"Yes."

"I think it is mean, that you did not tell me."

"I am telling you now. But now, Maria, you know what you promised."

"I did not promise this sort of thing at all, Tilly."

"Yes, don't you know? 'we stand ready to do His will.' That's in the covenant."

"But this is not His will," insisted Maria. "This is Aunt Erminia's meanness."

"But it certainly is His will that we should do what mamma says, and please her; and this is the work He has given us to do."

Maria's answer this time was to sit down and cry for her part. Matilda did not join her, but stood by, patiently waiting. Maria cried and sobbed for several minutes; then she started up and set off homewards at a furious rate. Matilda gathered together her books and followed her sister; trying to comfort herself with the thought that this was certainly the work given them to do, and that she would try and make the best of it.

The dinner was sorrowful enough. Maria, indeed, ate it as if remembering it was the last dinner for some time to come that she would find ready prepared for her. But Anne and Letty were broken down with grief; and Mrs. Candy's endeavours to comfort them were either not the right sort, or fell upon unready ears. Clarissa was composed as usual.

"You were late from school, Maria and Matilda," their aunt remarked, finding Anne and Letty unmanageable. "What was the reason?"

"Tilly was talking to me," Maria said.

"You could talk on the way home, I should think. I dislike to have dinner eaten by stages; first one set coming, and then another. I am going to ask you to be punctual for the future. Do not be in a hurry, Maria; there is time enough, now you are here, to eat moderately."

"I am hungry. I don't want to eat moderately, Aunt Erminia."

"As much as you wish; but you can be moderate in manner, cannot you, even if not in quantity?"

"Nobody ever told me I eat too much, before," said Maria.

"There are a great many things that you have never been told, I suppose?" said Clarissa, lifting her handsome eyes quietly.

"I don't care about your telling me either," said Maria.

"My dear, that is not polite," interposed her aunt. "I am sorry to hear you speak so. Would you not like to have Issa, or any one, tell you things that you would be the better for. You would not wish to remain just as you are, to the end of your days?"

"It don't hurt anybody but me," said Maria.

"I beg your pardon. Everything that is not graceful and well-mannered, on the part of people in whose company we are, hurts me and Clarissa. It hurts me to have you bolt down your food as you were doing just now—if I am sitting at the same table with you. And it hurts me to have you speak rudely. I hope you will mend in all these things."

"It will not hurt you to have us say good-bye," said Anne, rising. "I will do that now, if you please. Letty, I will leave you to take care of these things, and I will finish the packing. We must be quick, too."

The farewell greetings with her aunt and cousin were soon spoken; and Maria and Matilda tore up-stairs after their sister, to pour out tears and complaints together during the remaining moments of her being at home. Matilda's tears, however, were quiet and her words very few.

"Ain't she too bad!" exclaimed Maria.

"You must try and hold your own the best you can," said Anne, "until mamma gets up again. Poor children! I am afraid she will be too much for you."

"But, Anne, did you think Aunt Candy was like that?" said Maria. "She wasn't like that at first."

"I guess she was. All she wanted was a chance. Now she's got it. Try and bear it the best you can till mamma is well. She cannot be worried now."

"Is mamma very sick, Anne?" Matilda ventured.

"N-o," said Anne, "but she might be, Tilly, if she was worried. The doctor says she is very nervous, and must be kept quiet. She has been worrying so long, you see. So you must try and not do anything to fret her."

The prospect was sad. When the omnibus came to take Anne and Letty to the station, and when the last kisses and hugs were over, and the omnibus bounced away, carrying with it all they had at the moment, the two girls left at home felt forlorn enough. The only thing to be done was to rush up-stairs to their room and cry their hearts out. And that was done thoroughly.

But by and by, Matilda's thoughts, in their very extreme need of comfort, began to take up the words again which she had once found so good: "Cast thy burden upon the Lord; He shall sustain thee." She left her sobbing, dried her eyes, sat down by the window, and found the place in her Bible, that her eyes might have the comfort of seeing and reading the words there. The Lord's words: Tilly knew they were true. But Maria sobbed on. At last her little sister called her.

"What is it?" said she.

"Come here,—and I will show you something good."

"Good?—what?" said Maria, approaching the window. "Oh, words in the Bible!"

"Read, Maria."

"I have read them before," said the other, sullenly, after she had glanced at the place.

"But they are true, Maria."

"Well; they don't help me."

"But they help me," said Matilda. "It's Jesus' promise to help."

"I don't believe it is for such things as this."

"Why not?" said Matilda, a sudden chill coming over her heart. "It says just, 'Cast thy burden'—it might be any burden; it does not signify what it is, Maria."

"Yes, it does; it is not for such little things," said Maria. "It is for great religious people and their affairs. Oh dear! oh dear!"

Sorely troubled now at having her supports knocked away from under her, Matilda eagerly sought further, if perchance she might find something that Maria could not question. Her Bible had a few references in the margin; consulting these, she presently found what she had need of; but a feeling of want of sympathy between them forbade her to show the new words to her sister. Matilda pored over them with great rest of heart; gave thanks for them; and might have used with truth David's language—"Thy words were found, and I did eat them." The words were these:—

"Be careful for nothing; but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God that passeth understanding shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus."

Matilda's eyes were dry and her voice was clear, when she reminded her sister that it was time to get tea. Maria was accustomed to do this frequently, and made no objection now. So the two went down together. Passing the parlour door, however, it opened, and Mrs. Candy called Matilda in.

"I want to speak a word to you, Tilly," she said. "Did you go out last evening?"

"Yes; I did, aunt Erminia."

"You went to church?"

Matilda assented; but though she had bowed her head, it seemed to be more erect than before.

"And I had told you not to go, had I not? You understood that?"

A silent assent was again all that the child gave.

"I am accustomed to be obeyed," said Mrs. Candy. "That is my way. It may not be your mother's way; but all the same, I am mistress here while she is sick; mistress over you as well as the rest. You must obey me like all the rest. Will you?"

What was meant by "all the rest" Matilda marvelled, seeing that nobody else but Maria and her own daughter were left in the house. This time she gave no sign of answering; she only stood and listened.

"Will you obey me, Tilly?"

Matilda was not sure whether she would. In her mind it depended on circumstances. She would obey, conditionally. But she would not compromise her dignity by words about it. She was silent.

"I must be obeyed," Mrs. Candy went on, with mild tones, although a displeased face. "If not willingly, then unwillingly. I shall punish you, Matilda, if you disobey me; and so severely that you will find it best not to do it again. But I should be very sorry to have you drive me to such disagreeable doings. We should both be sorry together. It is much best not to let things come to such extremity."

Matilda coloured high, but except that and the slight gesture of her head, she yet gave no reply.

"That is enough upon that subject," the lady went on. "Only, I should be glad to have you tell me that you will try to please me."

"I wish to please everybody—as far as I can," Matilda said at last.

"Then you will please me?"

"I hope so."

"She hopes so, Issa," said Mrs. Candy, turning her head round towards where her daughter sat.

"American children, mamma," was Clarissa's comment.

"There is another thing, Matilda," Mrs. Candy resumed after a slight pause. "Your mother has told me that Maria is competent to do the work of the house until she gets well. Is she? and will Maria, do you think, try to please me as much as you do?"

"Yes, ma'am. I think she can—she and I. We will do it," Matilda answered more readily.

"She and you! What can you do?"

"I can help a little."

"Well then, that is settled; and I need not look out for a girl?"

"Oh no, aunt Candy. She and I can do it."

"But mind, I must have things in order, and well done. It is my sister's choice, that Maria should do it. But it is not mine unless I can have everything in good order. You may tell Maria so, and let her understand what it is she is undertaking. I am to have no dusty stairs, and no half-set tables. If she wants instruction in anything, I am willing to give it; but I cannot have disorder. Now you may go and tell her; and tell her to have tea ready in half an hour."

"What did she want of you?" Maria asked, when Matilda rejoined her down-stairs.

"She wanted to talk to me about my going out last evening."

"Oh! was she in a great fuss about it?"

"And Maria, she wants tea to be ready in half an hour."

"I'll have it ready sooner than that," said Maria, bustling about.

"But you must not. She wants it in half an hour; you must not have it ready before."

"Why not?" said Maria, stopping short.

"Why, she wants it then. She has a right to have tea when she likes."

But Matilda sighed as she spoke, for her aunt's likings were becoming a heavy burden to her, in the present and in the future. The two girls went gently round, setting the table, cutting the bread, putting out the sweetmeat, getting the teapot ready for the tea; then they stood together over the stove, waiting for the time to make it.

"There's one comfort," Matilda said with another sigh;—"we can do it all for Christ."

"What?" said Maria, starting.

"It is work He has given us to do, you know, Maria; and we have promised to do everything we can to please Him. So we can do this to please Him."

"I don't see how," said Maria. "This isn't Band work;—do you think it is?"

"It isn't Sunday-School work; but, Maria, you know, 'we are the servants of Christ.' Now He has given us this work to do."

"That's just talking nonsense," said Maria. "There is no religion in pots and kettles."

Matilda had to think her way out of that statement.

"Maria, in the covenant, you know, we say 'we stand ready to do His will;' and you know it is His will that we should have these things to do."

"I don't!" said Maria; "that's a fact."

"Then how comes it that we have them?"

"Just because mamma is sick, and Aunt Erminia is too mean to live!"

"You should not speak so," said Matilda. "How comes mamma to be sick? and how comes it that we have got no money to hire a girl?"

"Because that man in New York was wicked, and ran away with mamma's money."

"Maria," said Matilda, solemnly, "I don't see what you meant by joining the Band."

"I meant more than you did!" said Maria, flaming out. "Such children as you are too young to join it."

"We are not too young to be Christians."

"You are too young to join the Church and be baptized."

"Why?" said Matilda.

"Oh, you are too young to understand. Anybody that knows will tell you so. And if you are not fit to be baptized and join the Church, you are not fit to join the Band. Now I can make the tea."

