When Matilda came down stairs the next morning to get breakfast, she found Miss Redwood in the kitchen. The fire was going, the kitchen was warm; Miss Redwood was preparing some potatoes for baking.
"Good morning!" said she. "Here I am again. It does seem funny to be washing the potatoes to put in the stove, just as if folks hadn't been sick and dying, you may say, and getting well, and all that, since I touched 'em last. Well! life's a queer thing; and it don't go by the rule of three, not by no means."
"What rule does it go by?" said Matilda, leaning on the table and looking up at the housekeeper.
"La! I don't know," said Miss Redwood. "I know what I've been workin' by all these weeks, pretty much; I kept at my multiplication table; but I couldn't get no further most days than the very beginning—'Once one is one.' I tried hard to make it out two; but 'twas beyond me. I've learned that much, anyhow."
"Didn't Mrs. Laval help?"
"She helped all she could, poor critter, till she was 'most beat out. I declare I was sorry for her, next to the sick ones. She did all she could. She turned in to cook; and she didn't know no more about it than I know about talkin' any language beside my own. Not so much; for I kin tell French when I hear it; but she didn't know boiling water."
"What can I do to help you, Miss Redwood?" Matilda asked, suddenly remembering the present.
"There aint nothin' to do, child, 'cept what I'm doin'. The breakfast table is sot. I guess you've hadyourhands full, as well as the rest of us. But I declare you've kept things pretty straight. I don't let the butter set in the pantry, though; it goes down cellar when I'm to home."
"That kitchen pantry is cold, Miss Redwood."
"It's too cold, child. Butter hadn't ought to be where it kin freeze, or get freezing hard; it takes the sweetness out of it. You didn't know that. And the broom and pan I left at the head of the coal stairs. They ain't there now."
Matilda fetched them.
"The minister said you kept things in train, as if you'd been older," Miss Redwood went on. "I was always askin'; and he made me feel pretty comfortable. He saidhewas."
"We have had a very nice time, Miss Redwood. We hadn't the least trouble about anything."
"Trouble was our meat and drink down yonder," said Miss Redwood. "I thought two o' them poor furriners would surely give up; but they didn't; and it's over with. Praise the Lord! And I'm as glad to be home again as if I had found a fortin. But I was glad to be there, too. When a man—or a woman—knows she's in her place, she's just in the pleasantest spot she kin get to; so I think. And I knew I was in my place there. But dear, Mrs. Laval thinks your place is with her now; so she bid me tell you to be ready."
"When?"
"Well, some time along in the morning she will send the carriage to bring you, she said."
"Has Francis come back?"
"Who's Francis?"
"I mean the coachman."
"I don't know nobody's names," said Miss Redwood; "'cept the men I took care of; and I guess I had my own names for them. I couldn't pucker my mouth to call them after Mrs. Laval."
"Why, what did you call them?" said Matilda. "I know what their names were; they were Jules and Pierre Failly. What did you call them?"
"It didn't make no odds," said Miss Redwood, "so long as they knew I was speaking to 'em; andthatthey knew; 'cause when I raised one man's head up, he knew I warn't speaking to the other man. I called one of 'em Johnson, and 'tother Peter. It did just as well. I dare say now," said Miss Redwood, with a bit of a smile on her face, "they thought Johnson meant beef tea, and Peter meant a spoonful of medicine. It did just as well. Come, dear; you may go get the coffee canister for me; for now I'm in a hurry. There ain't coffee burned for breakfast."
It was Matilda's last breakfast at the parsonage. She could have been sorry, only that she was so glad. After breakfast she had her bag to pack; and a little later the grey ponies trotted round the sweep and drew up at the door. Matilda had watched them turning in at the gate and coming down the lane, stepping so gayly to the sound of their bells; and they drew a dainty light sleigh covered with a wealth of fine buffalo robes. The children bade good bye to Mr. Richmond, and jumped in, and tucked the buffalo robes round them; the ponies shook their heads and began to walk round the sweep again; then getting into the straight line of the lane, away they went with a merry pace, making the snow fly.
It seemed to Matilda that such a feeling of luxury had never come over her as she felt then. The sleigh was so easy; the seats were so roomy; the buffalo robes were so soft and warm and elegant, and she was so happy. Norton pulled one of the robes up so as almost to cover her; no cold could get at her, for her feet were in another. Furs over and under her, she had nothing to do but to look and be whirled along over the smooth snow to the tune of the sleigh bells. It was charming, to look and see what the snow had done with the world. Thick, thick mantles of it lay upon the house roofs; how could it all stay there? The trees were loaded, bending their heads and drooping their branches under the weight which was almost too much for them. The fences had a pretty dressing, like the thick white frosting of a cake; the fields and gardens and roadway lay hidden under the soft warm carpet that was spread everywhere. But the snow clouds were all gone; and the clearest bright blue sky looked down through the white-laden tree branches.
"How much there is of it!" said Matilda.
"What?" said Norton.
"Why, I mean snow, Norton."
"Oh! Yes; there is apt to be a good deal of it," said Norton, "when it falls as hard as it can all one day and two nights."
"But Norton, to think that all that snow is just those elegant little star feathers piled up; all over the fields and house roofs, a foot and a half thick, it is all those feathery stars!"
"Well," said Norton; "what of it?"
"Why it is wonderful," said Matilda. "It almost seems like a waste, doesn't it? only that couldn't be."
"A waste?" said Norton. "A waste of what?"
"Why nobody sees, or thinks, that the street is covered with such beautiful things—the street and the fields and the houses; people only think it is snow, and that's all; when it is just little wonders of beauty, of a great many sorts too. It seems very strange."
"Only to you," said Norton. "It'll be rich to shew you things."
"But why do you suppose it is so, Norton? I should like to ask Mr. Richmond."
"Mr. Richmond couldn't tell," said Norton.
"It must be that God is so rich," Matilda went on reverently. "So rich!" she repeated, looking at the piled-up burden of snow along the house roofs of the street. "But then, Norton, he must care to have things beautiful."
"Pink!" exclaimed Norton, looking at his little companion with an air half of amusement and half of something like vexation.
"Well, don't you think so? Because nobody sees those white feathers of frost piled up there, and these that the horses are treading under feet. They do nobody any good."
"It does you good to know they are there," said Norton.
"That's true!" exclaimed Matilda. "O I'm very glad to know about them; and I am very glad the snow is so wonderful; and I am glad to feel that God is so rich, and that he has made things so beautiful."
