunt Zara, what we ought to do for certain poor creatures that we know of."

"Not for them," burst in Norton, interrupting, "but for all the rest. There is no end to the poor creatures! I say, begin as you are to go on."

"We must take things as we find them," said David. "There is no end to the poor creatures; so the question is a big one."

"What is the question?" said Mrs. Laval.

In answer to which, David told the story of Mrs. Binn and Josh.

"There are hundreds of such people!" said Norton.

"Aunt Zara," said David, "I wanted Norton to agree to submit the question to the Bible. Isn't that fair?"

"Ye-s," said Mrs. Laval cautiously; "I suppose it is. But, my dear Davy, we shouldn't do anything extravagant; the Bible does not require that."

"Shall we see what it does require?"

"Yes; go on," said Mrs. Lloyd. "Let us hear what you children can find about it."

"Among my people it was the law,"—David began, but his utterance of the words "my people" was no longer lofty; rather tender and subdued;—"it was the law, 'When thou dost complete to tithe all the tithe of thine increase in the third year, the year of the tithe, then thou hast given it to the Levite, to the sojourner, to the fatherless, and to the widow, and they have eaten within thy gates and been satisfied;' and in the feast of booths, the feast of ingathering, the sojourner, the fatherless and the widow were to share in the rejoicing."

"The tithe is the tenth," remarked Mrs. Laval.

"We always give to all the charitable societies," said Mrs. Bartholomew; "always."

"Read, Matilda," said David. "I see you are ready." And Matilda read.

"'Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them; for this is the law and the prophets.'"

"But, my dear boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Bartholomew.

"What, mamma?"

"You don't mean, you cannot mean, that you want to act that out to the letter?"

"What does it mean, mamma?"

"I always thought it meant that we should be considerate of other people's feelings," said Mrs. Laval; "kind and thoughtful."

"But the words are very plain," said David.

"And you think really that we ought to give to everybody else the things we want for ourselves?"

"Not that exactly, aunt Zara; only to give them what we would like to have given if we were in their place; I mean, what we would have a right to like to have given, if we were in their place."

"According to that, you would carry to that sick child everything that Norton and Matilda had when they were sick."

"Such as?"—inquired David.

"Fruit, and oysters, and flowers, and tea at three dollars a pound."

"Tea at three dollars a pound would be lost upon him, for he would not know the difference between that—and I suppose—lower priced tea. What can you get good tea for, aunt Zara?"

"Tea good for him,—for a dollar, and twelve shillings."

"Tea good for anybody," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I have had it good enough for anybody, for a dollar fifty?"

"The other things," said David, returning to his aunt, "why shouldn't he have them, as well as we, aunt Zara?"

Mrs. Laval was dumb, I suppose with astonishment as well as the inconvenience of finding an answer; and before anybody else began again, Matilda's soft voice gave forth another verse.

"'Blessed is he that considereh the poor; the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble.'"

"Of course," said Mrs. Laval; "we do consider the poor."

"Let the child go on," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I want to hear all she has to bring."

Matilda went on with Job's declaration.

"'If I have withheld the poor from their desire, or have caused the eyes of the widow to fail; or have eaten my morsel myself alone, and the fatherless hath not eaten thereof; (for from my youth he was brought up with me, as with a father, and I have guided her from my mother's womb;) if I have seen any perish for lack of clothing, or any poor without covering; if his loins have not blessed me, and if he were not warmed with the fleece of my sheep; if I have lifted up my hand against the fatherless, when I saw my help in the gate: then let mine arm fall from my shoulder blade, and mine arm be broken from the bone.'"

"Who said that?" demanded Mrs. Bartholomew.

"Job."

"I don't see what he has to do with us," said the lady, moving her rosetted slipper impatiently, and so making a soft little rustle with the lilac ruffles of her silk skirt.

"The old fellow had no business to swear, anyhow," said Norton.

"Swear!" said Judy.

"Something very like it," said Norton.

"Go on, Matilda," said Mrs. Lloyd,—"if you have anything more."

"Yes, grandmamma."

"What is David trying to prove?" asked Mrs. Laval.

"We are only trying to find out what the word of the Lord would make us do, aunt Zara."

The two younger ladies looked annoyed; however silence was restored, and Matilda began again.

"'He that despiseth his neighbour sinneth; but he that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he.'"

"Do we despise anybody?" Mrs. Bartholomew asked. No one answered at first.

"I do," said Judy. "Just two or three."

"'He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will he pay him again.'"

"You see," said David, "the Lord reckons it his own affair. These are Messiah's poor people; we are his stewards."

"How much are you going to give them, on that principle?" his mother inquired.

"I don't know, mamma."

"But speak!" she said impatiently. "You do know what you mean to do; you have it all mapped out already in your head, I know."

"I don't know how much I shall give, mamma. Whatever I think they want more than I do."

"You might wear homespun, and eat bread and water, at that rate."

"Mamma," said Judy, "we are very wicked to wear silk dresses. And just think of your lace shawl, mamma! And grandma's."

Matilda waited, and when nobody carried on the talk and the silence waited for her, she went on with Isaiah's beautiful words.

"'Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke? Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?'"

"What is 'loosing the bands of wickedness'?" asked Mrs. Lloyd.

"Now-a-days, grandmamma, I should say it was breaking up the killing rents and starving wages, and the whole system of tenement houses; for one thing."

"Why what do you know about it, Davy, boy?"

"Not very much, ma'am; but I have seen a little, and the doctor I went for told me a good deal."

"Davy's growing elegant in his speech, as well as modest," said his sister. "He has 'heard a good deal,' but he 'don't know much.' O Davy, why don't you make better use of your opportunities!"

"Very unprofitable opportunities, I must say," remarked his mother. "I have no idea that such a boy has any business with them, or anything to do in such places. And what does he know about wages and systems of business?"