Matilda looked hard at the teapot, as it stood on the stove while the tea was brewing; but she let her sister alone after that. When the meal was over, and the dishes washed and everything done, she and Maria went up to their own room, and Maria at once went to bed. Her little sister opened her Bible, and read, over and over, the words that had comforted her. They were words from God; promises and commands straight from heaven. Matilda took them so, and studied earnestly how she might do what they bade her. "Cast her burden on the Lord"—how was she to do that? Clearly, she was not to keep it on her own heart, she thought; she must trust that the Lord would take care of anything put into His hands. The words were very good. And the other words? "Be careful for nothing"—that was the same thing differently expressed; and Matilda felt very glad it had been written for her in both places and in both ways; and that she was ordered "in everything" to "make her requests known to God." She might not have dared, perhaps, in some little troubles that only concerned a child and were not important to anybody else; but now there could be no doubt—she might, and she must. She was very glad. But, "with thanksgiving?"—how could that be always? Now, for instance? Things were more disagreeable and sorrowful than in all her life she had ever known them; "give thanks"? must she? now? And how could she? Matilda studied over it a good while. Finally took to praying over it. Asked to be taught how she could give thanks when she was sorry. And getting quite tired, at last went to bed, where Maria was already fast asleep.

There is no denying that Matilda was sorry to wake up the next morning. But awake she found herself, and broad awake too; and the light outside the window admonished her she had no time then to lie and think. She roused Maria immediately, and herself began dressing without a moment's delay.

"Oh, what's the hurry!" said Maria, yawning and stretching herself. "I'm sleepy."

"But it isn't early, Maria."

"Well; I don't want it to be early."

"Yes, you do, Maria; you forget. We have a great deal on our hands. Make haste, please, and get up. Do, Maria!"

"What have we got to do so much?" said Maria, with yawn the second.

"Everything. You are so sleepy, you have forgotten."

"Yes. I have forgotten," said Maria, closing her eyes.

"O Maria, please do get up! I'm almost dressed; and I can't do the whole, you know. Won't you get up?"

"What's the matter, Tilly?" said her sister, rolling over, and opening her eyes quietly at Matilda.

"I am going down, Maria, in two minutes; and I cannot do everything, you know."

"Clarissa'll help."

"If you expect that, Maria, you will be disappointed. I wish you would come right down and make the fire."

Maria lay still. Matilda finished her dressing, and then knelt down by the window.

The burden upon her seemed rather heavy, and she went to her only source of help. Maria lay and looked at the little kneeling figure, so still there by the window; glanced at the growing light outside the window, then at her scattered articles of clothing, lying where she had thrown them or dropped them last night; and at last rolled herself out of bed and was dressing in earnest when Matilda rose up to go down-stairs.

"Oh now, you'll soon be ready!" she exclaimed. "Make haste, Maria; and come down to the kitchen. The fire is the first thing."

Then the little feet went with a light tread down the stairs, that she might disturb nobody, and paused in the hall. The light struggling in through the fanlights over the door; the air close; a smell of kerosene in the parlour; chairs and table in a state of disarrangement; the litter of Clarissa's work on the carpet; the parlour stove cold. Little Matilda wished to herself that some other hands were there, not hers, to do all that must be done. But clearly Maria would never get through with it. She stood looking a minute; then plunged into the work. She opened the shutters and the curtains, and threw up the windows. Then picked up the litter. Then she saw that the services of a broom were needed; and Matilda fetched the broom, and brushed out the parlour and the hall. It tired her arms; she was not used to it. Dusting the furniture was more in her line; and then Matilda came to the conclusion that if a fire was to be kindled in time this morning, it must be done by herself; Maria would be fully occupied in the kitchen. So down-stairs she went for billets of wood for kindling. There was Maria, in trouble.

"This stove won't draw, Tilly."

"What is the matter?"

"Why that. It won't draw. It just smokes."

"It always does draw, Maria."

"Well, it won't to-day."

"Did you put kindling enough in?"

"There's nothing but kindling!—and smoke."

"Why, you've got the damper turned," said Matilda, coming up to look; "see, that's the matter. It won't light with the damper turned."

"Stupid!" Maria muttered; and Matilda went off to make her own fire. Happily that did not smoke. The parlour and hall were all in nice order; the books put in place, and everything ready for the comfort of people when they should come to enjoy it; and Matilda went to join her sister in the kitchen. The fire was going there too, and the kitchen warm, and Maria stood with her hands folded, in front of the stove.

"I don't know what to get for breakfast," she said.

"Is the other room ready?"

"I set the table," said Maria; "but what is to go on it, I don't know."

Matilda went in to look at the state of things; presently called her sister.

"Maria, you didn't sweep the carpet."

"No. Of course I didn't. Rooms don't want to be swept every day."

"This one does. Look at the muss under the table."

"Only some crumbs," said Maria.

"And a bone. Letty was in a hurry yesterday, I guess. Aunt Candy won't like it, Maria; it won't do."

"I don't care whether she likes it."

"But don't you care whether she scolds? because I do. And the room is not nice, Maria. Mother wouldn't have it so."

"Well, you may sweep it if you like."

"I cannot. I am tired. You must make it nice, Maria, won't you? and I'll see about the breakfast."

"The table's all set!" Maria remonstrated.

"It won't take long to do it over, Maria. But what have we got for breakfast?"

"Nothing—that I know."

"Did you look in the cellar?"

"No."

"Why, where did you look?" said Matilda, laughing. "Come; let us go down and see what is there."

In the large, clean, light cellar there were hanging shelves which served the purposes of a larder. The girls peered into the various stores collected on them.

"Here's a dish of cold potatoes," said Maria.

"That will do for one thing," said Matilda.

"Cold?"

"Why, no! fried, Maria."

"I can't fry potatoes."

"Why, yes, you can, Maria; you have seen mamma do it hundreds of times."

"Here's the cold beefsteak that was left yesterday."

"Cold beefsteak isn't good," said Matilda.

"Can't we warm it?"

"How?"

"I don't know; might put it in the oven; it would get hot there. There's a good oven."

"I don't think mamma ever warms cold beefsteak," said Matilda, looking puzzled.

"What does she do with it? she don't throw it away. How do you know she doesn't warm it? you wouldn't know, when you saw it on the table, whether it was just fresh cooked, or only warmed up. How could you tell?"

"Well," said Matilda, dubiously, "you can try. I wish I could ask somebody."

"I shall not ask anybody up-stairs," said Maria. "Come—you take the potatoes and I will carry the beefsteak. Then we will make 'the coffee and have breakfast. I'm as hungry as I can be."

"So am I," said Matilda. And she sighed a little, for she was tired as well as hungry. Maria set the dish of beefsteak in the oven to get hot, and Matilda made the coffee. She knew quite well how to do that. Then she came to the table where Maria was preparing the potatoes to fry. Maria's knife was going chop, chop, very fast.

"O Maria! you should have peeled them," Matilda exclaimed, in dismay.

"Peeled!" said Maria, stopping short.

"Certainly. Why, you knew that, Maria. Potatoe parings are not good to eat."

"It takes ages to peel such little potatoes," said Maria.

"But you cannot eat them without being peeled," said Matilda.

"Yes, you can; it won't make any difference. I will fry them so brown, nobody will know whether they have skins on or not."

Matilda doubted very much the feasibility of this plan; but she left Maria and went off to make sure that the fires in the other rooms were burning right and everything in proper trim. Then she sat down in a rocking-chair in the eating-room to rest; wishing very earnestly that there was somebody to help who knew more about business than either she or Maria. How were they to get along? And she had promised her mother. And yet more, Matilda felt sure that just this work had been given to her and Maria to do by the Lord himself. Therefore they could do it for Him. Therefore, all the more, Matilda wanted to do it in the very nicest and best way possible. She wished she had attended when she had seen her mother cooking different things; now she might have known exactly how to manage. And that reminded her, Maria's beef and potatoes must be done. She ran into the kitchen.

"There!" said Maria. "Can you see the skins now?"

"They are brown enough," said Matilda. "But, Maria, they'll be very hard!"

"Never you mind!" said Maria, complacently.

"Have you looked at your beefsteak?"

"No; but it must be hot before now."

Maria opened the oven door; and then, with an exclamation, seized a cloth and drew out the dish of meat. The dish took their attention first. It was as brown as Maria's potatoes. It had gone into the oven white.

"It is spoiled," said Matilda.

"Who would have thought the oven was so hot!" said Maria. "Won't it come all right with washing?"

"You might as well wash your beefsteak," said Matilda, turning away.

If the dish had gone in white, the meat had also gone in juicy; and if the one was brown the other was a chip.

"This will not do for breakfast," said Maria, lugubriously.

"It is like your potatoes," said Matilda, with the ineffable little turn of her head.

"Don't, Matilda! What shall we do? the coffee is ready."

"We shall have a brown breakfast," said Matilda. "The coffee will be the lightest coloured thing on the table." And the two girls relieved themselves with laughing.

"But, Matilda! what shall we do? We must have something to eat."

"We can boil some eggs," said Matilda. "Aunt Erminia likes eggs; and the coffee will be good, and the bread. And the potatoes will do to look at."

So it was arranged; and the bell was rung for breakfast only five minutes after the time. And all was in order.

Even Mrs. Candy's good eyes found no fault. And breakfast went forward better than Matilda had dared to hope.

"You have done your potatoes too much, Maria," Mrs. Candy remarked.

"Yes, ma'am," Maria said, meekly.

"They want no more but a light colouring. And they should be cut thinner. These are so hard you can't eat them. And, Maria, in future I will tell you what to get for breakfast. I did not know when you went to bed last night, or I should have told you then. You are not old enough to arrange things. Now there was some beef left from dinner yesterday, that would have made a nice hash."

Maria ate bread and butter, and spoke not.

"It will keep very well, and you can make it into hash for to-morrow morning. Chop it as fine as you can, and twice as much potato; and warm it with a little butter and milk and pepper and salt, till it is nice and hot; and poach a few eggs, to lay round it. Can you poach eggs, Maria?"

"Yes, ma'am. But there is no beef, Aunt Erminia."

"No beef? You are mistaken. There was a large piece that we did not eat yesterday."

"There is none now," said Maria.

"It must be down-stairs in the cellar."