There was something in this speech that jarred upon Norton; something, though he could not have told what it was, that seemed to separate Matilda from him; there was a sweet, innocent kind ofappropriationwhich he could not share; it told of relations in which Matilda stood and to which he was a stranger. Norton liked nothing that seemed like division between them; but he did not find anything just then to say, and remained silent; while Matilda rode along in a kind of glorious vision that was half heavenly and half earthly. That was this snowy morning to her. Covered up warm in the furs of the sleigh, she leaned back and used her eyes; rejoicing in the white brilliance of the earth and the sunny blue of the heaven, and finding strange food for joy in them; or what appears strange to those who do not know it. The sleigh rushed along, past houses and shops and the familiar signs hung out along the street; then reaching the corner, whirled round to the left. Matilda's home, until now, had always lain the other way. She turned her head and looked back, up the street.
"What is it?" Norton asked.
"Nothing—except that I am so glad not to be going that way."
"No," said Norton. "Not that way any more. We have got you, Pink."
"I don't understand it," said Matilda. "It makes me dizzy when I think of it."
"Here we are!" cried Norton, as the horses wheeled in through the iron gate. "It's all snow, Pink; it will be too late to plant our tulips and hyacinths."
But even that was forgotten, as the sleigh stopped, and Norton helped Matilda out from under the furs, and she realized that she had come home. Home; yes, when her feet stepped upon the marble pavement of the hall she said to herself that this washome. It was very strange. But Mrs. Laval's warm arms were not strange; they were easy to understand; she would hardly let Matilda out of them, and kissed her and kissed her. The kisses were instead of words;theysaid that Matilda had come home.
"Run up now, dear, to your room," she said at last, "and get your wraps off. I have somebody here to see me on business; but I will come to you by and by."
Dismissed with more kisses, Matilda went up the stairs like one in a dream. Sharp and snowy as the world was without, here, inside the hall door, it was an atmosphere of summer. Soft warm air was around her as she mounted the stairs; in Mrs. Laval's room a wood fire was burning; in her own, oh joy! there was a little coal fire in the grate; all bright and blazing. Matilda slowly drew off her things and looked around her. The pretty green furniture with the rosebuds painted on it, this was her own now; a warm carpet covered the mat; the bed with its luxurious belongings was something she had not now to say good bye to; the time of parting had not come after all; would never come, as long as she lived. Slowly Matilda pulled off hood and gloves and moccasins, and went to the window. It was her own window! The hills and the country in view from it were hers to look at whenever she pleased. Mrs. Candy's bell could not sound there to break in upon anything. The child was so happy that she was almost afraid; it seemed too good to be really true and lasting. Gradually, as she stood there by the window, looking at what seemed to her "the treasures of the snow," it came to her mind what she had been thinking about that; the myriads of wonderfully fashioned, exquisite crystal stars, for every one of which God took care. Then she remembered, "the hairs of your head are all numbered;" and if so, of course no event that happened to any of God's children could be without meaning or carelessly sent. And also, if he was so rich in the beauty and perfectness of the snow supply for the earth, he was rich toward his children too, and would and could give them what were the best things for them. But then came the question; if he had brought a child like her into these new circumstances, into such a new home, what did he mean her to do with it? what use should she make of it? what effect was it intended to have upon her and upon her life? This seemed a very great question to Matilda. She softly shut her door and took out her Bible and kneeled down beside it. She would study and pray till she found out.
It happened well that Mrs. Laval's man of business kept her a good while. All that while Matilda kept up her study and search. Nevertheless she was puzzled. It was a question too large for her. All she could make out amounted to this; that she must be careful not to forget whose child she was; that before Mrs. Laval she owed love and obedience to her Saviour; that she must be on the watch for opportunities; and not allow her new circumstances to distract or divert her from them or make her unfitted for them when they came.
"I think I must watch," was Matilda's conclusion. "I might forget. Norton will want me to do things,—and Mrs. Laval will want me to do other things,—perhaps other people yet. If I keep to Mr. Richmond's rule—'Whether ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the Lord Jesus,'—I shall be sure to be right; and He will teach me."
Some very earnest prayer ended in this conclusion. Then the question came up in Matilda's mind, what opportunities were likely to spring out of her new, changed circumstances? She could not tell; she found she could do nothing with that question; she could only leave it, and watch, and wait.
She opened her door then, to be ready for Mrs. Laval's coming; and presently the soft step and gentle rustle of drapery reminded Matilda anew that she had done for ever with Mrs. Candy's plump footfall and buckram skirts.
"My darling," said Mrs. Laval, "you have been all this time alone!" She took Matilda in her arms and sat down with her, looking at her as one examines a new, precious possession.
"You smile, as if being alone was nothing very dreadful," she went on.
"I don't think it is," said Matilda.
"I do! But you and I will not be alone any more, darling, will we? Norton is a boy; he must go and come; but you are my own—my little daughter!—yes, now and always."
She clasped Matilda in her arms and kissed her with lips that trembled very much; trembled so much that Matilda was afraid she would break into a passion of tears again; but that was restrained. After a little she sat back, and stroking Matilda's hair from her brow, asked softly,—
"And what doyousay to it, Matilda?"
Matilda tried to find words and could not; trembled; was very near crying for her own part; finally answered in the only way. In her turn she threw her arms round Mrs. Laval's neck; in her turn kissed cheeks and lips, giving herself up for the first time to the feeling of the new relationship between them. The lady did not let her go, but sat still with her arms locked around Matilda and Matilda's head in her neck and both of them motionless, for a good while.
"Will you call me mamma, some day?" she whispered. "Not now;—when you feel like it. I do not ask it till you feel like it."
"Yes,"—Matilda whispered in answer.
Presently Mrs. Laval began to tell her about the ship fever, and the nursing, and Miss Redwood; and how she and Miss Redwood had been alone with everything to do. Then she wanted to hear how Matilda had spent the weeks at the parsonage; and she was very much amused.
"I believe I'll get you to teach me some day," she said. "It's bad to be so helpless. But I have learned something in these weeks. Now, darling, is there anything you would like, that I can give you? anything that would be a pleasure to you? Speak and tell me, before we go down to lunch."
The colour started into Matilda's face.
"If I could," she said,—"I would like, if you liked it,—if Norton could go with me again,—I would likeverymuch, to go and see Maria."
"Maria!" said Mrs. Laval. "At Poughkeepsie. Certainly. You shall go—let me see, this is Monday,—Norton shall take you Thursday. You must try and find something to take to Maria that she would like. What would she like?"
Mrs. Laval was drawing out her purse. Matilda, in a flush of delight, could not think what Maria would like; so Mrs. Laval gave her five dollars and bade her come to her for more if she needed it.
Five dollars to buy Maria a present! Matilda went down to luncheon with her head and her heart so full that she could hardly eat What should the present be? and what a beginning of beautiful and delightful things was this. She was as still as a mouse, and eat about as much. Mrs. Laval and Norton were full of business.