"Go on, Matilda," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I am afraid, my dear, David is right. I have heard the same things from others. Go on, Matilda."

"'Then said he also to him that bade him, When thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbours; lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind: and thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.'"

Matilda read these words, with a quick remembrance of the time when she had read them in the company of her two little schoolmates, and the discussion that had ensued thereupon; curious what their reception would be now. It was stormy.

"The idea!" said Mrs. Bartholomew.

"That would make a finish of society at once," said Mrs. Laval.

"But what do the words mean?" asked Mrs. Lloyd. "There they are. They must mean something."

"Something!" echoed Mrs. Bartholomew. "Just imagine, that we are to gather in a company of cripples round our dinner table! Send out and ask all the forlorn creatures we can find, and feed them on game and sweetbreads. It looks like it!"

"And give up entertaining our friends," added Mrs. Laval.

"What friends do we entertain, aunt Zara?" David asked. "You do not care much for most of them."

"You are a ridiculous, absurd, fanatical boy!" said Judy. "What nonsense you do talk!"

"Nonsense that would make an end of all civilization," said Mrs. Laval; not quite logically.

"But do you care much for these people you invite?" David persisted.

"Not singly," Mrs. Laval admitted; "but taken together, I care a great deal. At least they are people of our own rank and standing in society, and we can understand what they talk about."

"But what do the words mean?" Mrs. Lloyd asked.

"Why mother," said Mrs. Bartholomew, "you have read them a thousand times. They mean what they always did."

"I don't think I ever raised the question till this minute," said Mrs. Lloyd. "In fact, I don't think I knew the words were there. And I should like to know now what they mean."

"Grandmother," said David, "isn't it safe to conclude they mean just what they say?"

"Then we should never ask anybody to dinner!" cried his mother.

"And we should never have a party again," said Judy.

"Society would be at an end," said Mrs. Laval.

"And we should fill our house with horrid wretches," cried Judy, "and have to take up our carpets and clean house every time."

David was silent while these various charges were eagerly poured out. Norton looked at him a little scornfully; Matilda anxiously; but he was only sorrowfully quiet, till his grandmother turned to him with her question.

"What would you do, Davy?"

"He'd do anything absurd and ridiculous," said Judy; "the more the better. He is just fit for it. What's the use of asking him, grandma?"

"I would like to hear, my dear, if you will let him speak. I would like to know what the words say to you, Davy."

"Grandmother," said David thoughtfully, "it seems to me the words forbid that we should ask people just that they may ask us;—or do anything of that sort."

"But society would fall to pieces," said Mrs. Bartholomew.

"I never heard of the strictest Christians refusing to do polite things in that way, when they can," added Mrs. Laval.

"But what do the words say?" David answered. "And then, I think, the Lord meant to forbid our making expensive entertainments for anybody, except those who can't give us the same again."

"Then we may ask our friends," said Judy, "only we mustn't give them anything to eat. And of course no wine to drink. I wonder if we might light the gas? It is expensive, when you burn enough of it. Such meanness!" exclaimed Judy with concentrated scorn.

"You would put an end to society," repeated Mrs. Laval.

"What would be the use of having a fine house and large rooms and beautiful things," asked her sister, "if nobody was to see them?"

David cast his eyes round the room where they were, and smiled a little.

"What do you mean?" asked his mother sharply.

"I was thinking, mamma," said David; "I couldn't help thinking."

"Go on, David," Mrs. Lloyd said.

"Well, grandmamma, if one took the money to give poor people a good time, it would not be necessary at all, as Judy supposed, to have them brought into our dining room."

"But don't you think people are meant to be sociable, and see their friends? We are not intended to live alone."

"Surely not," said Mrs. Laval.

"Grandmamma, and aunt Zara," said the boy, "I believe I would like to look after Messiah's friends first; and then do what I pleased with my own."

"Do you mean that all those low, miserable people are His friends?" cried Mrs. Bartholomew.

"He is their friend, mamma; it comes to the same thing; and some of them are his very own; and he has given us the charge to take care of them. And his words seem to me very plain."

"He's a ruined boy, mamma!" said Judy.

"I hope he'll grow out of it," said his mother.

"May I read one place more, grandmamma?" Matilda asked.

"I hope it's the last," said Mrs. Bartholomew.

"I like to hear them," said Mrs. Lloyd.

"Read, Matilda."

Matilda read, her voice trembling a little.

"'Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was a hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in; naked, and ye clothed me; I was sick, and ye visited me; I was in prison, and ye came unto me. Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee a hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?

"'And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'"

There was no remark made by anybody following upon this reading. The circle broke up. With dissatisfied faces the ladies and Judy and Norton withdrew their several ways. David presently went off too, but Matilda had noticed that his face was as serene as summer moonlight. She was gathering up her books to go too like all the rest, when to her great surprise Mrs. Lloyd came beside her and drawing her into her arms bestowed an earnest kiss upon her uplifted wondering face. Then they both went silently upstairs.



CHAPTER XIV.

The peace of the house was gone. Not, indeed, that quarrelling took its place; there was no quarrelling; only an uncomfortable feeling in the air, and looks that were no longer pleased and pleasant. Mrs. Bartholomew wore a discontented face, and behaved so. Judy was snappish; not a new thing exactly, but it was invariable now. David was very quiet and very sober; however in his case the quiet was quiet, and the soberness was very serene; all the old gloom seemed to be gone. Norton, Matilda thought, was cross; and she failed to see the occasion. Even Mrs. Laval looked uncomfortable sometimes, and once remarked to Matilda that it would be pleasant to get back to Shadywalk. And Matilda loved Shadywalk and Briery Bank, but she was not ready with a response. She tried to be very busy with her studies, and hoped that things would work clear by and by. Once she had the curiosity to ask Norton how David was getting on at school?