"I am sure it is not, aunt Erminia. I have been poking into every corner there; and there is no beef, I know."

"Maria, that is a very inelegant way of speaking. Where did you get it?"

"I don't know, ma'am, I'm sure. Out of the truth, I suppose. That's what I did."

"It is a very inelegant way of doing, as well as of speaking. Poking into every thing! What did you poke? your finger? or your hand?"

"My nose, I suppose," said Maria, hardily.

"I think I need not tell you that that is a very vulgar expression," said Mrs. Candy, with a lofty air; while Clarissa's shoulders gave a little shrug, as much as to say her mother was wasting time. "Don't you know any better, Maria?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then I hope you will speak properly next time."

"One gets so tired of speaking properly!" said Maria.

"You?" said Clarissa, with a gentle intonation.

"I don't care!" said Maria, desperately. "People are as they are brought up. My mother don't care for such fidgety notions. I speak to please her, and that is enough."

"No, Maria, it is not enough," resumed Mrs. Candy. "Your mother loves you, and so she is willing to overlook little things in you that she can overlook because you are her child; but when you are grown up, you would wish to be liked by other nice people, wouldn't you? people of education, and taste, and elegant habits; and they do not like to have anything to do with people who 'poke their noses' into things, or who say that they do."

"I'll keep in the kitchen then," said Maria, hastily.

The breakfast may be said to have ended here; for though a few more mouthfuls were eaten, no more words were said. Mrs. Candy and her daughter left the room and went up-stairs. Maria and Matilda began the work of clearing the table.

"Ain't she too much!" Maria exclaimed.

"But, Maria," said her little sister, "I wish you wouldn't say such things."

"If I am going to be a kitchen maid," said Maria, "I may as well talk kitchen maid."

"Oh, I don't think so, Maria!"

"I don't care!" said Maria. "I would rather vex aunt Candy than not; and she was vexed this morning. She kept it in pretty well; but she was vexed."

"But, Maria, that isn't right, is it?"

"Nothing is right," said Maria; "and nothing is going to be, I guess, while they are here."

"Then think, what would mamma do if they went away?"

"I wish I could go away, then!" said Maria, beginning to cry. "I can't bear to live so! 'Why do you do so,' and 'why do you do so;' and Clarissa sitting by with that little smile on her mouth, and lifting up her eyes to look at you—it just makes me mad. There! It is a pity Aunt Candy wasn't here to be shocked at American children."

"But, Maria," said Matilda with her eyes swimming too, "you know the Lord Jesus has given us this work."

"No, I don't!" said Maria; "and what if He did?"

"Why, then, it would please Him—you know, Maria, it would please Him—to have us do it just nicely and beautifully, and not like kitchen maids, but like His children. You know we said we were ready to do any work that he would give us."

"I didn't," said Maria, half crying, half pouting. "I didn't promise to do this sort of thing."

"But we mustn't choose," said Matilda.

"But we did choose," said Maria. "I said what I would do, and other people said what they would do; and nobody said anything about washing dishes and peeling potatoes. We were not talking of that."

"The covenant says, 'we stand ready to do His will.' Don't you know?"

"I believe you know that covenant by heart," said Maria. "I don't. And I don't care. Matilda, I wish you would run down cellar with the butter, and the cream, and the bread—will you?"

Matilda did not run, but she made journey after journey down the cellar stairs, with feet that grew weary; and then she dried the china while her sister washed it. Then they brushed up the kitchen and made up the fires. Then Maria seated herself on the kitchen table and looked at Matilda.

"I'm tired now, Tilly."

"So am I."

"Is there anything else to be done?"

"Why, there is the dinner, Maria."

"It isn't near dinner time. It is only ten o'clock."

"How long will it take the potatoes to boil?"

"Oh, not long. It is not time to put them on for a great while."

"But they are not ready, are they?"

"No."

"And what else, Maria?"

Here came a call from the stair head. Maria went to the foot of the stairs to hear what the business was, and came back with her mood nowise sweetened; to judge by the way she went about; filled an iron pot with water and set it on the stove, and dashed things round generally. Matilda looked on without saying a word.

"I've got my day's work cut out for me now," said Maria at last. "There's that leg of mutton to boil, and turnips to be mashed; besides the potatoes. And the turnips have got to be peeled. Come and help me, Tilly, or I shall never get through. Won't you?"



Now Matilda had her own notions about things she liked and things she did not like to do; and one of the things she did not like to do was to roughen or soil her hands. To put her little hands into the pan of water, and handle and pare the coarse roots with the soil hanging to them, was very distasteful to her nicety. She looked a little dismayed. But there were the roots all to be pared and washed, and Maria would have her hands full; and was not this also work given to Matilda to do? At any rate, she felt that she could not refuse without losing influence over Maria, and that she could not afford. So Matilda's hands and her knife went into the pan. She thought it was very disagreeable, but she did it. After the potatoes and turnips were ready for the pot, Maria demanded her help about other things; she must clean the knives, and set the table, and prepare the celery and rub the apples; while Maria kept up the fire, and attended to the cookery. Matilda did one thing after another; her weary little feet travelled out and in, from one room to the other room, and got things in order for dinner in both places.

It was a pretty satisfactory dinner, on the whole. The mutton was well cooked and the vegetables were not bad, Mrs. Candy said; but Matilda thought with dismay of the after dinner dishes. However, dinner gives courage sometimes; and both she and Maria were stronger-hearted when they rose from table than when they had sat down. Dishes, and pots, and kettles, and knives, and endless details beside, were in course of time got rid of; and then Matilda put on her hat and cloak, and set forth on an errand she had been meditating.



CHAPTER X.

It was a soft pleasant day late in March. The snow had all gone for the present. Doubtless it might come back again; no one could tell; in Shadywalk snow was not an unknown visitor even in April; but for the present no such reminder of winter was anywhere to be seen. The air was still and gentle; even the brown tree stems looked softer and less bare than a few weeks ago, though no bursting buds yet were there to make any real change. The note of a bird might be heard now and then; Matilda had twice seen the glorious colour of a blue bird's wings as they spread themselves in the light. It was quite refreshing to get out of the house and the kitchen work, and smell the fresh, pure air, and see the sky, and feel that all the world was not between four walls anywhere. Matilda went softly along, enjoying. At the corner she turned, and walked up Butternut street—so called, probably, in honour of some former tree of that family, for not a shoot of one was known in the street now. On and on she went till her church was passed, and then turned down the little lane which led to the parsonage. The snow all gone, it was looking pretty here. On one side the old church, the new lecture-room on the other, and between them the avenue of elms, arching their branches over the way and making a vista, at the end of which was the brown door of the parsonage. Always that was a pleasant view to Matilda, for she associated the brown door with a great many things; however, this day she did not seek the old knocker which hung temptingly overhead, but sheered off and went round to the back of the house; and there entered at once, and without knocking, upon Miss Redwood's premises. They were in order; nobody ever saw the parsonage kitchen otherwise; and Miss Redwood was sitting in front of the stove, knitting.

"Well, if there ain't Tilly Englefield!" was her salutation.

"May I come in, Miss Redwood?—if you are not busy."

"Suppos'n I was busy, I guess you wouldn't do me no harm, child. Come right in and sit down, and tell me how's all goin' on at your house. How's your mother, fust thing?"

"Aunt Candy says she's not any better."

"What does your mother say herself?"

"I have not seen her to-day. Aunt Candy says she is nervous; and she wants me not to go into her room."

"Who wants you not to go in? Not your mother?"

"No; Aunt Candy."

"I thought so. Well; how do you get along without your sisters, eh? Have you got a girl, or are you goin' to do without?"

"We are going to do without."

"I don't see how you kin, with your mother sick and wantin' somebody to tend her."

"Maria and I do what's to be done. Mamma doesn't want us to get a girl."

"Maria and you!" said Miss Redwood, straightening up. "I want to know! You and Maria. Why, I didn't reckon Maria was a hand at them kind o' things. What can she do, eh? I want to know! Things is curious in this world."

"Maria can do a good deal," said Matilda.

"And you can, too, can't ye?" said Miss Redwood, with a benevolent smile at her little visitor, which meant all love and no criticism.

"I wish I knew how to do more," said Matilda. "I could, if I knew how. That's what I came to ask you, Miss Redwood; won't you tell me?"

"Tell you anything on arth," said the housekeeper. "What do you want to know, child?"

"I don't know," said Matilda, knitting her brow. "I want to know how to manage."

Miss Redwood's lips twitched, and her knitting needles flew.

"So there ain't no one but you to manage?" she said, at length.

"Aunt Candy tells what is to be for breakfast and dinner. But I want to know how to do things. What can one do with cold beefsteak, Miss Redwood?"

"'Tain't good for much," said the housekeeper. "Have you got some on hand?"

"No. We had, though."

"And what did you do with it?"

"Maria and I put it in the oven to warm; and it spoiled the dish, and the meat was all dried up; and then I thought I would come and ask you. And we tried to fry some potatoes this morning, and we didn't know how, I think. They were not good."

"And so your breakfast all fell through; and there was a muss, I expect?"

"No; we had eggs; nobody knew anything about the beefsteak and the dish. But I want to know how to do."

"What ailed your potatoes?"

"They were too hard and too brown."

"I shouldn't wonder! I declare, I 'most think I've got into the middle of a fairy story somewhere. Did you ever hear about Cinderella, Tilly, and her little glass slipper?"

"Oh yes."

"Some people's chariots and horses will find themselves turned into pun'kins some day; that is what I believe."

"But about the potatoes?" said Matilda, who could not catch the connection of this speech.

"Well; she let 'em be in too long. That was the trouble. If you want to have things right, you must take 'em out when they are done, honey."

"But how can we tell when they are done?"

"Why, you know by just lookin at 'em. There ain't no great trouble about it; anyhow, there ain't about potatoes. You just put some fat in a pan, and chop up your potatoes, and when the fat is hot clap 'em in, and let 'em frizzle round a spell; and then when they're done you take 'em up. Did you sprinkle salt in?"

"No."

"You must mind and sprinkle salt in, while they're in the pan; without that they'll taste kind o' flat."