"How soon do we go to town, mamma?"
"As soon as possible! You ought to be going to school. But—what day is it to-day?"
"Monday, mamma."
"No, no; I mean what day of the month. It is the middle of November, and past. I can't go till the beginning of next month."
"Soon enough," said Norton. "Mamma, is Pink to go to school?"
Mrs. Laval looked at Matilda, smiled, but made no answer.
"Mamma, let me teach her."
"You?" said Mrs. Laval. "We will see."
"There's another thing. Mamma, is she to have an allowance?"
"Certainly."
"How much, mamma?"
"As much as you have."
"Then she'll be rich," said Norton. "She hasn't got boots to buy. My boots eat up my money."
"I am afraid Matilda's boots will be quite as troublesome to her. Don't you think she will want boots?"
"Girls' boots don't cost so much, do they?"
"It depends on where you get them."
"Mamma, Pink will not get her boots where you get yours, unless you give her the direction very carefully. She will think she must save the money for Lilac lane. You must take care of her, mamma; or she will think she ought to take a whole district on her hands, and a special block of old women."
Mrs. Laval again looked fondly at Matilda, and put a delicate bit on her plate, observing that she was not eating anything.
"You are to take her to Poughkeepsie Thursday, Norton, to see her sister."
"That's jolly," said Norton. "I want to be in Poughkeepsie, to see about some business of my own. We'll go to Blodgett's, Pink, and choose the hyacinths and tulips for our beds."
"You had a great deal better go to Vick, at Rochester," said Mrs. Laval. "You can depend upon what he gives you. I have not found Blodgett so careful."
"I should like to go to Mr. Vick's very much; but Rochester is rather too far off," said Norton.
"You can write, you foolish boy."
"Well," said Norton, "I believe thatwillbe best. We cannot put the bulbs in now, unless we have a great stroke of good luck and there comes a soft bit of weather. I'll write to Vick. But we'll go to Blodgett's and get a few just for house blooming. Wouldn't you like that, Pink?"
Matilda liked it so much that she found no words to express herself. Norton and his mother both laughed at her.
After dinner Mrs. Laval went with Matilda up to her room, and looked over her whole wardrobe. Most of the things which belonged to it Mrs. Laval threw aside; Matilda's old calico dresses and several of the others; and her old stockings and pocket handkerchiefs; and told Matilda she might give them away. New linen, she said, Matilda should have, as soon as she could get it made; meanwhile some new things were provided already. She bade Matilda take a bath; and then she had her own maid come in to arrange her hair and dress her. There was not much to be done with Matilda's hair; it was in short wavy locks all over her head; but the maid brushed it till Matilda thought she would never have done; and then she was dressed in a new dark brown merino, made short, and bound with a wide ribband sash; and new stockings were put on her that were gartered above her knees; and Matilda felt at once very nice and very funny. But when it was done, Mrs. Laval took her in her arms and half smothered her with caresses.
"We will get everything put in order, as soon as we get to New York," she said; "my rosebud! my pink, as Norton calls you; my Daphne blossom!"
"What is that, ma'am?" said Matilda laughing.
"Daphne? you shall have a plant of it, and then you will know. It is something very sweet, and yet very modest. It never calls people to come and look at it."
She had Matilda on her lap; and she stroked her hair, putting it back from her brow; took her face in both hands and looked at it and kissed it; played with her hands; passed her fingers over the new stockings to see how they fitted; tried the garters to see if they were too tight; Matilda felt the touch ofmotherlyhands again, like no other hands. It filled her with a warm gladness and sorrow, both together; but it bound her to Mrs. Laval. She threw both arms at last around her neck, and they sat so, wrapped up in each other.
"You must go and call upon your aunt, Matilda," Mrs. Laval said after a long silence.
"Must I? I suppose I must," said Matilda.
"Certainly. And the sooner you do it, the more graceful it will be. I have been to see her. So it is only necessary for you. It is a proper mark of respect."
"I will go to-morrow; shall I?"
"Yes; go to-morrow. Now Norton spoke about an allowance. Would you like it?"
"I don't know what it is, ma'am."
"I give Norton, that is, Iallowhim, five dollars a month; fifteen dollars a quarter. Out of that he must provide himself with boots and shoes and gloves; the rest is for whatever he wants, fish-hooks or hyacinths, as the case may be. I shall give you the same, Matilda; five dollars every month. Then I shall expect you to be always nicely and properly dressed, in the matter of boots and shoes and gloves, without my attending to it. You are young to be charged with so much care of your dress, but I can trust you. With what is left of your allowance you will do whatever you like; nobody will ask any questions about it. Do you like that, my dear?"
"Very much, ma'am."
"I thought so," said Mrs. Laval smiling. "Now I want you to go with me and get something to put on your head. I have had a pelisse made for you that will do till we go to the city and can find something better. This can be then for second best. Put it on, dear, and be ready; the carriage will be at the door in a moment now."
Wondering, Matilda put on the pelisse. She had never had anything so nice in her life. It was of some thick, pretty, silver-grey cloth, lined and wadded, and delicately trimmed with silk. Then she went off with Mrs. Laval in the carriage, and was fitted with a warm little hat. Coming home towards evening, at the close of this eventful day, Matilda felt as if she hardly knew herself. To lay off her coat and hat in such a warm, cheery little room, where the fire in the grate bade her such a kind welcome; to come down to the drawing-room, where another fire shone and glowed on thick rugs and warm-coloured carpets and soft cushions and elegant furniture; and to know that she was at home amid all these things and comforts; it was bewildering. She sat down on a low cushion on the rug, and tried to collect her wits. What was it, she had resolved to do?—to watch for duty, and to do everything to the Lord Jesus? Then, so should her enjoyment of all this be. But Matilda felt as if she were taken off her feet. So she went to praying, for she could not think. She had only two minutes for that, before Norton rushed in and came to her side with Vick's Catalogue; and the whole rest of the evening was one delicious whirl through the wonders of a flower garden, and the beauties of various coloured hyacinths and tulips in particular.
The next day Matilda had two great matters on her heart; the present for Maria, and the visit to her aunt. She resolved to do the disagreeable business first. So she marched off to Mrs. Candy's in the middle of the morning, when she knew they were at leisure; and was ordered up into her aunt's room, where she and Clarissa were at work after the old fashion. The room had a dismal, oppressive air to Matilda's refreshed vision. Her aunt and cousin received each a kiss from her, rather than gave it.
"Well, Matilda," said Mrs. Candy, "how do you do?"
This, Matilda knew, was an introduction to something following. The answer was a matter of form.
"You've changed hands; how do you like it?" Mrs. Candy went on.
It would seem ungracious to say she liked it; so Matilda said nothing.