"Well enough," Norton answered shortly.

"Do the boys like him better?"

"Better than what?"

"Why, better than they used to?"

"I don't know. I don't."

"Why not, Norton? O why don't you?"

"No accounting for tastes," Norton replied, rather grumly.

"Does David study well?"

"Yes. He always did."

Norton might have said that David was walking into everything and through everything; but he did not say anything of the kind. And sundry other questions that trembled on the tip of Matilda's tongue, only trembled there, and never got any further.

Meanwhile Mrs. Binn was not forgotten.

"It's worth anything," David said to Matilda one day that week, "to see the fellow eat strawberries."

"Strawberries! O did you take strawberries to him!" cried Matilda. "And he liked them?"

"You could almost see the red of the strawberries getting up into his cheeks. He's not quite so far as that, though. Like them! He raised himself half up and lay on his elbow to eat them. Think of that! You should have seen the fellow. Spoons were no go. He just forked them in with his fingers."

"Does he lie in the entry yet, David?"

"No. His mother has got him into her bit of a room, and the wash tub is where he was. I do think we might get him into the country next week, if there was any place he could go to. He's like another boy, with a bed under him and clean things and food that he can eat. I do believe he was starving to death. Sick folks can't get along on dry crusts, or even mush—plain, without butter or molasses," said David smiling.

"David, I have thought of something."

"What is it? Something to help us out of the difficulty?"

"I don't know. See what you think. You heard Miss Redwood and me talking of Lilac lane, and people that live in it?"

"I heard nothing of Lilac lane; never did, till this minute."

"O you were in the study with Mr. Richmond. It is a place in Shadywalk where some very poor people live."

"Well?" said David.

"But it is a delightful place compared to Mrs. Binn's tenement house. I know some of the people there, and Miss Redwood knows more; and I was thinking, perhaps she could find a house where they would take Josh in and take care of him till he gets well. Miss Redwood could see to him a little, you know."

"Why it's a capital idea, Tilly!" cried David. "Did you write and ask her?"

"No, but I will."

"Do, to-day. That's just what he wants. Write, Tilly. I must be off to my work."

Nothing stopped David's work, in these days; indeed he never had been given to playing truant. Matilda pondered the matter a little, and then wrote a letter to Miss Redwood; upon which letter, when it reached Shadywalk, the housekeeper and the minister held consultation. The end was, that after a week Matilda got an answer which said that the poor family opposite Matilda's old Sally in Lilac lane, the same from whom she had borrowed the teakettle once upon a time, had room to spare and would gladly take the sick child in and take care of him, for the compensation which would be offered. Miss Redwood also engaged herself to see that proper care was had and proper food given; and in short the way was clear.

"That will do," said David when he had read the letter. "Now, the thing is to get him up there."

"Is Mrs. Binn willing?"

"She is one of the willingest persons you ever saw in your life."

"Well, how will you manage, David?"

"I don't see any way but to go myself."

"Go up to Shadywalk, you mean, to take the child there?"

"Yes."

"O, David, would you! And could you?"

"I don't see any other way."

"But school? will you miss a day?"

"Can't do that; and can't even give Saturday, so near the end of term. I'll manage it."

"How, David?"

"Go up after school some day, and take a night train down."

"Is Josh—I mean, has he any clothes fit to travel in?"

"He has not any fit to sit up in at home. Never mind, I'll manage that, Tilly."

"David, you tell me some of the things he wants, and I'll get Sarah Staples and her mother to make them."

"Well.—But I'll pay charges, Tilly; I don't believe you've got much in that little pocket of yours."

This consultation was private; and in private the new clothes for Joshua Binn were procured and got ready; very plain and coarse clothes, for David and Matilda were learning how much there was to do with their money. All this caused no remark, not being open to it. But when David took little Josh, wrapped up in an old cloak of his, and drove with him in a carriage to the station, and took the cars with him to Shadywalk, there was a general outcry and burst of astonishment and indignation. David was at breakfast the next morning as usual; and the storm fell upon him.

"I wonder how you feel this morning," said his grandmother, half in displeasure and half in sympathy; for David was a favourite.

"After travelling all night," added Mrs. Laval.

"Up to study, Davy?" asked Norton.

"I am so astonished at you, David, that I do not know how to speak," began his mother. "You—always until now a refined, gentlemanly boy,—you to turn yourself into a head hospital nurse, and Poor Society agent! travelling in company with the lowest riff-raff! I don't know what to make of you. Really, I am in despair."

"He always was a poke," said Judy; "and now he's a poor poke."

"It is too bad!" echoed Mrs. Laval; "though that isn't true, Judy."

"He's a spoiled boy," said Judy. "I wash my hands of him. I hope he'll wash his hands."

"The idea!" said Mrs. Bartholomew. "As if there was nobody else in the world to look after sick children, but Davy must leave his own business and go nursing them in the cars! I wouldn't have had anybody see him for a thousand dollars."

"What harm, mamma?" asked David coolly.

"Harm?" repeated Mrs. Bartholomew. "Is it your business to take all sick New York and all poor New York on your hands, and send them to watering places?"

"One poor little child?" said David.

"No matter; what's the use of sending one, if you don't send the other hundred thousand? Is it your business, David Bartholomew?"

"Hardly, mamma. But I thought the one was my business."

"There you were mistaken. There are two or three poor societies; it is for them to look after these cases. What is the use of having poor societies, if we are to do the work ourselves? So low! so undignified! so degrading! just ask any minister,—ask Dr. Blandford,—what he thinks."

"David don't care, mamma," said Judy. "David never cares what anybody thinks."