"Aunt Erminia don't like them chopped up. She wants them cut in thin slices and browned on both sides."

"Laws a massy! why don't she do 'em so, then? what hinders her?" said the housekeeper, looking at Matilda. "I thought she was one o' them kind o' folks as don't know nothing handy. Why don't she do her own potatoes, and as brown as she likes, Tilly?"

"Mamma wants us to take care of things, Miss Redwood."

"Won't let your aunt learn you, nother?" said Miss Redwood, sticking one end of her knitting-needle behind her ear, and slowly scratching with it, while she looked at Matilda.

"Aunt Candy does not like to do anything in the kitchen; and I would rather you would teach me, Miss Redwood—if you would."

"And can you learn Maria?"

"Oh yes."

"Well, come along; what do you want to know next?"

"I wish you'd teach me some time how to make gingerbread. And pies."

The housekeeper glanced at the clock, and then bade Matilda take oft' her things.

"Now?" said Matilda, hesitating.

"You can't do nothing any time but now," said Miss Redwood, as she put away her work in its basket. "You can think of doing it; but if you ever come to doing it, you will find it is now."

"But is it convenient?"

"La, child, I don't know what people mean by convenient. You look at it one way, and there is nothing convenient; and you look at it another way, and there is nothing but what is. Hang your things over that chair; and I'll put an apron on you."

"But which way does it look this afternoon, Miss Redwood?"

The housekeeper laughed, and kissed Tilly, whom she was arraying in a great check apron, big enough to cover her.

"It is just how you choose to take it," she said. "I declare I'm sorry for the folks as is tied to convenience; they don't get the right good of their life. Why, honey, what isn't my convenience is somebody else's convenience, maybe. I want it to be sunshine very often, so as I kin dry my clothes, when the farmers want it to be rain to make their corn and cabbages grow. It is sure to be convenient for somebody."

"But I want it to be convenient for you, this afternoon," said Matilda, wistfully.

"Well, 'tis," said the housekeeper. "There—wash your hands in that bowl, dear; and here's a clean towel for you. A body as wants to have things convenient, had better not be a minister's housekeeper. No, the place is nice enough," she went on, as she saw Matilda's eye glance around the kitchen; "'tain't that; but I always think convenient means having your own way; and that nobody need expect to do at the parsonage. Just so sure as I make pot pie, Mr. Richmond'll hev to go to a funeral, and it's spiled or lost, for he's no time to eat it; and I never cleaned up that hall and steps yet, but an army of boots and shoes came tramping over it out of the dirt; when if it wants cleaning, it'll get leave to be without a foot crossing it all the afternoon. And if it's bakin' day, I have visitors, and have to run between them and the oven, till I don't know which end is the parlour; and that's the way, Tilly; and I don't know no better way but to conclude that somebody else's convenience is yourn—and then you'll live in clover. The minister had to preach to me a good while before I could see it, though. Now, honey, sift your flour;—here it is. Kin you do it?"

Matilda essayed to do it, and the housekeeper looked on.

"The damper is turned," she said; "we'll have the oven hot by the time the cake is ready. Now, dear, what's going into it?"

"Will that be enough?" said Matilda, lifting her floury hand out of the pan.

"I want a piece," said the housekeeper; "so there had better go another bowlful. And the minister—he likes a bite of hot gingerbread, when he can get it. So shake it in, dear. That will do. Now, what are you going to put in it, Tilly, besides flour?"

"Why, I don't know," said Matilda.

"Well, guess. What do you think goes into gingerbread?"

"Molasses?"

"Yes; but that goes one of the last things. Ain't you going to put no shortening in?"

"Shortening? what is that?" said Matilda.

"Well, it's whatever you've got. Butter'll do, if it's nice and sweet—like this is—or sweet drippings'll do, or a little sweet lard, maybe. We'll take the butter to-day, for this is going to do you and me credit. Now think—what else? Put the butter right there, in the middle, and rub it into the flour with the flat of your hand, so. Rub hard, dear; get the butter all in the flour, so you can't see it. What is to go in next?"

"Spice? I think mamma puts spice."

"If you like it. What spice will you choose?"

"I don't know, Miss Redwood."

"Well, it'd be queer gingerbread without ginger, wouldn't it?"

"Oh yes. I forgot the ginger, to be sure. How much?"

"That's 'cordin' as you like it. That won't hardly taste, dear; 'tain't just like red pepper; take a good cupful. Now just a little bit of cloves!"

"And cinnamon?"

"It'll be spice gingerbread, sure enough," said the housekeeper. "And salt, Tilly."

"Salt? Must salt go in?" said Matilda, who had got very eager now in her work.

"Salt's univarsal," said Miss Redwood. "'Cept sweetmeats, it goes into everything. That's what makes all the rest good. I never could see what was the use o' salt, till one day the minister, he preached a sermon on 'Ye are the salt of the earth,' and ever since that it seems to kind o' put me in mind. And then I asked Mr. Richmond if everything meant something."

"But what does that mean, that you said?" said Matilda. "Good people don't make the rest of the world good."

"They give all the taste there is to it, though," said the housekeeper. "And I asked that very question myself of the minister; and what do you think he told me."

"What?"

"He said it was because the salt warn't of as good quality as it had ought to be. And that makes me think, too. But la! look at your gingerbread standing still. Now see, dear here's a bowl o' buttermilk for you; it's as rich as cream, a'most; and I take and put in a spoonful of—you know what this is?"

"Salaeratus?"

"That's it."

"We use soda at our house."

"Salaeratus is good enough for me," said Miss Redwood; "and I know what it'll do; so I'm never put out in my calculations. Now when it foams up—see,—now mix your cake, dear, as quick as you like. Stop—wait—let's get the molasses in. Now, go on. I declare, having two pair o' hands kind o' puts one out. Stir it up; don't be afraid."

Matilda was not afraid, and was very much in earnest. The gingerbread was quickly mixed, and for a few minutes there was busy work, buttering the pans and putting the mixture in them, and setting the pans in the oven. Then Matilda washed her hands; the housekeeper put the flour and spices away; and the two sat down to watch the baking.

"It'll be good," said the housekeeper.

"I hope it will," said Matilda.

"I know 'twill," said Miss Redwood. "You do your part right; and these sort o' things—flour, and butter, and meat, and potatoes, and that—don't never disapint you. That's one thing that is satisfactory in this world."

"But mamma has her cake spoiled in the oven sometimes."

"'Twarn't the oven's fault," said Miss Redwood. "Did ye think it was? Ovens don't do that for me, never."

"But sometimes the oven was too hot," said Matilda; "and other times she said it was not hot enough."

"Of course!" said the housekeeper; "and then again other times she forgot to look at it, maybe, and left her cake in too long. The cake couldn't knock at the door of the oven to be let out; that'd be too much to ask. Now look at yourn, dear."

Matilda opened the oven door and shut it again.

"What's the appearance of it?"

"It is coming up beautifully. But it isn't up in the middle yet."

"The fire's just right," said the housekeeper.

"But how can you tell, Miss Redwood?" said Matilda, standing by the stove with a most careful set of wrinkles on her little brow.

"Tell?" said the housekeeper; "just as you tell anything else; after you've seen it fifty times, you know."

Matilda began a painful calculation of how often she could make something to bake, and how long it would be till fifty times had made her wise in the matter; when an inner door opened, and the minister himself came upon the scene. Matilda coloured, and looked a little abashed; the housekeeper smiled.

"I am very glad to see you here, Tilly," Mr. Richmond said, heartily. "What are you and Miss Redwood doing here?"

"We are getting ready for the business of life," said the housekeeper. "The minister knows there are different ways of doin' that."

"Just what way are you taking now?" said Mr. Richmond, laughing. "It seems to me, you think the business of life is eating—if I may judge by the smell of the preparation."

"It is time you looked at your cake, Tilly," said Miss Redwood; and she did not offer to help her; so, blushing more and more, Matilda was obliged to open the oven door again, and show that she was acting baker. The eyes of the two older persons met in a way that was pleasant to see.

"What's here, Tilly?" said the minister, coming nearer and stooping to look in himself.

"Miss Redwood has been teaching me how to make gingerbread. O Miss Redwood, it is beginning to get brown at the end."

"Turn the pans round then. It ain't done yet."

"No, it isn't done, for it is not quite up in the middle. There is a sort of hollow place."

"Shut up your oven, child, and it will be all right in a few minutes."

"Then I think this is the night when you are going to stay and take tea with me," said Mr. Richmond. "I promised you a roast apple, I remember. Are there any more apples that will do for roasting, Miss Redwood?"

"O Mr. Richmond, I do not care for the apple!" Matilda cried.

"But if I don't have it, you will stay and take tea with me?"

Matilda looked wistful, and hesitated. Her mother would not miss her; but could Maria get the tea without her?—

"And I dare say you want to talk to me about something; isn't it so?" the minister continued.

"Yes, Mr. Richmond; I do."

"That settles it. She will stay, Miss Redwood. I shall have some gingerbread, I hope. And when you are ready, Tilly, you can come to me in my room."

The minister quitted the kitchen in good time, for now the cakes were almost done and needed care. A little watchful waiting, and then the plumped up, brown, glossy loaves of gingerbread said to even an inexperienced eye that it was time for them to come out of the oven. Miss Redwood showed Matilda how to arrange them on a sieve, where they would not get steamy and moist; and Matilda's eye surveyed them there with very great satisfaction.

"That's as nice as if I had made it myself," said the housekeeper. "Now don't you want to get the minister's tea?"

"What shall I do, Miss Redwood?"

"I thought maybe you'd like to learn how to manage something else. He's had no dinner to-day—to speak of; and if eatin' ain't the business of life—which it ain't, I guess, with him—yet stoppin' eatin' would stop business, he'd find; and I'm goin' to frizzle some beef for his supper, and put an egg in. Now I'll cut the beef, and you can stir it, if you like."

Matilda liked very much. She watched the careful shaving of the beef in paper-like fragments; then at the housekeeper's direction she put some butter in a pan on the fire, and when it was hot threw the beef in and stirred it back and forward with a knife, so as not to let it burn, and so as to bring all the shavings of beef in contact with the hot pan bottom, and into the influence of the boiling butter. At the moment of its being done, the housekeeper broke an egg or two into the pan; and then in another moment bade Matilda take it from the fire and turn it out. Meanwhile Miss Redwood had cut bread and made the tea.