"I suppose things are somewhat different at Mrs. Laval's from what you found them here?"
"Yes, ma'am; they are different."
"Have Mrs. Laval's servants got quite well?"
"Yes, ma'am, quite well."
"How many of them are there?"
"There are the mother and father, and two daughters, and the brother of the father, I believe."
"And does Mrs. Laval keep other servants beside those?"
"O yes. Those are the farm servants, partly. But one of them cooks, and one of the daughters is laundry maid; and the other is the dairy woman."
"And how many more?" asked Clarissa.
"There are the waiter and coachman, you know; and the chambermaid; and Mrs. Laval's own maid, and the sempstress."
"A sempstress constantly on hand?" said Mrs. Candy.
"I believe so. I have always seen her there. She seems to belong there."
"Well, you find some difference between a house with a dozen servants, and one where they keep only one, don't you?"
"It is different—" said Matilda, not knowing how to answer.
"What doyoudo, in that house with a dozen servants?"
"I don't know, ma'am; I haven't done anything yet."
"How did you get among the sick people in the first place? how came that? It was very careless!"
"Nobody knew what was the matter with them, aunt Candy. Mrs. Laval was gone to town, and I went to take some beef tea that the doctor had ordered."
"Doctor Bird?"
"Yes."
"Doctor Bird ought to have known better. He ought to have taken better care," said Clarissa.
"It is easy to say that afterwards," remarked Mrs. Candy. "How came Mrs. Laval not to be there herself?"
"She was there. She was only gone to New York to get help; for all the servants had run away."
"Thentheyknew what was the matter," said Clarissa.
"I don't know," said Matilda. "They seemed frightened or jealous. They all went off."
"Like them," said Mrs. Candy. "Who did the nursing at last?"
"Mrs. Laval and Miss Redwood."
"Who is Miss Redwood?"
"She keeps house for Mr. Richmond."
A perceptible shadow darkened the faces of both mother and daughter. Matilda wished herself away; but she could not end her visit while it was yet so short; that would not do.
"And so you have been wasting six weeks at the parsonage,—doing absolutely nothing!"
It had not been precisely that. But Matilda thought it was best to be silent.
"It seems to me you are not improving in politeness," Mrs. Candy remarked. "However, that is somebody else's affair now. Are you going to school?"
"Not yet, ma'am."
"When are you going to begin?"
"I do not know. Not till we get to New York, I think."
"To New York! Then you are going to New York?"
"How soon?" Clarissa inquired.
"Not till next month."
"That is almost here," said Mrs. Candy. "Well, it would have been a great deal better for you to have remained here with me; but I am clear of the responsibility, that is one thing. If there is one thing more thankless than another, it is to have anything to do with children that are not your own. You know how to darn stockings, at any rate, Matilda; I have taught you that."
"And to mend lace," Clarissa added.
"Matilda may find the good of that yet. She may have to earn her bread with doing it. Nothing is more likely."
"I hope not," said Clarissa.
"It is an absurd arrangement anyhow," Mrs. Candy went on. "Matilda at Mrs. Laval's, and Anne and Letitia earningtheirbread with something not a bit better than mending lace. They will not like it very well."
"Why not, aunt Candy?" Matilda asked.
"Wait and see if they do. Will they like it, do you think, to see that you do not belong to them any more and are part and parcel of quite another family? Will they like it, that your business will be to forget them now? See if they like it!"
"Why I shall not forget them at all!" cried Matilda; "how could I? and what makes you say so?"
"You are beginning by forgetting your mother," said Mrs. Candy, with a significant glance at the silver-grey pelisse.
"Yes," said Clarissa, "I noticed the minute she came in. How could Mrs. Laval do so!"
"What?" said Matilda. "That isn't true at all, aunt Candy."
"I see the signs," said Mrs. Candy. "There is no need to tell me what they mean. In this country it is considered a mark of respect and a sign that we do not forget our friends, to wear a dress of remembrance."
"It reminds us of them, too," said Clarissa. "And we like to be reminded of those we love."
"I do not want anything to remind me ofher," said Matilda; and the little set of her head at the moment spoke volumes. "And besides, aunt Candy and Clarissa, I did not wear mourning when I was here, except only when I went to church."
"That shewed the respect," said Mrs. Candy. "You can see easily what Mrs. Laval means, by her dressing you out in that style. Have you got a black dress under your coat?"
"Let us see what you have got," said Clarissa.
As Matilda did not move, Mrs. Candy rose and went to her and lifted up the folds of her pelisse so as to show the brown merino.
"I thought so," she remarked, as she went back to her seat.
"Mrs. Laval ought to be ashamed!" said her daughter.
Matilda had got by this time about as much as she could bear. She rose up from her uneasy chair opposite Mrs. Candy.
"O, are you going?" said that lady. "You do not care to stay long with us."
"Not to-day," said little Matilda, with more dignity than she knew, and with an air of the head and shoulders that very much irritated Mrs. Candy.
"I'd cure you ofthat," she said, "if I had you. I thought I had cured you. You would not dare hold your head like that, if you were living with me."
Now Matilda had not the least knowledge that her head was held differently from usual. She said good bye.
"Are you not going to kiss me?" said her aunt. "You are forgetting fast."
It cost an effort, but Matilda offered her cheek to Mrs. Candy and to Clarissa, and left them. She ran down the stairs and out of the house. At the little gate she stood still.
What did it all mean? Forgetting her mother? Had she done her memory an injury, by putting on her brown frock and her grey pelisse? Was there any truth in all this flood of disagreeable words, which seemed to have flowed over and half drowned her. Ought her dress to be black? It had not been when she lived with her aunt, except on particular days and out of doors, as she had said. Was there any truth in all these charges? Matilda's heart had suddenly lost all its gayety, and the struggle in her thoughts was growing more and more unendurable every moment. A confusion of doubts, questions, suspicions which she could not at once see clearly enough to cast off, and sorrow, raged and fought in her mind with indignant rejection and disbelief of them. What should she do? How could she tell what was right? Mr. Richmond! She would go straight to him.
And so she did, hurrying along Butternut street like a little vessel in a gale; and she was just that, only the gale was in her own mind. It drove her on, and she rushed into the parsonage, excited by her own quick movements as well as by her thoughts. Miss Redwood was busy in the kitchen.
"What's the matter?" she exclaimed, for Matilda had gone in that way.
"I want to see Mr. Richmond."
"Well, he's in there. La! child, we keep open doors at the parsonage; there ain't no need that you should break 'em in by running against 'em. Take it easy, whatever there is to take. The minister's in his study. But his dinner'll be ready in a quarter of an hour, tell him."
Matilda went more quietly and knocked at the study door. She heard "Come in."