"Very wrong, then," said Mrs. Bartholomew; "every right-feeling person cares what other people think. How is the world to get along? David, I don't know you any more, you are so changed."

"Yes, mamma," said David; "perhaps I am."

"Perhaps you are? Why my patience!"—

"Your patience seems to have given out, daughter," said Mrs. Lloyd. "Come, let Davy eat his breakfast."

"He's eating it," said Judy. "Nothing will hurt David's appetite."

"I should think nursing poor folks out of tenement houses might," observed Mrs. Bartholomew. "It would once."

"I can't imagine, mamma," said Judy, "how we are going to live together in future. David isn't our sort any more. Life looks dark to me."

"If it was anybody but David," said Mrs. Bartholomew, "I should say he would grow out of it. Any other young fool would."

"Grow out of what, mamma?" David asked.

"Grow out of the notion of being an agent of the poor societies. It's too disgusting!"

"Mamma," he said, and he said it with such an unruffled face that Matilda was comforted, "the poor society would not have done what I did last night. And I am not doing it for the poor societies, but for the King Messiah. I am His agent; that's all."

"Where did you get your commission?" Norton asked.

David hesitated, and then said, "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you—"

"But that's absolute nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Bartholomew.

"What, mamma?" said David, lifting his eyes to her face.

"I mean, of course, the words are not nonsense, but putting such a meaning to them."

"What meaning do you think belongs to them, then, mamma?"

"Why," said Mrs. Bartholomew in high dudgeon, "if you are to take them so, then we ought to send our carriage to take poor people to drive, and we ought to give our grapes and our wine to sick people, instead of eating them ourselves; and I ought to sell my diamonds and change them into bread and coffee and feather beds, I suppose; and our silks and laces ought to go for rents and firing for those who are in want."

"Well, mother?" said David.

"Well; is that what you mean?"

"That's what the words mean, if they mean anything, mamma. I think the King wants all we have got, to be used in his work; and all mine he shall have."

There was no braggadocio, but a sweet steadfastness in the words and manner which impressed all his hearers; though it impressed them differently.

"Mother, what do you think of him?" Mrs. Bartholomew said, apparently in despair.

"I don't know what to think, child," said the old lady. "I am puzzled."

"About me, grandmamma?" asked David.

"No, boy; I never was puzzled about you, and I am not now."

"We'll have grandma going over next!" exclaimed Judy, "and then—What'll be then, mamma? Will this be a hospital, grandmamma? I shouldn't like to live here in that case, because of the fevers. I declare, I'm very sorry! Will David be the doctor or the minister, grandmamma?"

"Hush, Judy!" said her mother. "Things are bad enough without you."

"There's one thing, you vexatious boy," said Judy; "your uncles will give you up."

"They have done that already," said David quietly.

"Have they? O have they really, mamma? Then they won't give him their money when they die! nor me neither. You hateful fellow! to go and make me poor as well as yourself." And Judy began to cry. "I thought we'd be so rich, mamma!"

"Do hold your tongue, Judy," said her mother. "You've got enough, and David much more than enough."

But with this the uncomfortable breakfast party broke up.

"Matilda," said Mrs. Laval when they had gone upstairs,—"I don't know whether you have done good or harm."

"She's done no good, mamma," said Norton. "Just look at Davy. And I can tell you, grandmamma is beginning to read the Bible to herself; I've seen her at it."

"But I haven't done anything, mamma," said Matilda.

"Well, my dear, I don't know who has, then," Mrs. Laval replied.

And the subject was dropped. But certainly Mrs. Lloyd did begin after that to ask Matilda now and then, when they were alone, to read to her; and Matilda found that David did it constantly, by his grandmother's desire, in her own room.

The weeks were few now to the time when the household would break up; Mrs. Laval and her children to return to Briery Bank, Mrs. Bartholomew and hers for a cottage at Newport. Mrs. Lloyd was accustomed to abide generally with the latter. All the members of the family were busied with their various preparations; and the unsettled feeling of coming change was upon the whole household. Little else was thought of. So when an invitation came from the mother of Esther Francis, that all the young ones should join a party of pleasure that were going to spend the day in Westchester, it was a very unlooked for variety in the general course of things. Of course they would go. The young people were to eat strawberries and do everything else that was pleasant, at General Francis's place. Mrs. Francis was not yet ready to leave town; there was nobody in possession but the servants; the widest liberty would be the rule of the day.

"How nice that the boys are out of school!" said Matilda. "Term just ended."

"Of course. Couldn't have the party without the people," said Judy.

"Will there be a great many, Norton?" Matilda asked.

"Don't know anything about it. You must ask somebody else. Esther Francis isn't our cousin."

"How dry you are," said David. "I know no more about it, Matilda, than he does."

"Esther said there would be twenty or thirty," said Judy. "How are we going? that's what I want to know."

"Take the Harlem railroad to the station," said Norton, "and drive the rest. That's the way you always go to General Francis's. Mamma! I'd like to drive Pink out. It's only thirteen miles."

"I'm afraid, Norton. I think you had better all go together."

Norton grumbled a little; however, it was good enough even so.

The day was the first of June; fresh and sweet as the first of June should be. The four were in the cars early; and as soon as the train had got quit of the city, the sights and smells of the country roused Matilda to the highest pitch of delight. Such green fields! such blue sky! such delicious air! and such varieties of pleasant objects that she had not seen for some time! The rush to the station was one whirl of pleasure; then the pleasure grew greater, for they got into a carriage to drive across the country. Every foot of the way, though it was not through a very enchanting landscape, was joyous to Matilda's vision; and when the grounds were reached of General Francis's villa, there was nothing more left in this world to desire. For there were plantations of trees, extending far and wide, with roads and paths cut through them; over which the young fresh foliage cast the sweetest of shadow. There were meadows, broad and fair, green and smooth, with a little river winding along in them, and scattered trees here and there for shade, and fringes of willows and alders to the sides of the stream. And at a little distance stood the large old house, with groves of trees encircling it and lawns before and on one side of it; and on the side lawn, in the edge of the grove, long tables set and spread with damask.