"Now you can go and call the minister," she said.

Matilda thought she was having the rarest of pleasant times, as she crossed the little dining-room and the square yard of hall that came next, and went into the study. Fire Was burning in the wide chimney there as usual; the room was very sweet and still; Mr Richmond sat before the fire with a book.

"I thought you were coming to talk to me, Tilly?" he said, stretching out his hand to draw her up to him.

"Miss Redwood was showing me how to do things, Mr. Richmond."

"Then you do want to talk to me?"

"Oh yes, sir. But, Mr. Richmond, tea is ready."

"We'll eat first then, and talk afterward. What is the talk to be about, Tilly? just to give me an idea."

"It is about—I do not know what is right about something, Mr. Richmond. I do not know what I ought to do."

"Have you looked in the Bible to find out?"

"No, sir. I didn't know where to look, Mr. Richmond."

"Have you prayed about it?"

Matilda hesitated, but finally said again, "No."

"That is another thing you can always do. The Lord understands your difficulties better than any one else can, and knows just what answer to give you."

"But—an answer? will He give it always?"

"Always provided you are perfectly willing to take it, whatever it may be; and provided you do your part."

"What is my part?"

"If I sent you to find your way along a road you did not know, where there were guide posts set up; what would be your part to do?"

"To mind the guide posts?"

"Yes, and go on as they bade you. That is not to prevent your asking somebody you meet on the road, if you are going right? Now Miss Redwood has rung her bell, and you and I must obey it."

"But, what are the guide posts, Mr. Richmond?"

"We will see about that after tea. Come."

Matilda gave one wondering thought to the question how Maria and tea would get along without her at home; and then she let all that go, and resolved to enjoy the present while she had it. Certainly it was very pleasant to take tea with Mr. Richmond. He was so very kind, and attentive to her wants; and so amusing in his talk; and the new gingerbread looked so very handsome, piled up in the cake basket; and Miss Redwood was such a variety after Mrs. Candy. Matilda let care go. And when it came to eating the gingerbread, it was found to be excellent. Mr. Richmond said he wished she would come often and make some for him.

"Do you know there is a meeting of the Band this evening?"

"I had forgotten about it, Mr. Richmond; I have been so busy."

"It is lucky you came to take tea with me, then," said he. "Perhaps you would have forgotten it altogether. What is Maria doing?"

"She is busy at home, Mr. Richmond."

"I am sorry for that. To-night is the night for questions; I am prepared to receive questions from everybody. Have you got yours ready?"

"About Band work, Mr. Richmond?"

"Yes, about Band work. Though you know that is only another name for the Lord's work, whatever it may be that He gives us to do. Now we will go to my study and attend to the business we were talking about."

So they left Miss Redwood to her tea-table; and the minister and his little guest found themselves alone again.

"Now, Tilly, what is it?" he said, as he shut the door.

"Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, anxiously, "I want to know if I must mind what Aunt Erminia says?"

"Mrs. Candy?" said Mr. Richmond, looking surprised.

"Yes, sir."

"The question is, whether you must obey her?"

"Yes, sir."

"I should say, if you doubt about any of her commands, you had better ask your mother, Tilly."

"But I cannot see my mother, Mr. Richmond; that is one of the things. Mamma is sick, and aunt Candy has forbidden me to go into her room. Must I stay out?"

"Is your mother so ill?"

"No, sir, I do not think she is; I don't know; but Aunt Candy says she is nervous; and I must not go in there without leave." And Matilda raised appealing eyes to the minister.

"That is hard, Tilly. I am very sorry to hear it. But I am of opinion that the authority of nurses must not be disputed. I think if Mrs. Candy says stay out, you had better stay out."

"And everything else?" said Matilda. "Must I mind what she says in everything else?"

"Are you under her orders, Matilda?"

"That is what I want to know, Mr. Richmond. She says so. She told me not to go out to church last Sunday night; and all the others were going, and I went too; and she scolded about it and said I must mind her. Must I? in everything? I can't ask mamma."

Mr. Richmond turned a paper-weight over and over two or three times without speaking.

"You know what the fifth commandment is, Tilly."

"Yes, Mr. Richmond. But she is not my mother."

"Don't you think she is in your mother's place just now? Would not your mother wish that your obedience should be given to your aunt for the present?"

Matilda looked grave, not to say gloomy.

"I can tell you what will make it easy," said Mr. Richmond. "Do it for the sake of the Lord Jesus. He set us an example of obedience to all lawful authorities; He has commanded us to live in peace with everybody as far as we possibly can; and to submit ourselves to one another in the fear of God. Besides that, I must think, Tilly, the command to obey our parents means also that we should obey whoever happens to stand in our parents' place to us. Will it not make it easy to obey your aunt, if you think that you are doing it to please God?"

"Yes, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, thoughtfully.

"I always feel that God's command sweetens anything," the minister went on. "Do you feel so?"

"I think I do," the little girl answered.

"So if you stay at home for Mrs. Candy's command, you may reflect that it is for Jesus' sake; and that will please Him a great deal better than your going to church to please yourself."

"Yes, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, cheerfully.

"Was that all you had to talk to me about?"

"Yes, sir; all except about Band work."

"We will talk about that in the meeting. If you have a question to ask, write it here; and I will take it in and answer it."

He gave Matilda paper and pen, and himself put on his overcoat. Then taking her little slip of a question, the two went together into the lecture-room.



CHAPTER XI.

Three was a good little gathering of the workers, many of whom were quite young persons. Among them Matilda was not a little surprised to see Maria. But she warily sheered off from comments and questions, and took a seat in another part of the room.

"We are here for a good talk to-night," said the minister, after they had sung and prayed. "I stand ready to meet difficulties and answer questions. All who have any more little notes to lay on the desk, please bring or send them up, or ask their questions by word of mouth. I will take the first of these that comes to hand."

Mr. Richmond unfolded a paper and read it over to himself, in the midst of a hush of expectation. Then he read it aloud.

"If a member of the Relief Committee visits a sick person in want of help, and finds another member of some other committee giving the help and doing the work of the Relief Committee, which of them should take care of the case?"

"It is almost as puzzling," said Mr. Richmond, "as that other question, what husband the woman should have in the other world who had had seven in this. But as we are not just like the angels in heaven yet, I should say in this and similar cases, that the one who first found and undertook the case should continue her care—or his care—if he or she be so minded. The old rule of 'first come, first served,' is a good one, I think. The Relief Committee has no monopoly of the joy of helping others. Let us see what comes next.

"'There are four people, I know, who go to read the Bible to one blind person—and I know of at least two who are sick and unable to read, that nobody goes to.'

"Want of system," said Mr. Richmond, looking up. "The head of the Bible-reading Committee should be told of these facts."

"She has been told," said a lady in the company.

"Then doubtless the irregularity will be set to rights."

"No, it is not so certain; for the blind person lives where it is easy to attend her; and the sick people are in Lilac Lane—out of the way, and in a disagreeable place."

"Does the head of the Bible-reading Committee decline these cases, having nobody that she can send to them?"

"She says she does not know whom to send."

"I will thank you for the names of those two cases by and by, Mrs. Norris; I think I can get them supplied. The question of theory I will handle presently, before we separate."

"Here is another request," said Mr. Richmond, who knew Matilda's handwriting,—"from a dear child, who asks to know 'what we shall do, when people will not hear the message we carry?' Why, try again. Go and tell them again; and never mind rebuffs if you get them. People did not listen to our Master; it is no matter of wonder if they refuse to hear us. But He did not stop His labours for that; neither must we. 'Let us not be weary in well-doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.' I give her that for her watchword;—' If we faint not, remember.

"The next question in my hand is, 'what we are to do about welcoming strangers?' The writer states, that six new scholars have lately come to the school, and, to her certain knowledge, only two of them have received any welcome.

"Well," said Mr. Richmond, thoughtfully, "I must come to the words I had chosen to talk to you about. They answer a great many things. You all remember a verse in the Epistle to the Ephesians which speaks of 'redeeming the time, because the days are evil.'

"I dare say it has puzzled some of you, as it used once to puzzle me. How are we to 'redeem the time'? Another translation of the passage will perhaps be clearer and help us to understand. 'Buying' up opportunities.' The words are so rendered by a late great authority. I don't know but you will at first think it just as hard to comprehend. How are we to 'buy up opportunities'?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Mrs. Swan, Ailie's mother. "I always thought opportunities were given."

"So they are. But the privilege of using them, we often must buy."

"I don't see how."

"Let us come to facts, Mrs. Swan. Here are four opportunities in the school, in the shape of new members added to it. How comes it these opportunities have not been used? There are two other grand opportunities in Lilac Lane."

"Are we to buy them?" said Mrs. Trembleton.

"I do not see how else the difficulty can be met. They are worth buying. But the next question is, What will you pay?"

There was a long silence, which nobody seemed inclined to break.

"I think you see, my dear friends, what I mean. For welcoming those four strangers, somebody must give up his ease for a moment—must make a little sacrifice of comfort. It will be very little indeed, for these things pay as we go; we get our return promptly. The opportunities in Lilac Lane must be bought, perhaps, with some giving up of time; of pleasure, perhaps; perhaps we must pay some annoyance. It is so with most of our opportunities, dear friends. He who serves God with what costs him nothing, will do very little service, you may depend on it. Christ did not so; who, 'though He was rich, yet for our sakes He became poor, that we through His poverty might be rich.' He 'pleased not Himself.' And we, if we are His servants, must be ready to give everything, if need be, even our lives also, to the work He calls us to do. We must buy up opportunities with all our might, paying not only time and money, but love, and patience, and self-denial, and self-abasement, and labour, and pains-taking. We cannot be right servants of God or happy servants, and keep back anything. 'Let a man so account of us, as ministers of Christ, and stewards of the mysteries of God;' and let us see that all the grace He gives us we use to the very uttermost for His glory, in 'works, and love, and service, and faith, and patience, and works.' My dear friends, if we have only love in our hearts, love will buy up opportunities as fast as they come; and always have the right money."