"Mr. Richmond, are you busy?" she asked, standing still inside of the study door. "Shall I disturb you?" She was quiet enough now. But the tears were shining in Matilda's eyes, and the eyes themselves were eager.
"Come here," said Mr. Richmond holding out his hand; "I am not too busy, and your disturbing me is very welcome. How do you do?"
Matilda's answer was to clasp Mr. Richmond's hand and cover her face.
"What is the matter?" he asked softly, though a little startled. "Nothing that we cannot set right, Tilly?"
He drew his arm protectingly round her, and Matilda presently looked up. "O Mr. Richmond," she said, "I don't know if anything is wrong; but I want to know."
"Well, we can find out. What is the question?"
"Mr. Richmond, the question is, Ought I to wear black things for mamma?"
The minister was much surprised.
"What put this in your head, Tilly?"
"Mrs. Laval gave me some new dresses yesterday; these, you see, Mr. Richmond; the frock is dark brown and the coat is grey. Ought they to be black?"
"Why should they be black?"
"I don't know, sir. People do wear black things when they have lost friends."
"What for do they so?"
"Idon't know, Mr. Richmond; but people say it shews respect—and that I do not shew"—
"Let us look at it quietly," said her friend. "How does it shew respect to a lost friend, to put on a peculiar dress?"
"I don't know, sir; because it's the custom, I suppose. But I am not in black. Ought I to be?"
"Wait; we will come to it. Black dresses are supposed to be a sign of grief, are they not?"
"I don't know, Mr. Richmond; theysaid, of respect, and to put one in mind."
"The grief that wants putting in mind, is not a grief that pays much real respect, I should think. Do not you think so? that's one thing."
Matilda looked at him, with eyes intent and pitifully full of tears, just ready to run over, but eagerly watching his lips.
"Then as to respect, black dresses must shew respect, if any way, by saying to the world that we remember and are sorry. Now the fact is, Matilda, they do not say that at all. They are worn quite as much by people who do not remember, and who are not sorry. They tell nothing about the truth, except that some of those who wear them like to be in the fashion and some are afraid of what the world will say.
"But there is another question. When our friends have left us and are happy with the Lord Jesus, as all his children are, is it a mark of respect to their memory, that we should cover our faces with crape, and wear gloomy drapery, and shut up our shutters to keep the sunlight out of our rooms? Have we any right to stop the sunlight anywhere? Wouldn't it be better honour to our Christian friends who have gone, to be glad for them, and speak as if we were; and let it be seen that all the sorrow we have is on our own account, and we do not mean to indulge that selfishly? We do not sorrow as those that have no hope; for we believe that them which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him. There will be a glorious meeting again, by and by, when Jesus comes; then we and our dear ones who have loved him will be together again, and all of us with the Lord."
"Then people oughtnotto wear black for mourning?" said Matilda with a brightened but undecided face.
"I think myself it is a very unchristian fashion. It is not according to the spirit of the early Christian times; for people then who had had friends slain by wild beasts, and burned to death, for the truth of Jesus, gathered the poor remains that were left and laid them to rest, with the motto cut in the door of their resting place,—'In peace. In Christ.'"
"Did they!" said Matilda.
"A very great many of them."
"Then wouldn't you wear mourning, Mr. Richmond?"
"I should not. I never have."
"Nor crape on your hat?"
"Nor crape anywhere."
"Then I don't care!" said Matilda.
"I do not think you need care."
"But it is very disagreeable!" continued Matilda.
"What?"
"That people will say such things."
Mr. Richmond smiled. "You must try and learn to bear that, Tilly. But it is not very difficult, when you are sure that you are in the right?"
"I think it is difficult to bear," said Matilda.
"The only question is, what is right? Do you remember the fairy tale, about the journey that a great many ladies and gentlemen took to the top of a hill, to get certain treasures that were there?"
"The golden bird and the singing water!" said Matilda. "Yes, I know. Doyouknow it, Mr. Richmond?"
"I heard you telling it to Norton."
"I didn't know that you heard!" said Matilda. "Well, Mr. Richmond?—how could you remember!"
"Well—if they looked round, when they were going up the hill, they lost all."
"They were turned into stone. And there were all sorts of noises in their ears, to make them look round."
"The only way to get to the top, was to stop their ears."
"Yes, Mr. Richmond; I know; I understand. But what golden bird and singing water arewegoing up hill after?"
"Something better. We want the 'Well done, good and faithful servant,'—do we not? And if we would have that, we must stop our ears against all sorts of voices that would turn aside our eyes from what is at the top of the hill."
"But Mr. Richmond, it is notwickedto wear mourning, is it?"
"No. I was thinking then of other things. But it is very unlike the spirit of religion, when a friend has gone home, to make a parade of gloom about it; very unlike the truth of Christ."
"Mr. Richmond, I am very glad; and now I know what is right, I am very much obliged to you. And Miss Redwood said your dinner would be ready in a quarter of an hour. I guess it is ready now."
Which was the fact; and Matilda ran home, in a different sort of gale now, and at luncheon was quite as light hearted as usual.
It was needful for Norton and Matilda, or they thought so, to take the early train which left the station at half past seven o'clock. The next train would not be till near eleven; and that, it was decided, would not do at all for their purposes. Taking the early train, they would have to go without breakfast; but that was no matter; they would get breakfast at Poughkeepsie, and have so much the more fun. The omnibus came for them a little after half past six, and they were ready; Matilda with an important basket on her arm, which Norton gallantly took charge of.
It was a delightful experience altogether. The omnibus did not immediately take the road to the station; there were several other passengers to gather up, and they drove round corners and stopped at houses in different streets of the village. First they took in old Mr. Kurtz; he was going to New York for his business, Norton whispered to Matilda; he had a large basket and an old lady with him. Then the omnibus went round into the street behind the parsonage and received Mr. Schonflöcken, the Lutheran minister, and from another house another old lady with another basket. Two men got in from the corner. Lastly the omnibus stopped before a house near the baker's; and here they waited. The people were not ready. There were two children missing from the travelling party, it seemed. Inquiries and exclamations were bandied about; the stage driver knocked impatiently and cried out to hurry; Matilda was very much afraid they might miss the train. "Never mind; he knows his business," Norton remarked coolly. At last a man who had been in quest, brought back the stray children from an opposite lumber yard, calling out that they were found; then there were kisses and leave takings, and "Good bye, grandma!" and "Come back again!"—and finally the mother put her children into the omnibus, the first, the second, the third, and the fourth; then got in herself, and the vehicle lumbered on. The omnibus was crowded now; and the new comers had been eating a breakfast of fried cakes and fish, pretty near the stove where it was cooked; for the smoke of the fry had filled their clothes. Of course it filled the omnibus also. This could be borne only a few minutes.
