Mrs. Eldridge was as she had left her yesterday; a trifle more forlorn, perhaps.  The afternoon being bright and sunny, made everything in the house look more grimy and dusty for the contrast.  Matilda shrank from having anything to do with it.  But yet, the consciousness that she carried a basket of comfort on her arm was a great help.

“Good morning, Mrs. Eldridge; how do you do?” she said, cheerily.

“Is it that little gal?”

“Yes, it is I, Mrs. Eldridge.  I said I would come back.  How do you do, to-day?”

“I’m most dead,” said the poor woman.  Matilda was startled; but looking again, could not see that her face threatened anything like it.  She rather thought Mrs. Eldridge was tired of life; and she did not wonder.

“You don’t feel ill, do you?”

“No,” the woman said, with a long drawn sigh.  “There ain’t no sickness got hold o’ me yet.  There’s no one as ’ll care when it comes.”

“Would you like a cup of tea this afternoon?”

“Tea?” said the poor woman, “I don’t have no tea, child.  Tea’s for the folks as has money, or somebody to care for ’em.”

“But I care for you,” said Matilda, gently.  “And the Lord Jesus cares.  And He gave me the money to get some tea, and I’ve got it.  Now I’m going to make a fire in the stove.  Is there any wood anywhere?”

“Fire?” said Mrs. Eldridge.

“Yes.  To boil the kettle, you know.  Is there any wood anywhere?”

“Have you got some tea?”

“Yes, and now I want to make the kettle boil.  Where can I get some wood?”

“Kettle?” said the old woman.  “I hain’t no kettle.”

“No tea-kettle?”

“No.  It’s gone.  There ain’t none.”

“What is there, then, that I can boil some water in?”

“There’s a skillet down in there,” said Mrs. Eldridge, pointing to the under part of the corner cupboard which Matilda had looked into the day before.  She went now to explore what remained.  The lower part had once been used, it seemed, for pots and kettles and stove furniture.  At least it looked black enough; and an old saucepan and a frying-pan, two flat-irons very rusty, and a few other iron articles were there.  But both saucepan and frying-pan were in such a state that Matilda could not think of using them.  Days of purification would be needed first.  So she shut the cupboard door, and came back to the question of fire; for difficulties were not going to overcome her now.  And there were difficulties.  Mrs. Eldridge could not help her to any firing.  She knew nothing about it.  None had been in the house for a long time.

Matilda stood and looked at the stove.  Then she emptied her basket; laying her little packages carefully on a chair; and went off on a foraging expedition.  At a lumber yard or a carpenter’s shop she could pick up something; but neither was near.  The houses in Lilac Lane were too needy them selves to ask anything at them.  Matilda went down the lane, seeing no prospect of help, till she came to the iron shop and the livery stable.  She looked hard at both places.  Nothing for her purpose was to be seen; and she remembered that there were children enough in the houses behind her to keep the neighbourhood picked clean of chips and brushwood.  What was to be done?  She took a bold resolve, and went into the iron shop, the master of which she knew slightly.  He was there, and looked at her as she came in.

“Mr. Swain, have you any little bits of wood that you could let me have? bits of wood to make a fire.”

“Matilda Englefield, ain’t it?” said Mr. Swain.  “Bits o’ wood? bits of iron are more in our way ­could let ye have a heap o’ them.  Bits o’ wood to make a fire, did ye say? ’twon’t be a big fire as ’ll come out o’ that ’ere little basket.”

“I do not want a big fire ­just some bits of wood to boil a kettle.”

“I want to know!” said Mr. Swain.  “You hain’t come all this way from your house to get wood?  What’s happened to you?”

“Oh, not for our fire!  Oh no.  I want it for a place here in the lane.”

“These folks picks up their own wood ­you hadn’t no need for to trouble yourself about them.”

“No, but it is some one who cannot pick up her own wood, Mr. Swain, nor get it any other way; it is an old woman, and she wants a little fire to make a cup of tea.”

“I guess, if she can get the tea she can get the wood.”