Mr. Richmond said no more, but after another hymn and a prayer dismissed the assembly. Maria and Matilda presently found themselves side by side in the street.

"Maria," said the younger one, "don't you think you and I will go and read to those two poor people in the lane?"

"I guess I will!" said Maria, "when I get done being chief cook and bottle-washer to Mrs. Minny Candy."

"But before that, Maria?"

"When shall I go?" said Maria, sharply. "When it is time to get breakfast? or when the potatoes are on for dinner? or when I am taking the orders for tea? Don't be a goose, Matilda, if you can help it."

"We haven't much time," said Matilda, sighing.

"And I am not going to Lilac Lane, if I had it. There are enough other people to do that."

"O Maria!"

"Well, 'O Maria,'—there are."

"But they do not go."

"That's their look out."

"And, Maria, you see what Mr. Richmond thinks about the Dows."

"I don't see any such thing."

"You heard him to-night."

"He didn't say a word about the Dows."

"But about trying again, he did. O Maria, I've thought a great many times of that Dows' house."

"So have I," said Maria; "what fools we were."

"Why?"

"Why, because it was no use."

"Mr. Richmond doesn't think so."

"He's welcome to go and try for himself. I am not going again."

"What is the matter, Maria?"

"Nothing is the matter."

"But, Maria, ever since you joined the Band, I cannot remember once seeing you 'buy up opportunities.' If you loved Jesus, I think you would."

"I wouldn't preach," said Maria. "That is one thing I wouldn't do. If I was better than my neighbours, I'd let them be the ones to find it out."

Matilda was silent till they reached home.

"Where have you been, Matilda?" said her aunt, opening the parlour door.

"To see Miss Redwood, aunt Candy."

"Ask me, next time, before going anywhere. Here has Maria had everything to do since five hours ago,—all alone."

Matilda shut her lips firmly,—if her head took a more upright set on her shoulders she did not know it,—and went up-stairs after her sister.

"How is mamma, Maria?" she asked, when she got there.

"I don't know. Just the same."

The little girl sighed.

"What is to be for breakfast?"

"Fish balls."

"You do not know how to make them."

"Aunt Erminia told me. But I shall want your help, Tilly, for the fish has to be carefully picked all to pieces; and if we leave a bit as big as a sixpence, there'll be a row."

"But the fish isn't soaked, Maria."

"It is in hot water on the stove now. It will be done by morning."

Matilda sighed again deeply, and knelt down before the table where her Bible was open. "Buying up opportunities" floated through her head; with "works, and love, and service, and faith, and patience, and works"* [*Alford's translation.]—"Christ pleased not Himself"—and the little girl's head went down upon the open page. How much love she must have, to meet all the needs for it! to do all the works, have all the patience, buy up all the opportunities! Tilly's one prayer was that she might be full of love, first to God and then to everybody.

Such prayers are apt to be answered; and the next morning saw her go through all the details of its affairs with a quiet patience and readiness which must have had a deep spring somewhere. She helped Maria in the tedious picking out of the fish; she roasted her cheeks in frying the balls, while her sister was making porridge; she attended to the coffee; and she met her aunt and cousin at breakfast with an unruffled quiet sweetness of temper. It was just the drop of oil needed to keep things going smoothly; for Maria was tired and out of humour, and Mrs. Candy disposed to be ill-pleased with both the girls for their being out at the Band meeting. She did not approve of the whole thing, she said. However, the sunshine scattered the clouds away. And when, after a busy morning and a pretty well got-up dinner, Matilda asked leave to go out and take a walk, she had her reward. Mrs. Candy gave permission.

"Won't you come too, Maria?" she asked, when they went to their own room.

"There's no fun in walking," Maria answered, disconsolately.

"I am going to Lilac Lane."

"I hope you don't think there is any fun in that."

"But, Maria!——"

"Well, what?"

"I think there is something a great deal better than fun."

"You may have it all then, for me."

"Maria," said her little sister, gently, "I wish you wouldn't mind. Mamma will get well by and by, and this will be all over; and we are getting along so nicely. Aunt Candy was quite pleased with the dinner."

"There's another dinner to get to-morrow," said Maria; "and I don't know what you mean by this being 'all over' when mamma gets well. What difference will her getting well make? She will help, to be sure; but we should have the same things to do—just the same."

Matilda had not reckoned on that, for she looked sober a minute or two.

"Well, Maria," she said then, clearing up, "I don't care. If Jesus has given us this to do, you know, I like to do it; because He has given it to us to do."

Maria turned away impatiently.

"Maria," said her little sister, drawing nearer and speaking solemnly, "do you intend to ask Mr. Richmond to baptize you the next time he has the baptismal service?"

"If I do," said Maria, "you need not trouble yourself about it."

And Matilda thought she had better let the subject and her sister both alone for the present. She had got herself ready, and now taking her Bible she went out. It was but a little way to the corner. There she turned in the opposite direction from the one which would have taken her to church, and crossed the main street. In that direction, farther on, lay the way to Lilac Lane; but at the other corner of the street Matilda found an interruption. Somebody stopped her, whom she knew the next instant to be Norton Laval.

"Why, it is Matilda Englefield!" he said. "You are just the one I want to see."

"Am I?" said Matilda.

"I should think so. Come along; our house lies that way; don't you recollect?"

"Oh, but I am not going that way now," said Matilda.

"Oh yes, but you are! Mamma says contradicting is very rude, but I can't help it sometimes. Can you help it, Matilda?"

"People ought to be contradicted sometimes," Matilda said, with an arch bridling of her head, which, to be sure, the child was quite unconscious of.

"Not I," said Norton. "Come!"

"Oh, but I cannot, Norton. I wish I could. Not this time."

"Where are you going?"

"Up that way."

"Nobody lives up that way."

"Nobody? Just look at the houses."

"Nobody lives in those houses," said Norton.

"Oh, very well; then I am going to see nobody."

"No, Matilda; you are coming to see mamma. And I have something to show you; a new beautiful game, which mamma has got for me; we are going to play it on the lawn, when the grass is in order, by and by; and I want you to come and see it now, and learn how to play. Come, Matilda, I want to show it to you."

Matilda hesitated. It did not seem very easy to get rid of Norton; but what would become of the poor people in Lilac Lane? Would another time do for them? Here was Norton waiting for her; and a little play would be so pleasant. As she stood irresolute, Norton, putting his arm round her affectionately, and applying a little good-humoured force, gave her shoulders without much difficulty the turn he wished them to take. The two began to move down the street towards Norton's home. But as soon as this was done, Matilda began to have qualms about her dress. Norton was in a brown suit that fitted him, fresh and handsome; his cap sat jauntily on his thick, wavy hair; he was nice from head to foot. And Matilda had come out in the home dress she had worn while she and Maria had been washing up the dinner dittoes. Looking down she could see a little wet spot on the skirt now. That would dry. But then her boots were her everyday boots, and they were a little rusty; and she had on her common school hat. The only thing new and bright about her was her Bible under her arm. As her eye fell upon it, so did her companion's eye.

"What book have you got there?" he asked, and then put out his hand to take it. "A Bible! Where were you going with this, Matilda?"

"It is my Bible," said the little girl.

"Yes; but you do not take your Bible out to walk with you, do you, as babies do their dolls?"

"Of course not."

"Then what for, Matilda?"

"Business."

"What sort of business?"

"Why do you want to know, Norton? It was private business."

"I like that," said Norton. "Why do I want to know? Because you are Matilda Englefield, and I like to know all about you."

"You do not know much yet," said Matilda, looking with a pleased look, however, up into her companion's face. It was smiling at her, with a complacent look to match.

"I shan't know much when I know all," he said. "How old are you? You can't make much history in ten years."

"No, not much," said Matilda. "But still—it may not be history to other people, but I think it is to one's self."

"What?"

"Oh, one's life, you know."

"But ten years is not a life," said Norton.

"It is, if one hasn't lived any longer."

"I would like my life to be history to other people," said Norton. "Something worth while."

"I wouldn't like other people to know my life, though," said Matilda.

"Then could not help it, if it was something worth while," said Norton.

"Why, yes, Norton; one's life is what one thinks and feels; what nobody knows. Not the things that everybody knows."

"It is what one does," said Norton; "and if you do anything worth while, people will know it. I wonder what there will be to tell of you and me fifty years from now?"

"Fifty years! Why, then I should be sixty-one," said Matilda; "and you would be a good deal more than that. But perhaps we shall not live to be so old."

"Yes, we shall," said Norton. "I shall; and you must, too."

"Why, Norton, we can't make ourselves live," said Matilda, in great astonishment at this language.

"We shall live to be old, though," said Norton. "I know it. And I wish there may be something to be said of me. I don't think women ought to be talked of."

"I do not see what good it would do anybody to be talked of, after he has gone away out of the world," said Matilda. "Except to be talked of in heaven. That would be good."

"In heaven!" said Norton. "Talked of in heaven! Where did you get that?"

"I don't mean that exactly," said Matilda. "But some people will."

"Who?"

"Why, a great many people, Norton. Abraham and Noah, and David, and Daniel, and the woman that put all she had into the Lord's treasury, and the woman that anointed the head of Jesus—the woman who, He said, had done what she could. I would like to have that said of me, if it was Jesus that said it."

Norton took hold of Matilda and gave her a little good-humoured shake. "Stop that!" he said; "and tell me, is that why you are carrying a Bible out here in the streets?"

"Oh, I haven't any use for it here, Norton."

"Then what have you got it here for?"

"Norton, there are some people in the village who are sick, or cannot read; and I was going to read to them."

"Where are they?"

"In Lilac Lane."

"Where is that?"

"You go up past the corner a good way, and just by Mr. Barth's foundry you turn down a few steps, and turn again at the baker's. Then, a little way further on, you strike into the lane."

"That's it, is it? I know. But do you know what sort of people live up that way?"

"Yes."