"Dear Norton," Matilda whispered, "can't you open this window for me? I cannot breathe."
"You'll catch cold," said Norton.
"No I won't. Please do! it is choking me."
Norton laughed, and opened the window, and Matilda putting her face close to the opening was able to get a breath of fresh air. Then she enjoyed herself again. The grey dawn was brightening over the fields; the morning air was brisk and frosty; and as soon as Matilda's lungs could play freely again, so could her imagination. How pretty the dusky clumps of trees were against the brightening sky; how lovely that growing light in the east, which every moment rose stronger and revealed more. The farm houses they passed looked as if they had not waked up yet; barns and farmyards were waiting for the day's work to begin; a waggoner or two, going slowly to the station, were all the moving things they saw. The omnibus passed them, and lumbered on.
"Norton," said Matilda suddenly, bringing her face round from the window, "it's delicious to be up so early."
"Unless you are obliged to take other people's breakfast before you get your own," said Norton. He looked disgusted, and Matilda could not help laughing in her turn.
"Put your nose to my window,—you can," she said. "The air is as sweet as can be."
"Outside"—grumbled Norton.
"Well, that is what I am getting," said Matilda. "Can't you get some of it?—poor Norton!"
"What I don't understand," said Norton, "is how people live."
At this point, the old woman with the basket got out, where a cross road branched off. Matilda was obliged to move up into the vacated place, to make more room for the others; and she lost her open window. However, the river came in sight now; the end of the ride was near; and soon she and Norton stood on the steps of the station house.
"I don't believe my coat will get over it all day," said the latter. "There ought to be two omnibuses."
"The poor people cannot help it, Norton; they are not to blame."
"Yes, they are," said Norton. "They might open their windows and air their houses. They are not fit to be in a carriage with clean people."
"I guess they don't know any better," said Matilda; "and they were rather poor people, Norton."
"Well?" said Norton. "That is what I say. There ought to be a coach for them specially."
He went in to buy the tickets, and Matilda remained on the steps, wondering a little why there should be poor people in the world. Why could not all have open windows and free air and sweet dresses? Being poor, she knew, was somehow at the bottom of it; and why should there be such differences? And then, what was the duty of those better off? "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you,"—that opened a wide field. Too big to be gone over just now. Matilda was sure that she was in the right way so far, in going to give pleasure to Maria; and by the way she would take all the pleasure she could herself. How sweet it was now! The sun was up, and shining with bright yellow light upon the hills of Rosendale and the opposite shore. The river was all in lively motion under the breeze; the ferry boat just coming in from Rondout; the sky overhead clearing itself of some racks of grey vapour and getting all blue. Could anything be more delicious? Now the passengers came trooping over from the "Lark," to get their tickets; and presently came the rumble of the train. She and Norton jumped into one of the cars, and then they were off.
"I'm hungry," was Norton's first confidence in the cars.
"So am I, very," said Matilda. "It will not take more than an hour, will it, to go to Poughkeepsie?"
"Not that," said Norton. Then the very first thing will be, to go up to Smith's and get our breakfast."
"That's that restaurant?"
"Yes. A good one too."
"I never was in a restaurant in my life," said Matilda.
"We'll see how you like it, Pink; it's delightful that you have never seen anything."
"Why?"
"You have got so much to see. And I want to know what you will think of it all."
Matilda was almost too happy. So happy, that not a sunbeam, nor a ripple on the water, nor a cloud in the sky, but seemed to bring her more to be glad of. It was only that her joy met these things and glanced back. So Norton said. But Matilda thought it was something beside.
"Why Norton, I am glad of those thingsthemselves," she insisted.
"Of the waves on the river?" said Norton.
"Yes, to be sure I am."
"Nonsense, Pink! What for?"
"I don't know what for," said Matilda. "They are so pretty. And they are so lively. And there is another thing, Norton," she said with a change of voice. "God made them."
"Do you like everything he has made?" said Norton.
"I think I do."
"Then you must like those poor people in the omnibus, and poor people everywhere. Dotheygive you pleasure?"
Matilda could not say that they did. She wished with all her heart there were no such thing as poverty in the world. She could not answer immediately. And before she could answer the whistle blew.
"Is this Poughkeepsie?"
"Yes, this is Poughkeepsie. Now we'll have breakfast! Look sharp, Pink"—
In another minute, the two were standing on the platform of the station.
"Isthisthe place?" Matilda inquired a little ruefully. She saw, inside the glass door, a large room with what seemed like a shop counter running down the length of it; and on this counter certainly eatables were set out; she could see cups of tea or coffee, and biscuits, and pieces of pie. People were crowding to this counter, and plates and cups seemed to have a busy time.
"This is Poughkeepsie," said Norton. "You have been here before. This our restaurant? I should think not! Not precisely. We have got to take a walk before we get to it. Smith's is at the top of the street."
"I am glad; I am ready to walk," said Matilda joyously; and they set off at a pace which shewed what sort of time their spirits were keeping. Nevertheless, all the way, between other things, Matilda was studying the problem of poverty which Norton had presented to her. The walk was quite a walk, and the footsteps were a little slower before the "top of the street" was reached. Why Norton called it so, Matilda did not see. The street went on, far beyond; but they turned aside round a corner, and presently were at the place they wanted.
They entered a nice quiet room, somewhat large, to be sure, and with a number of little tables set out; but nobody at any of them. Matilda and Norton went towards the back of the room, where it took an angle, and they could be a little more private. Here they took possession of one of the tables. Norton set down his basket, and Matilda took off her hat. Nothing, she thought, could possibly be any pleasanter than this expedition in which they were engaged. This was a rare experience; unparalleled.
"Now what shall we have?" said Norton.
"Whatcanwe have?" said Matilda.
"Everything. That is, any common thing. You couldn't get dishes of French make-ups, I suppose; and we don't want them. I am just as hungry as a bear."
"And I am as hungry as a bearess."
Norton went off into a great laugh. "You look so like it!" he said. "But you might be as hungry as a bear; that don't say anything against your ladylike character. Though I always heard that she bears were fiercer than the others, when once they got their spirits up. Oh, Pink, Pink!"—
He was interrupted by the waiter.
"Now Pink, we've got to be civilized, and say what we'll have. You may have a cup of coffee."
"Yes, I would like it, Norton."
"And beefsteak? or cold chicken? We'll have chicken. I know you like it best."
It was nice of Norton; for he didn't.
"Buckwheats, Pink?"
"Yes. I like them," said Matilda.
"So do I, when they are good. And rolls, in case they shouldn't be. And good syrup—Silver Drip, mind."
Norton gave his order, and the two sat waiting. Matilda examined the place and its appointments. It was neat, if it was very plain.