“Somebody brought her the tea,” said Matilda, who luckily was not in one way a timid child.  “I will pay for the wood if I can get some.”

“Oh, that’s the game, eh?” said the man.  “Well, as it’s Mis’ Englefield’s daughter ­I guess we’ll find you what will do you ­how ’ll this suit, if I split it up for you, eh?”

He handled an old box cover as he spoke.

Matilda answered that it was the very thing; and a few easy blows of Mr. Swain’s hatchet broke it up into nice billets and splinters.  Part of these went into Matilda’s basket, one end of them at least; the rest she took with great difficulty in her apron; and so went back up the lane again.

It was good to see the glint of the old woman’s eyes, when she saw the wood flung down on the floor.  Matilda went on to clear out the stove.  It had bits of coal and clinker in the bottom of it.  But she had furnished herself with a pair of old gloves, and her spirit was thoroughly up to the work now.  She picked out the coal and rubbish, laid in paper and splinters and wood; now how to kindle it?  Matilda had no match.  And she remembered suddenly that she had better have her kettle ready first, lest the fire should burn out before its work was done.  So saying to Mrs. Eldridge that she was going after a match, she went forth again.  Where to ask?  One house looked as forbidding as another.  Finally concluded to try the first.

She knocked timidly and went in.  A slatternly woman was giving supper to a half dozen children who were making a great deal of noise over it.  The hurly-burly confused Matilda, and confused the poor woman too.

“What do you want?” she asked shortly.

“I came to see if you could lend me a tea-kettle for half an hour.”

“What do you want of my tea-kettle?”

“I want only to boil some water.”

“Hush your noise, Sam Darcy!” said the woman to an urchin some ten years old who was clamouring for the potatoes ­“Who for?”

“To boil some water for Mrs. Eldridge.”

“You don’t live here?”

“No.”

“Well, my tea-kettle’s in use, you see.  The cheapest way ’d be for Mrs. Eldridge to get a tea-kettle for herself.  Sam Darcy! if you lay a finger on them ’taters till I give ’em to you ­”

Matilda closed the door and went over the way.  Here she found a somewhat tidy woman at work ironing.  Nobody else in the room.  She made known her errand.  The woman looked at her doubtfully.

“If I let you take my kettle, I don’t know when I’ll see it agin.  Mis’ Eldridge don’t have the use of herself so ’s she kin come over the street to bring it back, ye see.”

“I will bring it back myself,” said Matilda.  “I only want it for a little while.”

“Is Mis’ Eldridge sick?”

“No.  I only want to make her a cup of tea.”

“I hadn’t heerd nothin’ of her bein’ sick.  Be you a friend o’ hern?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got sickness in this house,” the woman went on.  “And everythin’s wantin’ where there’s sickness; and hard to get it.  It’s my old mother.  She lies in there” ­nodding towards an inner room ­“night and day, and day and night; and she’d like a bit o’ comfort now and then as well as another; and ’tain’t often as I kin give it to her.  Life’s hard to them as hain’t got nothin’ to live on.  I hadn’t ought to complain, and I don’t complain; but sometimes it comes over me that life’s hard.”

Here was another!

“What does she want?” Matilda asked.  “Is she very sick?”

“She won’t never be no better,” her daughter answered; “and she lies there and knows she won’t never be no better; and she’s all as full of aches as she kin be, sometimes; and other times she’s more easy like; but she lies there and knows she can’t never get up no more in this world; and she wants ‘most everythin’.  I do what I kin.”

“Do you think you can lend me your tea-kettle?  I will be very much obliged.”

“Well, if you’ll bring it back yourself ­I ’spose I will.  It’s all the kettle I’ve got.”