"Well, there's another thing you don't know, and that's the mud. You'd never have got out again, if you had gone to Lilac Lane to-day. It is three feet deep; and it weighs twenty pounds a foot. After you set your shoe in it, you want a windlass to get it out again."

"What is a windlass?" Matilda asked.

"Don't you know? Well, you are a girl; but you are a brick. I'll teach you about a windlass, and lots of things."

"I shouldn't think you would want to teach me, because I am a girl," said Matilda.

They had reached the iron gate of Mrs. Laval's domain, walking fast as they had talked; and in answer to Matilda's last remark, Norton opened the gate for her, and took off his cap with an air as he held it for her to pass in. Matilda looked, smiled, and stepped past him.

"You are not like any boy I ever saw," she remarked, when he had recovered his cap and his place beside her.

"I hope you like me better than any one you ever saw?"

"Yes," said Matilda, "I do."

The boy's answer was to do what most boys are too shy or too proud for. He put his arms round Matilda and gave her a hearty kiss. Matilda was greatly surprised, and bridled a little, as if she thought Norton had taken a liberty; but on the whole seemed to recognise the fact that they were very good friends, and took this as a seal of it. Norton led her into the house, got his croquet box, and brought her and it out again to the little lawn before the door. Nobody else was visible. The day was still, dry, and sunny, and though the grass was hardly green yet and not shaven nor rolled nor anything that a croquet lawn ought to be, still it would do, as Norton said, to look at. Matilda stood by and listened intently, while he planted his hoops and showed his mallets, and explained to her the initial mysteries of the game. They even tried how it would go; and there was no doubt of one thing, the time went almost as fast as the croquet balls.

"I must run home, Norton," Matilda said at last.

"Why? I don't think so."

"I know I must."

"Well, do you like it?" He meant the game.

"Oh, it's delightful!" was Matilda's honest exclamation. Norton pushed back his cap and looked at her, pleased on his part. It came into Matilda's head that she ought to tell him something. Their two faces had grown to be so friendly to each other.

"Norton," she said, gravely, "I want you to know something about me."

"Yes," said Norton. "I want to know it."

"You don't know what it is."

"That's the very thing. I want to know it."

"Norton, did you ever see anybody baptized?"

"Babies," said Norton, after a moment's recollection.

"Well, if you would like to see me baptized, come to our church Sunday after next."

"You?" said Norton. "Haven't you been baptized?"

"Not yet."

"I thought everybody was. Then if you have not been yet, why do you? Whose notion is that?"

"It is mine."

"Your notion?" said Norton, examining her. "What do you mean by that, Matilda?"

"I mean, I want to be baptized; and Mr. Richmond is going to do it for me."

"What's it for? what's the use? I wouldn't if I were you."

"It is joining the church. Don't you understand, Norton?"

"Not a bit. That is something I never did understand. Do you understand it?"

"Why, yes, certainly."

"Let's hear, then," said Norton, putting up his croquet balls.

"Mr. Richmond has explained it so much, you know, I couldn't help but understand."

"Oh, it's Mr. Richmond, is it?"

"No; it's the Bible."

"Let's hear, then," said Norton. "Go on."

Matilda hesitated. She found a difficulty in saying all her mind to him; she did not know whether it was best; and with that she had a suspicion that perhaps she ought to do it. She glanced at him, and looked away, and glanced again; and tried to make up her mind. Norton was busy putting up his croquet hoops and mallets; but his face looked so energetic and wide awake, and his eye was so quick and strong, that she was half afraid to say something that might bring an expression of doubt or ridicule upon it. Then Norton looked up at her again, a keen look enough, but so full of pleasure in her that Matilda's doubts were resolved. He would not be unkind; she would venture it.

"I want you to know about me, Norton," she began again.

"Well," said Norton, "so do I; but it seems difficult, somehow."

"You do not think that, for you are laughing."

Norton gave her another look, laughing rather more; and then he came and stood close beside her.

"What is it, Matilda?" he asked.

"I don't want you to think that I am good," she said, looking up earnestly and timidly, "for I am not; but I want to be; and being baptized is a sign of belonging to the Lord Jesus, so I want to be baptized."

"It isn't a sign of anything good," said Norton. "Lots of people are baptized, that aren't anything else, I know. Lots of them, Matilda. That don't change them."

"No, that don't change them, Norton; but when they are changed, then the Bible says they must be baptized."

"What for?"

"It is just telling everybody what they believe, and what they are. It's a sign."

"Then when you are baptized, as you mean to be, that will be telling everybody what you believe and what you are?"

"Yes."

"It would not tell me," said Norton, "be-cause I should not understand the sign. I wish you would tell me now in words, Matilda."

"I don't know if I can, but I'll try. You know water makes things clean, Norton?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, if it is used it does," said Matilda. "The water is a sign that I believe the Lord Jesus will take away my sins, and make me clean and good, if I trust Him; that He will wash my heart, and that He has begun to do it. And it will be a sign that I am His servant, because that is what He has commanded His servants."

"What?"

"That; to be baptized, and join the church."

"Matilda, a great many people are baptized, and keep all their sins just the same."

"Oh, but those are make-believe people."

"No, they are not; they are real people."

"I mean, they are make-believe Christians."

"How do you know but you are?"

"I think I know," said Matilda, looking down.

"But other people won't know. Your being baptized will not mean anything to them, only that somebody has coaxed you into it."

"It will mean all that, Norton; and if I am true they will see it means all that."

"They might see it all the same without your being baptized. What difference would that make?"

"It is obedience," said Matilda, firmly. "And not to do it would be disobedience. And it is profession of faith; and not to do it, would be to say that I don't believe."

Norton looked amused, and pleased, and a little puzzled.

"You have not told me anything about you, after all," he said; "for I knew it all before."

"How did you know it?"

"Not this about your being baptized, you know, but about you."

"What about me?"

"I say, Matilda, when will you come and play croquet again?"

"I don't know. But, O Norton, I must go now. I forgot all about it. And there was something else I wanted to say. I wish you would be a servant of Jesus too?"

Matilda gave this utterance a little timidly. But Norton only looked at her and smiled, and finally closed the question by taking her in his arms and giving her two kisses this time. It was done without a bit of shamefacedness on his part, and with the energy and the tenderness too of affection. Matilda was extremely astonished and somewhat discomposed; but the evident kindness excused the freedom, and on the whole she found nothing to object. Norton opened the iron gate for her, and she hurried off homewards without another word.

In a dream of pleasure she hurried along, feeling that Norton Laval was a great gain to her, and that croquet was the most delightful of amusements, and that all the weariness of the day's work was taken out of her heart. She only regretted, as she went, that those poor people in Lilac Lane had heard no reading; but she resolved she would go to them to-morrow.

There is one time, however, for doing everything that ought to be done; and if that time is lost, no human calculation can make sure a second opportunity. Matilda was to find this in the case of Lilac Lane. The next day weather kept her at home. The second day she was too busy to go on such an expedition. The third was Sunday. And when Monday came, all thoughts of what she had intended to do were put out of her head by her mother's condition. Mrs. Englefield was declared to be seriously ill.

The doctor was summoned. Her fever had taken a bad turn, he said. It was a very bad turn; for after a few days it was found to be carrying her swiftly to death's door. She was unable to see her children, or at least unable to recognise and speak to them, until the very last day; and then too feeble. And the Sunday when Matilda had expected to be baptized, saw her mother's funeral instead.

Anne and Letitia came up from New York, but were obliged to return thither immediately after the funeral; and the two younger girls were left to their grief. It was well for them now that they, had plenty of business, plenty of active work on hand. It was a help to Maria; after a little it diverted her thoughts and took her out of the strain of sorrow. And it was a help to Matilda, but in a more negative way. It kept the child from grieving herself ill, or doing herself a mischief with violent sorrow; it was no relief. In every unoccupied moment, whenever the demands of household business left her free to do what she would, the little girl bent beneath her burden of sorrow. Kneeling before her open Bible, her tears flowed incessantly every moment when the luxury of indulgence could be allowed them. Mrs. Candy did not see the whole of this; she was rarely in the girls' room; yet she saw enough to become uneasy, and tried all that she knew to remedy it. Clarissa was kind, to her utmost power of kindness. Even Maria was stirred to try some soothing for her little sister. But Matilda could not be soothed. Maria's instances and persuasions did, however, at last urge her to the point of showing a part of her thoughts and disclosing the thorn that pressed sharpest on her mind. It was, that she had not pleased her mother by doing her best in the studies she had pursued at school. Matilda had always been a little self-indulgent; did not trouble herself with study; made no effort to reach or keep a good place in her classes. Mrs. Englefield had urged and commanded her in vain. Not obstinately, but with a sort of gay carelessness, Matilda had let these exhortations slip; had studied when she was interested, and lagged behind her companions in the pursuits she found dry. And now, she could not forgive herself nor cease her sorrowing on account of this failure.

Maria in despair at last took Mrs. Candy into her confidence, and besought her to comfort Matilda, which Mrs. Candy tried her best to do. She represented that Matilda had always been a good child; had loved and honoured her mother, and constantly enjoyed her favour. Matilda heard, but answered with sobs.

"I am sure, my dear," her aunt said, "you have nothing to reproach yourself with. We are none of us perfect."

"I didn't do what I could, aunt Candy!" was Matilda's answer.

"My dear, hardly anybody—the best of us—does all he might do."

"I will," said Matilda.



CHAPTER XII.

This could not last always, and the days as they passed, after a while, brought their usual soothing.

The quiet routine of the early spring began to come in again. Mrs. Candy was looking for a girl, she said, but had not found one yet; Maria and Matilda were not ready to go to school; they were better getting the breakfast and washing up the dishes than doing nothing. No doubt that was true.

"Tilly," said Maria, one of these days, when the coffee cups were getting put in order, going out of Maria's tub of hot water into Matilda's hands and napkin,—"Tilly! you know next Sunday there is to be a baptism in the church?"

"Yes," said Matilda.

It was weeks after that other Sunday, when the rite had not been administered. Spring had come forward rapidly since then. Trees were in full leaf; dandelions in the grass; flowers were in the woods, though the two sisters had not gone to see them this year; the apple orchards around Shadywalk were in a cloud of pink blossoms; and the sun was warm upon flower and leaf everywhere.