"It's a good place enough," said Norton. "The country people come here in the middle of the day when they have driven in to Poughkeepsie to market and do shopping. Then the place is busy and all alive; now, you see, we have got it to ourselves. But anyhow, they have always good plain things here."
So the breakfast proved when it came. Matilda was very much amused with the little coffee pot, holding just enough for two, and the cream pitcher to match. But there was hot milk in plenty; and the cakes were feathery light; and the cold fowl very good; and the rolls excellent. And the two, Norton and Matilda, were very hungry. So much exercise and so much business and pleasure together made them sharp. Eating stopped talking a little. But the very goodness of the breakfast made Matilda think only the more, in the intervals, of that question Norton had given her; why were there poor people, who could have nothing like this?
"Shall we go to Blodgett's next? or will you see Maria first?" Norton asked.
"O, Maria first, Norton; and then we need not be hurried about the plants."
"The roots," said Norton. "Well, I'll see you there, and then I have some other business to attend to. I'll come for you about dinner time; then we can go to Blodgett's after dinner. You'll want a good deal of time with Maria, I suppose."
So after breakfast the two went down the town again and turned into the cross street where Maria lived. At the door of the humble-looking house, Norton left Matilda and went off again. Yes, it was a plain, small brick house, with wooden steps and little windows. Matilda had the door opened to her by Maria herself. She could not understand, though she surely saw, the cloud which instantly covered a flash of pleasure in Maria's face. The two went in, went up the stairs to a little back room, which was Maria's own. A chill came over Matilda here. It was so different from her room. A little close stove warmed it; the bed was covered with a gay patchwork quilt which had seen its best days; the chairs were but two, and those rush-bottomed. A painted wooden chest of drawers stood under the tiny bit of looking glass; the wash stand in the corner had but one towel thrown over it, and that not clean; one or two of Maria's dresses hung up against the wall. But a skirt of rich blue silk lay across the bed, for contrast; and yards of blue satin ribband lay partly quilled on the skirt, partly heaped on the patchwork quilt, and part had fallen on the floor. So one life touched another life.
"Well!" said Maria, for Matilda did not immediately begin what she had to say,—"how came you to be here so early?"
"We came down in the early train. I wanted to have a good long time to talk to you; and the next train is so late."
"Who came with you?"
"O, Norton. Norton Laval."
"Norton Laval! He came with you before. How came aunt Candy to let you come?"
"She could not help it."
"No," said Maria scornfully; "anything that Mrs. Laval wanted, she would say nothing against. She would go down on her knees, if she could get into Mrs. Laval's house. Did Mrs. Laval ask her to get you those new things?"
"No. Mrs. Laval"—
"How came she to do it, then?" interrupted Maria. "They are just as handsome as they can be; and in the fashion too. But she always liked you. I knew it. She never gave me anything, but a faded silk neckerchief. She is too mean"—
"O don't, Maria!" Matilda interrupted in her turn. "Aunt Candy had nothing to do with these things; she never gave me much either; she did not get these for me."
"Who did, then?" said Maria opening her eyes.
"Mrs. Laval."
"Mrs. Laval! How camesheto do it?"
"Yes, Maria, because—Maria, I have gone away from aunt Candy's."
"For a visit. I know. It has been a tremendously long visit, I think."
"Not for a visit now. Maria, I am not to go back there at all any more; I mean, I am not going back to aunt Candy. Mrs. Laval has taken me to keep—to be her own child. I am there now, for always."
"What?" Maria exclaimed.
"Mrs. Laval has taken me for her own,—for her own child."
"She hasn't!" said Maria; and if the wish did not point the expression, it was hard to tell what did. Matilda made no answer.
"Mrs. Laval has taken you?for her own child?" repeated Maria. "Do you mean that? To be with her, just like her own daughter? always?"
Matilda bowed her head, and her eyes filled. She was so disappointed.
"You aren't ever going to call her mamma? Don't you do it, Matilda! See you don't. If you do, I'll not be your sister any more. She shall not have that!"
Matilda was silent still, utterly dismayed.
"Why don't you speak? What made her do that, anyhow?"
"I don't know," said Matilda in a trembling voice. "She had a little daughter once, and she took me"—Matilda's eyes were glittering. She nearly broke down, but would not, and in the resistance she made to the temptation, her head took its peculiar airy turn upon her neck. Maria ought to have known her well enough to understand it.
"Everything comes to you!" she exclaimed. "I wonder why nothing comes to me! There are you, set up now, you think, above all your relations; you will not want to look at us by and by; I dare say you feel so now. And you are dressed, and have dresses made for you, and you ride in a carriage, and you have everything you want; and I here make dresses for other people, and live anyhow I can; sew and sew, from morning till night, and begin again as soon as morning comes; and never a bit of pleasure or rest or hope of it; and can't dress myself decently, except by the hardest! I don't know what I have done to deserve it!" said Maria furiously. "It has always been so. Mamma loved you best, and aunt Candy treated you best,—she didn't love anybody;—and now strangers have taken you up; and nobody cares for me at all."
Here Maria completed her part of the harmony by bursting into tears. And being tears of extreme mortification and envy, they were hard to stop. The fountain was large. Matilda sat still, with her eyes glittering, and her head in the position that with her was apt to mean disapproval, and meant it now. But what could she say.
"It's very hard!"—Maria sobbed at last. "It's very hard!"
"Maria," said her little sister, "does it make it any harder for you, because I am taken such good care of?"
"Yes!" said Maria. "Why should good care be taken of you any more than of me? Of course it makes it harder."
There was nothing that it seemed wise to say; and Matilda, sometimes a wise little child in her way, waited in silence, though very much grieved. She began to think it was hard for Maria, though the whole thing had got into a puzzle with her. And she thought it was a little bit hard for herself, that she should have taken such pains to prepare a present for her sister, and meet such a reception when she came to offer it.
"Just look what a place I live in!" sobbed Maria. "Not a nice thing about it. And here I sit and sew and sew, to make other people's things, from morning till night; and longer. I had to sit up till ten o'clock last night, puckering on that ribband; and I shall have to do it again to-night; till twelve, very likely; because I have spent time talking to you. All that somebody else may be dressed and have a good time."
"But Maria, what would you do if youhadn'tthis to do?" suggested Matilda.
"I don't know, and I don't care! I'd as lieve die as do this. I should like to put those pieces of blue ribband in the stove, and never see them again!"
"Isn't it pleasant work, Maria? I think it is pretty nice work. It isn't hard."
"Isn't it!" said Maria. "How would you like to try it? How wouldyoulike to exchange your room at Mrs. Laval's for this one? Haven't you got a nice room there?"
Matilda answered yes.