She fetched it out of a receptacle behind the stove, brushed the soot from its sides with a chicken’s wing, and handed it to Matilda.  It was an iron tea-kettle, not very large to be sure, but very heavy to hold at arm’s length; and so Matilda was obliged to carry it, for fear of smutching her frock.  She begged a match too, and hastened back over the street as well as she could.  But Matilda’s heart, though glad at the comfort she was about to give, began to be wearily heavy on account of the comfort she could not give; comfort that was lacking in so many quarters where she could do nothing.  She easily kindled her fire now; filled the tea-kettle at the pump ­this was very difficult, but without more borrowing she could not help it ­and at last got the kettle on, and had the joy of hearing it begin to sing.  The worst came now.  For that tea-cup and saucer and plate must be washed before they could be used; and Matilda could not bear to touch them.  She thought of taking the unused cup at the back of the shelf; but conscience would not let her.  “You know those ought to be washed,” said conscience; “and if you do not do it, perhaps nobody else will.”  Matilda earnestly wished that somebody else might.  She had no bowl, either, to wash them in, and no napkin to dry them.  And here a dreadful thought suggested itself.  Did Mrs. Eldridge herself, too, do without washing?  There were no towels to be seen anywhere.  Sick at heart, the little girl gathered up the soiled pieces of crockery in her basket ­the basket had a paper in it ­and went over the way again to Mrs. Rogers’ cottage.  As she went, it crossed her mind, could Mrs. Rogers perhaps be the other one of those two in Lilac Lane who needed to have the Bible read to them?  Or were there still others?  And how many Christians there had need to be in the world, to do all the work of it.  Even in Shadywalk.  And what earnest Christians they had need to be.

“Back again a’ready?” said the woman, as she let her in.  Matilda showed what she had in her basket, and asked for something to wash her dishes in.  She got more than she asked for; Sabrina Rogers took them from her to wash them herself.

“She has nobody to do anything for her,” Matilda observed of the poor old owner of the cup and saucer.

“She ain’t able to do for herself,” remarked Sabrina; “that’s where the difference is.  The folks as has somebody to do su’thin’ for them, is lucky folks.  I never see none o’ that luck myself.”

“But your mother has you,” said Matilda, gently.

“I can’t do much for her, either,” said Sabrina.  “Poor folks must take life as they find it.  And they find it hard.”

“Can your mother read?”

“She’s enough to do to lie still and bear it, without readin’,” said the daughter.  “Folks as has to get their livin’ has to do without readin’.”

“But would she like it?” Matilda asked.

“I wonder when these things was washed afore,” said the woman, scrubbing at them.  “Like it?  You kin go in and ask her.”

Matilda pushed open the inner door, and somewhat reluctantly went in.  It was decent, that room was; and this disabled old woman lay under a patchwork quilt, on a bed that seemed comfortable.  But the window was shut, and the air was close.  It was very disagreeable.

“How do you do to-day, Mrs. Rogers?” Matilda said, stepping nearer the bed.

“Who’s that?” was the question.

“Matilda Englefield.”

“Who’s ’Tilda Eggleford?”

“I live in the village,” said Matilda.  “Are you much sick?”

“Laws, I be!” said the poor woman.  “It’s like as if my bones was on fire, some nights.  Yes, I be sick.  And I’ll never be no better.”

“Does anybody ever come to read the Bible to you?”

“Read the Bible?” the sick woman repeated.  Her face looked dull, as if there had ceased to be any thoughts behind it.  Matilda wondered if it was because she had so little to think of.  “What about reading the Bible?” she said.

“You cannot read lying there, can you?”

“There ain’t a book nowheres in the house.”

“Not a Bible?”

“A Bible?  I hain’t seen a Bible in five year.”

“Do you remember what is in the Bible?” said Matilda, greatly shocked.  This was living without air.

“Remember?” said the woman.  “I’m tired o’ ’membering.  I’d like to go to sleep and remember no more.  What’s the use?”

“What do you remember?” Matilda asked in some awe.

“I remember ’most everything,” said the woman, wearily.  “Times when I was well and strong ­and young ­and had my house comfor’ble and my things respectable.  Them times was once.  And I had what I wanted, and could do what I had a mind to.  There ain’t no use in remembering.  I’d like to forget.  Now I lie here.”

“Do you remember nothing else?” said Matilda.