"Dinner already?" queried Norton. "I am hungry enough."

"Dinner at ten o' clock!" cried Judy. "Breakfast, you mean."

"Esther, is it breakfast?" asked Norton, as their little hostess came to them.

"It is what you like, Mr. Laval," said the little lady; whose pink bows were not more in style than her manners.

"Norton is hungry, Esther," David remarked.

"I hope you are, too."

"What are you going to give us, Esther?" said Judy eagerly. "We are all like bears. Strawberries?"

"We must wait for another carriage. The Grandsons are coming."

"I wouldn't wait," said Judy. "What's the use? Ten o' clock is late enough for breakfast."

"But we shall not have the collation till three."

"What have you got for breakfast?"

"Coffee."

"And strawberries?"

"Haven't you had any strawberries this year?"

"Lots; but not in the country, you know, where they grow."

"And not with such yellow cream as we have got from our dairy."

"Will you have cream enough for all, Esther?" David asked, as coming round the house they saw a small crowd of young people collected near the tables. Esther smiled and bridled, and then there was no more private talk, but a whole chorus of greetings and questions and answers. And then another carriage drew up, with the missing Grandsons; and the party went to breakfast.

It seemed to Matilda that to eat under the shadow of trees, and on the carpet of the grass, and with the music of leaves and insects and breezes, was the very most delightful thing that could be invented. She was very hungry, no doubt; and Mrs. Francis's excellent cook had made capital provision for her young mistress; but besides all that, how pretty it was! The light flickered through the oak leaves upon the white tablecloths, and gleamed from china and glass and silver in the most cheery way; it gleamed upon the little river too and upon the blades of grass on the lawn. Out there the sunshine was full; the eye went across to the scattered trees and to the further woods on the other side; a great promising playground it looked. And then the air was so sweet and fresh. Matilda was not seated very well for her pleasure; nobody near that she knew very well; nevertheless she eat her strawberries and cream and devoured rolls and butter with a contented appreciation of what she had, and an amused observation of what was around her.

How were they to spend the day?

This question received earnest attention as soon as the business of breakfast was off their hands.

"Day is pretty well gone already," said Norton consulting his watch. "It is twelve o' clock. There is not time for anything else but to have dinner and go home."

"We do not dine till four o' clock," Esther announced.

"Four hours," said somebody. "Time enough to get hungry again. I'll take anybody that wants to go a row on the river; if somebody'll help me row."

"Everybody do what everybody likes until three o' clock," said Esther. "Suppose then, at three o' clock, we all gather in the pavilion and have games?"

Unanimous acceptance of this proposal. Then a flutter and division and scattering of the little crowd.

Matilda wondered what she would do, or be asked to do. She would have liked the sail on the Bronx; but so would a good many more. The little boat was very soon filled with the eager applicants, and David volunteered to help row it. One of Matilda's friends was thus removed from her. She turned to look for Norton. He was not to be seen. A general stampede of the boys to the stables made it supposable that he was in the midst of the gay little group rushing that way. Matilda looked around her. The tables were deserted; the little boat had disappeared up the stream; all the boys were gone; and one or two groups of girls, unknown to her, were loitering over the grass towards the house. A flush of vexation and embarrassment came over Matilda. Was this civility? and what was she to do with herself for three hours to come? And how disagreeable, to be regarded as of no consequence and no concern to anybody. Tears swelled in their fountains, but Matilda was not going to cry. She would not linger alone by the table; she did not know her way in the house, and besides would not seek those who should properly seek her; she turned her steps to the little river. The flowing water had a great charm for her; the bank was smooth and green; she wandered along till she came to what she called a nice place, where a young willow hung over and dipped its long branches in, and the bank offered a soft shady seat. Matilda sat down, and felt very lonely. But glimpses taken through the trees and shrubbery shewed her nobody near or far, except the servants; and Matilda resolved to be quiet and wait for better things by and by. She looked at her watch; it was half past twelve. I am bound to confess it was a good half hour more before Matilda could get the better of a desperate fit of disappointment and vexation. She had not counted upon spending her holiday in this manner; and slights and unkindness are pleasant to nobody. There is something in use, however, and more in a quiet mind. The little girl's roiled feelings at last ran clear again; and she began to enjoy things after her own fashion.

The ripple and flow of that water was certainly delicious; it made one cool only to hear it. She could get down to the brink too and cautiously dip her hand in. There were little fishes in a shallow there; their play and movement were very amusing, and Matilda went into deep speculation about how much they knew, and what they felt, and what their manner of life amounted to, and how they probably regarded the strange creature looking down at them. Very much she wondered what they could eat to live upon. The water plants that grew along the stream had Matilda's attention too, and the mosses that covered the stones. And one or two grasshoppers finally proved a great source of entertainment. She quite forgot to feel lonely, and was taking her enjoyment in a very harmonious way; when she heard a different swash of the water and the dip of oars, and the boat shot round a curve and came down the stream. She watched it, wondering whether its crew would see her. Just opposite her willow the oars stopped.

"Is that you, Tilly?" David cried.

A small "yes" came from the bank.

"What are you doing there?"

"O, amusing myself."

"Where is everybody else?"

"I don't know."

"Where's Norton?"

"I don't know. I think he went to see the horses."

"Come down to the landing," said David after a moment's pause.

Matilda nodded, and the boat shot forward again. It had turns to take following the course of the stream; while she on the land could cut across points, and she reached the landing place the first.