"How would you like to exchange it for this one, and to sit here making somebody's dress for a party, instead of riding about on the cars and going where you like and seeing everything and doing what you've a mind to? Nice exchange, wouldn't it be? Don't you think you'd like to try it? And I would come and see you and tell you how pleasant it is."
Matilda had nothing to say. Her eye glanced round again at the items of Maria's surroundings: the worn ingrain carpet; the rusty, dusty little stove; the patch-work counterpane, which the bright silk made to look so very coarse; and she could not but confess to herself that it would be a sore change to leave her pleasant home and easy life and come here. But what then?
"Maria, it isn't my fault," she said at last. "It is not my doing at all. And I think this is agreatdeal better than living with aunt Candy; and I would a great deal rather do it."
"I wouldn't," said Maria.
Matilda sat still and waited; her gayety pretty well taken down. She was very sorry for her sister, though she could not approve her views of things. Neither did she know well what to say to them. So she kept silence; until Maria stopped sobbing, dried her eyes, washed her hands, and began to quill her blue trimming again.
"What did you come to Poughkeepsie for, to-day?"
"To see you; nothing else."
"I think it is time. You haven't been here for weeks, and months, for aught I know."
"Because I wrote you why, Maria. There was sickness at Briery Bank, and Norton and I were at the parsonage ever so long. I couldn't come to see you then."
"What have you got in that basket? your dinner?"
"O no; something that I wanted to shew to you. I wanted to bring you something, Maria; and I did not know what you would like; and I thought about it and thought about it all yesterday, and I didn't know. I wanted to bring you something pretty; but I remembered when I was here before you said you wanted gloves and handkerchiefs so much; and so, I thought it was better to bring you those."
While Matilda was making this speech, she was slowly taking out of her basket and unfolding her various bundles; she had half a hope, and no more now, that Maria would be pleased. Maria snatched the bundles, examined the handkerchiefs and counted them; then compared the gloves with her hand and laid them over it. Finally she put both gloves and handkerchiefs on the bed beside her, and went on sewing. She had not said one word about them.
"Are they right, Maria?" said her little sister. "They are the right number, I know; do you like the colours I have chosen?"
"They are well enough," Maria answered.
"Green and chocolate, I thought you liked," Matilda went on; "and the dark brownIliked. So I chose those. Do you like the handkerchiefs, Maria?"
"I want them badly enough," said Maria. "Did you get them at Cope's?"
"Yes, and I thought they were very nice. Are they?"
"A child like you doesn't know much about buying such things," said Maria, quilling and turning her blue ribband with great energy. "Yes, they'll do pretty well. What sort of handkerchiefs haveyougot?"
"Just my old ones. I haven't got any new ones."
"I should like to see those, when you get them. I suppose they'll be worked, and have lace round the borders."
"I shouldn't like it, if they had," said Matilda.
"We'll see, when you get them. I wonder how many things Anne and Letitia want? and can't get."
"I shall see them soon," said Matilda. "We are going to New York for the winter."
"You are!" exclaimed Maria, again ruefully. Matilda could not understand why. "But you won't see much of Anne and Letty, I don't believe."
"Perhaps I shall be going to school, and so not have much chance. Where do they live, Maria? I have forgotten."
"You will forget again," said Maria.
"But tell me, please. I will put it down."
"Number 316 Bolivar street. Now how much wiser are you?"
"Just so much," said Matilda, marking the number on a bit of paper. "I must know the name before I can find the place."
"You won't go there much," said Maria again. "Might just as well let it alone."
"Are the people here pleasant, Maria? are they good to live with?"
"They are not what you would call good."
"Are they pleasant?"
"No," said Maria. "They are not at all pleasant. I don't care who hears me say it. All the woman cares for, is to get as much work out of me as she can. That is how I live."
There was no getting to a smooth track for conversation with Maria. Begin where she would, Matilda found herself directly plunged into something disagreeable. She gave it up and sat still, watching the blue ribband curling and twisting in Maria's fingers, and wondering sadly anew why some people should be rich and others poor.
"Aren't you going to take off your things and have dinner with me?" said Maria, glancing up from her trimming.
"I cannot do that very well; Norton is coming for me; and I do not know how soon."
"I don't suppose I could give you anything you would like to eat. Where will you get your dinner then?"
"Somewhere with Norton."
"Then you didn't bring it with you?"
"No."
Matilda did not feel that it would do to-day, to invite Maria to go with them to the restaurant. Norton had said nothing about it; and in Maria's peculiar mood Matilda could not tell how she might behave herself or what she would say. Perhaps Maria expected it, but she could not help that. The time was a silent one between the sisters, until the expected knock at the house door came. It was welcome, as well as expected. Matilda got up, feeling relieved if she felt also sorry; and after kissing Maria, she ran down-stairs and found herself in the fresh open air, taking long breaths, like a person that had been shut up in a close little stove-heated room. Which she had. And Norton's cheery voice was a delightful contrast to Maria's dismal tones. With busy steps, the two went up the street again to the restaurant. It was pretty full of people now; but Norton and Matilda found an unoccupied table in a corner. There a good dinner was brought them; and the two were soon equally happy in eating it and in discussing their garden arrangements. After they had dined, Norton ordered ice cream.
Matilda was as fond of ice cream as most children are who have very seldom seen it; but while she sat enjoying it she began to think again, why she should have it and Maria not have it? The question brought up the whole previous question that had been troubling her, about the rich and the poor, and quite gave a peculiar flavour to what she was tasting. She lost some of Norton's talk about bulbs.
"Norton," she exclaimed at last suddenly, "I have found it!"
"Found what?" said Norton. "Not a blue tulip?"
"No, not a blue tulip. I have found the answer to that question you asked me,—you know,—in the cars."
"I asked you five hundred and fifty questions in the cars," said Norton. "Which one?"
"Just before we got to Poughkeepsie, don't you remember?"
"No," said Norton laughing. "I don't, of course. What was it, Pink? The idea of remembering a question!"
"Don't you remember, you asked me if I didn't like poverty and poor people, for the same reason I liked other things?"
But here Norton's amusement became quite unmanageable.
"Howshouldyou like poverty and poor people for the same reason you like other things, you delicious Pink?" he said. "How should you like those smoky coats in the omnibus, for the same reason that you like a white hyacinth or a red tulip?"
"That is what I was puzzling about, Norton; you don't recollect; and I could not make it out; because I knew Ididn'tenjoy poverty and poor things, and you said I ought."
"Excuse me," said Norton. "I never said you ought, in the whole course of my rational existence since I have known you."
"No, no, Norton; but don't you know, I said I liked everything, waves of the river and all, because God made them? and you thought I ought to like poor people and things for the same reason."