“I remember it all,” said the woman.  “I’ve nothin’ to do but think.  When I was first married, and just come home, and thought all the world was” ­she stopped to sigh ­“a garden o’ posies.  ’Tain’t much like it ­to poor folks.  And I had my children around me ­Sabriny’s the last on ’em.  She’s out there, ain’t she?”

“Yes.”

“What’s she doin’?”

“She is ironing.”

“Yes; she takes in.  Sabriny has it all to do.  I can’t do nothin’ ­this five year.”

“May I come and see you again, Mrs. Rogers?  I must go now.”

“You may come if you like,” was the answer.  “I don’t know what you should want to come for.”

Matilda was afraid her fire of pine sticks would give out; and hurried across the lane again with her basket of clean things.  The stove had fired up, to be sure; and Mrs. Eldridge was sitting crouched over it, with an evident sense of enjoyment that went to Matilda’s heart.  If the room now were but clean, she thought, and the other room; and the bed made, and Mrs. Eldridge herself.  There was too much to think of; Matilda gave it up, and attended to the business in hand.  The kettle boiled.  She made the tea in the tea-cup; laid a herring on the stove; spread some bread and butter; and in a few minutes invited Mrs. Eldridge’s attention to her supper spread on a chair.  The old woman drank the tea as if it were the rarest of delicacies; Matilda filled up her cup again; and then she fell to work on the fish and bread and butter, tearing them to pieces with her fingers, and in great though silent appreciation.  Meanwhile Matilda brought the cupboard to a little order; and then filling up Mrs. Eldridge’s cup for the third time, carried back the kettle to Sabrina Rogers and begged the loan of an old broom.

“What do you want to do with it?”

“Mrs. Eldridge’s room wants sweeping very much.”

“Likely it does!  Who’s a going to sweep it, though, if I lend you my broom?”

“There’s nobody but me,” said Matilda.

The woman brought the broom, and, as she gave it, asked, “Who sent you to do all this?”

“Nobody.”

“What made you come, then?  It’s queer play for a child like you.”

“Somebody must do it, you know,” said Matilda; and she ran away.

But Sabrina’s words recurred to her.  It was queer play.  But then, who would do it?  And it was not for Mrs. Eldridge alone.  She brushed away with a good heart, while the poor old woman was hovering over the chair on which her supper was set, munching bread and herring with a particularity of attention which shewed how good a good meal was to her.  Matilda did not disturb her, and she said never a word to Matilda; till, just as the little girl had brought all the sweepings of the floor to the threshold, where they lay in a heap, and another stroke of the broom would have scattered them into the street, the space outside the door was darkened by a figure, the sight of which nearly made the broom fly out of Matilda’s hand.  Nobody but Mr. Richmond stood there.  The two faces looked mutual pleasure and surprise at each other.

“Mr. Richmond!”

“What are you doing here, Tilly?”

“Mr. Richmond, can you step over this muss?  I will have it away directly.”

Mr. Richmond stepped in, looked at the figure by the stove, and then back at Matilda.  The little girl finished her sweeping and came back, to receive a warm grasp of the hand from her minister; one of the things Matilda liked best to get.

“Is all this your work, Tilly,” he whispered.

“Mr. Richmond, nobody has given her a cup of tea in a long while.”

The minister stepped softly to the figure still bending over the broken herring; I think his blue eye had an unusual softness in it.  The old woman pushed her chair back, and looked up at him.

“It’s the minister agin,” said she.

“Are you glad to see me?” said Mr. Richmond, taking a chair that Matilda had dusted for him.  I am afraid she took off her apron to do it with, but the occasion was pressing.  There was no distinct answer to the minister’s question.

“You seem to have had some supper here,” he remarked.

“It’s a good cup o’ tea,” said Mrs. Eldridge; ­“a good cup o’ tea.  I hain’t seen such a good cup o’ tea, not since ten year!”

“I am very glad of that.  And you feel better for it, don’t you?”

“A good cup o’ tea makes one feel like folks,” Mrs. Eldridge assented.