The little party landed with cries of pleasure, and the next thing, set off on a run for the house. David purposely hung back, so that he and Matilda in a few minutes were behind all the others.

"Where is everybody?" inquired David.

"I don't know."

"What have you been doing all this while?"

"It was very pretty down by the water, David. I didn't mind;—at least, not after the first. It was very pleasant there."

"All alone?"

"Yes; except the fishes and the grasshoppers."

"Well—I shall cut out the fishes now."

David kept his word. A deputation of the boys met them and begged him to go where the others were riding. David went, but kept hold of Matilda's hand, though warned that "the girls" were finding other amusements in the house. Matilda was taken into the meadow where the boys and the horses were congregated; a safe seat was found for her on the wall, from whence she could survey the whole field; and though David took his share in the amusements that followed, riding and racing with the other boys, he never let her feel herself forgotten or alone; stopping his horse every now and then in front of her to say something and find out if she was happy. Matilda was very happy, greatly amused, and intensely pleased that David had constituted himself her protector. The hours sped along; the soft June sun was never too hot; the little white clouds that crossed the sky cast shadows not needed for the busy pleasure seekers, nor even for the quiet spectator. At last Matilda heard a shout behind her.



CHAPTER XV.

"What are you doing, you boyish girl?" It was Judy, at the head of the whole bevy of young ones from the house.

"I didn't know what had become of you, Matilda," said Esther.

"Come down!" said Judy. "What business have you there? Who asked you to watch the boys? Why don't you come down? On the wall, too! Esther didn't invite you there."

"Esther didn't invite me anywhere," said Matilda, with the old inevitable set of her head, which said much more than the little girl knew. Esther felt it, and Judy was incensed.

"I would be ashamed, if I were you," she said. "Tell the boys, will you, that we are ready for the games. Call somebody. Shout! now you are up there, make yourself useful."

Matilda preferred not to shout. Instead of that, she waved her handkerchief. David rode up, the message was given. Then Norton came to help Matilda down from the wall; and soon the whole party gathered in the pavilion. This was rather more than a summer house; a large saloon, with windows and glass doors on all sides, furnished with lounges and easy chairs and tables, with a carpet on the floor, and kept with all the nicety of the house itself. Warm and tired and happy, the little company was ready for quiet amusements; and they played games of various kinds until the gong called them to dinner. That was to have been the end of the day's entertainment; but a storm had come up while they were at the table, and the rain fell too abundantly to let anybody leave the house except those who could go in close carriages. A few were thus drafted off, belonging to neighbouring families; a goodly little company still remained who were forced to accept the housekeeper's hospitalities for the night. That was additional fun rather than inconvenience, so voted and so accepted. However, as the day began to close in and a lull fell upon all their pleasure-seeking, it began to appear that the little people were tired. Naturally; they had worked hard all day. Voices changed their tone.

"Oh dear! I wish it wouldn't rain!" cried one young lady, pressing her face against the window, down the outside of which the streams of rain drops were running fast.

"Might as well wish something else, Carrie, while you are about it," Norton said.

"I can't!"

"I wish I was home," said another.

"Wait till to-morrow, and you will have your wish."

"But I don't want to wait."

"Don't you know some new games, Esther?"

This sort of thing went on for some time till tea and cake made a diversion, and lights were brought. Then the cry was, "What shall we do all the rest of the evening?"

"I have a game for you," said David at last.

"What is it? what is it?"

"A new game."

"What is it?"

"It is called, 'Capital and Interest.'"

"I don't understand that," pouted one of the young ladies.

"You will understand it fast enough, when we come to play it."

"How do you play it?"

"You must choose a Judge and a Recorder."

"What's a Recorder?"

"Some one to put down what we say. We all tell our business; the Recorder sets it down, and the Judge says whose business is worth the most."

"How can he tell?"

"He can hear what we say, and he can use his judgment, as we all can."

"Must we tell the truth? or say what we have a mind?"

"Either you like."

"That's jolly!" said one of the boys. "I go in for saying what we have a mind."

"Just imagine the nicest things you can," David went on.

"To eat?" said Esther.

"No, no; you've done enough of that to-day," said Norton. "Imagine what you have a mind to,—every sort of thing that's pleasant."

"Well you begin, Norton, because you understand it. We'll hear you play, and so learn."

"We have got to choose the Judge first. And the Recorder."

"What's the Judge to do?"

"Say who has made the best business."

"I don't understand a bit of it," said Esther.

"No, but you will presently. You'll see. Wait till we begin. Who will you have for Judge?"

There was a general cry of "David Bartholomew!"

"No," said David, "I won't be Judge. I'll be Recorder, if you like. For Judge, I propose Norton Laval."

Norton was agreed upon unanimously.

"Now we are ready. Esther, we will begin at you. Tell what you have, or what you would like to have; and then, what you would do with it, or use it for."

"I don't know what you mean," said Esther.

"You are not tied to facts. Tell what you like. What would you most like?"

"Most like?" repeated Esther. "Let me see. It's very hard to begin with me, when I don't know the game. Let us see. I think I should like to have the most beautiful diamonds in New York."

"Very good," said Norton. "Now tell what you would do with them."

"Do with them? Why, wear them, of course."

"Of course," said Norton. "But the diamonds are your capital, you understand; what interest will you get for your capital? What good will they do you, Esther? that's it."

"What good?" said Esther. "Why, if I had the finest jewels of anybody, don't you see I should outshine everybody?"

"I don't see it," said Norton; "but then I'm not in that line. It's your business we are talking of. Put it down properly, Recorder. Now Bob Francis—what's your idea of a jolly life, eh?"

"I don't know!" said Bob. He was a year older than his sister; not a year brighter.

"O yes, you do. Fancy—but I don't believe you can fancy. What would you like best, Bob?—come!"