"Who is going to be baptized?" Maria went on.

"I don't know. At least, I don't know all."

"Ailie Swan is," remarked Maria.

"Yes, I know Ailie Swan is."

"And Frances Barth."

Matilda was silent.

"And Esther Trembleton, and George Rice, and Mary and Willie Edwards."

"I suppose so," said Matilda.

"You are not, are you?"

"You know I was going to be," said Matilda. "I am now."

"Tilly, it would be no harm if you waited till another time."

"Why should I wait?"

"I am going to wait," said Maria.

"Why?"

"Why, because I don't feel like it. Not now."

"I do not want to wait," said Matilda. And probably she was going to say more, but her lip trembled and she stopped.

"It would be no harm, Tilly, if you waited. Nobody would expect it of us now. Nobody would expect it, Tilly."

"I think One would," said Matilda.

"Who?"

"Jesus."

"But, Tilly," said Maria, uneasily, "I don't think so. It could not be pleasant for you and me, you know, to go forward and be baptized now. We might wait till another time; and then it would be more easy, wouldn't it?"

"It is not hard now," said Matilda. "It is pleasant now. I do not wish to put it off."

"Pleasant?" repeated Maria.

"Yes," said her little sister, quietly, lifting her eyes to Maria's face so steadily and gravely that the other changed her ground.

"But at least it is not duty, Matilda."

Matilda had dried all the cups, and she threw her napkin down and covered her face.

"Oh yes!" she said; "it is duty and pleasure too. I'll do what I can."

"But what does it signify, your doing it?" said Maria. "It isn't anything. And it will look so odd if you do and I don't."

Matilda took up her napkin again, and went to work at the plates.

"Matilda, I wish you would wait. I am not ready to go now."

"But I am ready, Maria."

"If I was to tell Aunt Candy, I believe she would put a stop to it," said Maria, sulkily. "I know she does not think much of such young people doing such things."

"But Jesus said, Let them come."

Maria tossed her head. However she did not speak to Mrs. Candy.

So it was with no notion of Matilda's intention that her aunt that Sunday took her seat in Mr. Richmond's church. She had heard that a number of people, most of them young people, were to be baptized in the evening; she had been to her own church duly in the morning, and thought she might gratify her curiosity now in seeing how these things are managed in a different communion. She and Clarissa went alone, not supposing that the younger ones of the family were at that same moment getting ready to follow.

"How are you going to dress yourself, Matilda?" her sister inquired.

"To dress myself!" said Matilda, turning her eyes upon her sister in astonished fashion.

"Why, yes, child! you will go out there in sight of everybody, you know. Aren't you going to put on a white frock? Clarissa says they always do in 'her church.'"

Matilda looked down at her own black dress and burst into tears; only by a vigorous effort she kept the tears from falling, after the first one or two, and hurriedly and silently began to get herself ready.

"But, Matilda! why don't you speak?" said her sister. "Are you going just so? and why don't you speak to me? There is no harm in a white frock."

"I don't want a white frock," said Matilda. "Do you mean to stay at home?"

"I suppose I am going," said Maria, beginning slowly her own preparations. "People would think odd if I didn't go. Where are you going to sit?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you are very stupid. I mean, where are you going to sit?"

"Where we always do, I suppose."

"But then you would have so far to walk."

"To walk?" Matilda repeated, bewildered.

"Why, yes, child! When you are called to go up with the rest, you know; you would have so far to go."

"Oh!" said Matilda. "What of it?"

"Don't you care?"

"Why, no. It don't make any difference."

"Well, I'd have a white frock if I were you," said Maria. "Being in black is no objection to that; for people do just the same, Matilda, for a baptism."

"You will be late, Maria," was all the answer her little sister made.

And they were late. Matilda was ready and waiting, before Maria's slow preparations were made. They walked quick; but service had begun in the church before they got there. They paused in the vestibule till a prayer should be ended. And here Matilda was seized upon.

"I thought you were not coming," said an earnest whisper. "What made you come so late?" It was Norton Laval.

"I couldn't help it," said Matilda.

"And when you came, I all but missed you. They said all of you—you know—would be in white dresses; and I was looking out for white. Aren't you going to be baptized, after all?"

"Oh yes, Norton."

"Well, here's some flowers for you," said the boy, putting a bunch of white heath and lilies into Matilda's hand. "Mamma is here; up in the Dawsons' pew; it was sold with the place, so we've got it. Come there, Matilda, it will be a good place for you; yours is farther back, you know. Mamma told me to bring you."

Maria had gone in, after an impatient whisper to her sister. And Matilda yielded to a secret inclination, and followed Norton.

The service of baptism was not entered into until the close of the evening. During one of the intervals of the usual service, which preceded the other, Matilda questioned with herself if she really would have done better to put on a white dress? Everybody seemed to expect it. She could not, from the Daweon pew, which was a corner front one, see how her companions were dressed. But she presently recollected that the "fine linen," which Mr. Richmond had talked to them about, "is the righteousness of saints;" and she quieted herself with the assurance that the real attire of fitness is inward and not outward. And when the candidates for baptism were called to come forward, she quietly left her bunch of lilies with her hat on the cushion of the pew.

"Is that Matilda!" whispered Clarissa to her mother.

"I never heard a word of it!" said Mrs. Candy.

"You cannot stop her now."

"No; if I could I would," answered Mrs. Candy. "This ought not to be. Such a child!—does not know what she is doing. What a way!"

But Matilda knew what she was doing; and when the candidates were asked respecting their faith and profession, there was no voice among them all that answered more clear and free; none that promised with more calm distinctness to "keep God's holy will and commandments, and walk in the same all the days of her life." And it was a meek little face, without a cloud or a doubt upon it, that was raised towards Mr. Richmond when her turn came.

There was a long line of candidates for baptism, reaching nearly from one end to the other of the communion rails. Mr. Richmond stood near one end, by the font, and did not change his place; so each one, as he or she received the rite, passed to one side, while the place was filled by another. Without breaking the rank this was done; one set slowly edging along from left to right, while from right to left, one by one, the others came to take their turn. It was a pretty sight. So some thought; but there were varieties of opinion.

One variety Matilda had to encounter that night before she slept. Going back to Mrs. Laval's pew to get her hat and flowers, naturally she walked home with her and Norton, and had no annoyance until she got there. As she went through the hall the parlour door opened and she was called in.

"I want to speak to you, Matilda," said Mrs. Candy; "and I think it is proper to do it at once. I want to know about this. How long have you been preparing for this step you have taken to-night?"

"Ma'am?" said Matilda.

"How long have you been thinking of doing this?"

"Oh, a long while, Aunt Candy."

"Why did you not consult me?"

Her mother would have been the one to speak to about it, and her mother had been too ill. Remembering this, Matilda stood silent and her eyes filled.

"You have been intending it for these two months past?"

"Yes, Aunt Candy; and before."

"Well, then, why did you not speak to me?"

"I spoke to Mr. Richmond."

"Mr. Richmond might have had the courtesy, himself." (Which Mr. Richmond had meant to do, but various pressing matters had prevented.) "But you ought to have spoken to me, Matilda. You are too young a child to take such responsibility."

Matilda did not think of anything to say to this.

"I do not think you understand what you have been doing."

"I think I do, Aunt Candy."

"What did you want to be baptized for?"

"Because Jesus says we must."

"Yes, properly; but not improperly, without knowing what you do. What do you think it means, Matilda?"

"To be baptized, Aunt Erminia?"

"Yes."

"It means," said the child steadily, and with the clear utterance of pleasure, "that I belong to the Lord Jesus Christ."

"There!" said Clarissa, appealing to her mother.

"I thought so," said Mrs. Candy. "That is not what it means, Matilda."

"It is what I mean, Aunt Candy."

"It means a great deal more, my dear, which you cannot understand. And you ought to have had a white dress on."

"I don't think God cares," said Matilda.

"Did you ever hear such dreadful teaching as these people have?" said the mother, appealing to the daughter. "My dear, there is a propriety in things. And not one of the candidates this evening was dressed in white."

"But the water means a clean heart," said Matilda; "and if we have that, God will think we are dressed in white."

"So you think you have a clean heart?"

"I think Jesus has begun to make it clean."

"And what does it mean to renounce the devil and all his works?"

"It means," said Matilda, sighing, "to have nothing to do with anything that is wrong."

"How is such a child as you to know what is wrong?"

"Why, the Bible, Aunt Candy."

"What is the vain pomp and glory of the world?"

"I don't know," said Matilda. "All the glory, I suppose, except what God gives."

"What does He give, child?" said Mrs. Candy, with an odd expression on her face.

"Why, you know, Aunt Erminia," said Matilda, a little wearily.

"I should like to hear you tell."

"I can't tell," said Matilda. "I think it was glory, when He said of that poor woman, 'She hath done what she could.'"

"My dear," said Mrs. Candy, after a pause, "I am very sorry you have taken this step without consulting me. Your answers show that you have not the discrimination necessary for making such vows. However, it is too late now. You may go to bed."

Which Matilda did, and speedily forgot all that had troubled her in her aunt's words. For she went to sleep making a pillow to her head of those other words—

"And white robes were given to every one of them."



Typographical errors silently corrected:

Chapter 3: been doing to day replaced by been doing to-day

Chapter 3: than other folks replaced by than other folks'

Chapter 5: Richmond?'" replaced by Richmond'?"

Chapter 6: But?—what 'but?'" replaced by But?—what 'but'?"

Chapter 7: one to 'carry the message?'" replaced by one to 'carry the message'?"

Chapter 8: spend it somehow replaced by spend it, somehow

Chapter 8: Only one day replaced by Only, one day

Chapter 8: Well what? replaced by Well, what?

Chapter 9: band of workers replaced by Band of workers

Chapter 9: to do His will? replaced by to do His will.

Chapter 9: =give thanks?"= replaced by give thanks"?=

Chapter 11: redeem the time?' replaced by redeem the time'?

Chapter 11: up opportunities?'" replaced by up opportunities'?"

Chapter 11: no fun in walking. replaced by no fun in walking."

THE END