"I'd like as well as anything to be a cavalry officer, and have nothing to do but ride."

"A cavalry officer has a great deal to do, I can tell you, my fine fellow, besides riding," said David.

"O well; I don't want to have anything else to do," said Bob. "I'd cut school; it's a bore."

"But you can't ride always. What will be the good of your riding when you are sick, or get old?"

"O then I'll die," said Bob contentedly.

"Let it stand, Davy," said Norton. "Write him down, with a horse and a saddle for his capital and riding his business. Who's next? Hatty Delaplaine! What will you have?"

Hatty, a pale, freckled girl, with twinkling gray eyes, was ready with her answer.

"I'd like to have Stewart's store, all to myself, and a dressmaker."

"The dressmaker all to yourself too, I suppose. Girls are the queerest things!" said Norton.

"Not a bit queerer than boys," spoke up Judy.

"Well,—see if the present game does not prove them so," said Norton. "What'll you do with Stewart's and a dressmaker, Hatty Delaplaine?"

"Don't you see? I'd never wear the same dress twice, and I wouldn't have the same for breakfast or luncheon or dinner; and I would have the most beautiful dresses that ever were seen."

"What would you do with them, after once wearing?" David asked.

"O I should never know and never care. My maid would dispose of them, I suppose. I should have enough to do to think of the new ones. But I do love costumes!" the girl added, clasping her hands.

"Is that a 'costume' you have got on?" Norton asked.

"Nonsense! it isn't anything. I haven't got Stewart's and my dressmaker yet. When I have, you'll know it."

"Juliet Bracebridge!—speak if you please. I'm finished," said Norton. "This is the richest game I've seen yet. Juliet?—"

"I think I should like a perfect little carriage, and a perfect pair of horses, and to go driving over the world."

"Where?" said Norton. "You mean, over the Central Park and the Boulevards."

"No, I don't. I mean what I say."

"Bad roads in some places," said Norton. "Up Vesuvius, for instance; or over Mont Blanc in winter. Greece is dangerous, and—"

"Don't talk nonsense, Norton Laval. Of course I should drive where I could drive, and would like to drive. Over Mont Blanc in winter, indeed!"

"Well, come to business. A perfect pair of horses and perfect carriage,—that's your capital; and you'll go driving all over. What will be the interest on your capital, do you think? in other words, what will you take by it?"

"I should always have a variety, don't you see, and not have time to get tired of anything."

"Are there roads enough in the world to last you?" said Norton. "I declare! these girls—Joe Benton, give us your mind."

"I'll make a fortune, Norton."

"All right. What'll you do with it?"

"I'll have the best house, and the handsomest wife, and the largest estate in the country."

"You'll buy your wife with your money?" asked Judy.

"Easy,"—said Joe, grinning.

"I don't care—'twont be me," said Judy. "I pity the woman."

"Why?" said Joe. "She'll have everything she wants, too."

"Excepting the right person," said Judy.

"Well I don't care; it won't be you," said Joe; "so you may say what you like."

"I would if it was," said Judy.

But a chorus of laughter broke them off.

"Judy's next," said Norton. "I should like to hear what you will say, Judy."

"I should like to be a queen," said Judy.

"That's it! Go to the top at once. Well, you've got to show why. What would you do if you were a queen?"

"I'd put down all preaching and praying, and people's making fools of themselves with giving away their money to poor folks, and nursing sick folks, and all the rest of it."

"Why Judy!" exclaimed one or two. "You'd stop preaching?"

"Wouldn't you be sorry!" said Judy.

"No, but really. Wouldn't you let people be ministers?"

"Ministers like Dr. Blandford. He don't give away his money, I'll be bound; and he likes his glass of wine and smokes his pipe like other folks."

"He don't smoke a pipe, Judy."

"You know what I mean. If I had said he likes his grog, you wouldn't have thought it was made of gin, would you?"

"So you'd be a queen, to stop religious toleration?" said Norton.

"I'd stop any," said Judy. "I don't care whether it's religious or not."

"But what's given you such a spite at religious people?" asked Esther.

"Mean!" said Judy. "Artful. Conceited to death. Stupid. And insane."

There was again a chorus of "Oh Judy!"'s.

"Never mind," said Norton. "When she's queen, I'll sell out and buy an estate in some other country. Who's next?"

"I knew you'd be sneaking along presently, at the tail of some black coat or other," Judy responded. "It's in you. The disease'll break out."

"I don't know what's in me," said Norton. "Something that makes me hot. I'm afraid it isn't religious. Roswell Holt, what's your idea of capital and business? Do leave Judy to her own fancies. This game's getting to be warm work. Roswell!—it's your turn."

"I believe," Roswell began sedately; he was an older boy than most of them and very quiet; "I believe, what I should like would be, to know all the languages there are in the world; and then to have a library so large that all the books in the world should be in it."

"Capital!" said Norton. "What good would that do you?"

"Why, I could read everything," said Roswell.

"And what good would that do you?"

"I should like it," said Roswell. "I should have what I like."

"Solomon tried that once," said David, who was taking diligently his reporter's notes. "It didn't seem to answer then."

"Ah, but there were not so many books in his day," said Roswell.

"The worse for you, I should say. Besides, there are not so many now as there will be a thousand years hence. How about that, old fellow?"

"I can't read what there'll be a thousand years hence," said Roswell.

"You couldn't read what there are now, if you had them. You could not live long enough."

"What a musty old fogy he would be, by the time he had gone half through!" said Judy. "He would have used up his eyes; his spectacles would have made a ridge on his nose; he would live in an old coat that was never brushed; and his books would be all coffee stains, because he would take his breakfast over them. Poor old creature!"

"You'll be old then yourself, Judy," said some one.

"I won t," said the young lady promptly. "I mean to keep young."

"Ben Johnson—go ahead," said Norton. "It's your turn."

"I'd like to go supercargo in the China trade," said Ben; a lively-looking fellow enough.

"Good," said Norton. "Say why. Love of the sea wouldn't take you to China, I suppose."

"Not exactly," said Ben, with a confidential gleam in his eyes. "I should have nothing to do—and smoke seventy cigars a day."

"Seventy cigars!" cried out two or three of the girls. "Horrid!"

"You couldn't do it, old fellow."

"Easy," said Ben. "My cousins, Will Larkins and Dan Boston, did it every day."

"They must be of a practical turn of mind, I should think," said Norton. "They meant their voyage should pay—somebody—and so concluded it should be the tobacconist. Lucy Ellis—?"

"I should like to be very beautiful," said the girl, who had some pretensions that way already, or she wouldn't have said it in public,—"and have everybody love me."

"Everybody!" cried Judy. "All the boys, you mean."

"No indeed," said the beauty with a toss of her head. "I mean all the men."

"But people don't love people because they are handsome," said Norton.

"Don't they, though!" said Ben Johnson, who was a beauty in his way; as indeed so also was Norton. But here arose a furious debate of the question, in which almost everybody took part excepting David and Matilda. Laughing and shouting and discussing, the original game was almost lost sight of; and David sat with his pen in his hand, and Matilda listened in wondering amusement, while the negative and the affirmative of the proposition were urged and argued and fought for. At last Norton appealed.

"What do you think, David?"

"What do you think of our game?"

"I had forgot it, that's a fact," said Norton. "Who's next? O come along, we'll never settle that question. Who's next? Pink, I believe it is you. Matilda Laval! what's your capital and business?"

"Now you'll get a queer one," said Judy.

"It won't be the first, by some," said Norton; "that's one thing."

"This'll be a good one. Oh, ever so good!" said Judy.

"It won't be anything, if you can't hush," said Norton impatiently. "Come, Pink, whatever it is, let us have it. What's your fancy?"

"I should like to have a medicine that would be sure to cure," said Matilda.

"A medicine!" cried Norton.

"She'd be a doctor," exclaimed Judy with a burst of laughter.

"What for, Pink?"

"I would go round, making sick people well."

"Beautiful, ain't it?" said Judy. "O we have such lots of goodness in our house, you wouldn't know it; and I don't know it my self. Fact is, it confuses me."

"Bill Langridge?"

"Governor of the State,"—called out Bill in reply.

"Why don't you say 'Sultan of Muscat,' at once?"

"Don't know Muscat—and don't care about governing where I'm a stranger. Might make mistakes, you see."

"Well—what's the good in being Governor of the State?—to you?"

"Having things my own way, don't you see? and at top of everything."

"There's the President, and all his secretaries," said Norton.

"They're not in my way. In the State, you know, nobody is over the Governor."

"That's what you call a moderate ambition," said David.

"Aims pretty high," said Bill.

"Not high enough," said another boy. "I'd choose to be commander in chief of the army."

"How's that any higher, Watson?" said Bill.

"Military rule," said Watson. "Your Governor has to consult this one and 'tother one, and go by the Legislature too, when all's done; the commander in chief asks leave of nobody."

"Well, Elisha Peters, what's your ambition?" called out Norton.

"I'd like a little money,—enough, you know, not too much; and to go travelling all over the world on foot."

"On foot!" said Norton. "What would you get out of that?"

"I should see everything. Not part, you know, as everybody does; I should see everything."

"What would you do, Elisha, when you had got to the end of everything?—seen it all?"

"Don't believe I could. The world's big enough to last one man."

"Don't know but what it is," said Norton. "Will you write a book?"

"Guess not. Take too much time."

"Then the travelling would do nobody good but you?" said David.

"Who else should it?" replied Elisha.

"The book would do nobody any good, if he were to write it," suggested Judy.

"Polite"—said Elisha.

"Selfish"—retorted Judy.

"Everybody is selfish," returned the young cynic.

"'Tain't true," said Norton; "but I haven't time to argue just now. I've got work enough to do as a judge. Are we most through? I declare, here's half a dozen more to speak. Speak quick, please; and don't say so many odd things. The judge's work isn't going to be a trifle, in this court. Dick Morton, go ahead."

"I'd like to be able to do just what I have a mind to," said Dick.

"Bravo! only that's what we're all after. Come a little nearer the point, Dick; what'll you do with your time?"

"I'd be a hunter. I'd have first-rate rifles, you know, and pistols, and all that; and people to help; and I'd just go hunting. I'd kill buffaloes in the West till I had enough of that, and take a turn at a bear or so; then I'd go to Africa and have a royal time with the rhinoceros and lions, and maybe crocodiles. I'd spend a good while in Africa. Elephants, too. Then I'd cross over to India and hunt tigers. I'd chase ostriches too."

"Not in India," said David.

"I didn't say, in India; but where they are. Deer of course, everywhere; and chamois, and all that."

"Birds?" suggested Norton.

"O yes, by the way, you know. I'd live upon ducks and snipe and wild turkey."

"When you weren't eating venison and buffalo hump," said David.

"Well—I'd have variety enough," said Dick. "I tell you! a hunter's supper is jolly."

"All alone?" said Esther.

"Another specimen of selfishness," said Judy. "They're all alike as two pears—only some of 'em are green, and the others a different colour."

"That's your business," said Norton summing up; "now what's the good of it, Dick?"

"Fun. What's the good of anything?"

"To be sure," said the Judge. "Julie Simpson?"

But Julie wriggled and simpered, and could not be got to express herself otherwise. The sayings of several next corning were only echoes of some one or other of those who had spoken. Norton grew impatient.

"That'll do," he said; "now for the Recorder. It's time the Judge finished up. The best part of the play comes after."