“And it is pleasant to think that somebody cares for us,” Mr. Richmond went on.

“I didn’t think as there warn’t nobody,” said Mrs. Eldridge, wiping her lips.

“You see you were mistaken.  Here are two people that care for you.”

“She cares the most,” said Mrs. Eldridge, with a little nod of her head towards Matilda.

“I will not dispute that,” said the minister, laughing.  “She has cared fire, and tea, and bread, and fish, hasn’t she? and you think I have only cared to come and see you.  Don’t you like that?”

“I used fur to have visits,” said the poor old woman, “when I had a nice place and was fixed up respectable.  I had visits.  Yes, I had.  There don’t no one come now.  There won’t no more on ’em come; no more.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken, Mrs. Eldridge.  Do you see how much you were mistaken in thinking that no one cared for you?  Do you know there is more care for you than hers?”

“I don’t know why she cares,” said Mrs. Eldridge.

“Who do you think sent her, and told her to care for you?”

“Who sent her?” the woman repeated.

“Yes, who sent her.  Who do you think it was?”

As he got but a lack-lustre look in reply, the minister went on.

“This little girl is the servant of the Lord Jesus Christ; and He sent her to come and see you, and care for you; and He did that because He cares.  He cares about you.  He loves you, and sent His little servant to be His messenger.”

“He didn’t send no one afore,” the old woman remarked.

“Yes, He did,” said Mr. Richmond, growing grave, “He sent others, but they did not come.  They did not do what He gave them to do.  And now, Mrs. Eldridge, we bring you a message from the Lord ­this little girl and I do, ­that He loves you and wants you to love Him.  You know you never have loved, or trusted, or obeyed Him, in all your life.  And now, the goodness of God leadeth thee to repentance.”

“There ain’t much as a poor old thing like I can do,” she said, after a long pause.

“You can trust the Lord that died for you, and love Him, and thank Him.  You can give yourself to the Lord Jesus to be made pure and good.  Can’t you?  Then He will fit you for His glorious place up yonder.  You must be fitted for it, you know.  Nothing that defileth or is defiled can go in; only those that havt washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.  Listen, now, while I read about that.”

Mr. Richmond opened his Bible and read first the seventh chapter of the Revelation, and then the twenty-second; and Matilda, standing and leaning on the back of his chair, thought how wonderful the words were, that even so poor an old helpless creature as the one opposite him might come to have a share in them.  Perhaps the wonder and the beauty of them struck Mrs. Eldridge too, for she listened very silently.  And then Mr. Richmond knelt down and prayed.

After that, he and Matilda together took the way home.

The evening was falling, and soft and sweet the light and the air came through the trees, and breathed even over Lilac Lane.  The minister and the little girl together drew fresh breaths.  It was all so delicious after the inside of the poor house where they had been.

“Light is a pleasant thing!” said the minister, half to himself.  “I think, Matilda, heaven will seem something so, when we get there.”

“Like this evening, Mr. Richmond?”

“Like this evening light and beauty, after coming out of Mrs. Eldridge’s house.”

“And then, will this world seem like Mrs. Eldridge’s house?”

“I think it will, in the contrast.  Look at those dainty little flecks of cloud yonder, low down in the sky, that seem to have caught the light in their vaporous drapery and embodied it.  See what brilliance of colour is there, and upon what a pure sky beyond!”

“Will this ever seem like Mrs. Eldridge’s house?” said Matilda.

“This is the world that God made,” said the minister, smiling.  “I was thinking of the world that man has made.”

“Lilac Lane, Mr. Richmond?” said Matilda, glancing around her.  They were hardly out of it.

“Lilac Lane is not such a bad specimen,” said the minister, with a sigh this time.  “There is much worse than this, Matilda.  And the worst of Lilac Lane is what you do not see.  You had to buy your opportunity, then?” he added, with a smile again, looking down at Matilda.

“I suppose I had, Mr. Richmond.”

“What did you pay?”

“Mr. Richmond, it was not pleasant to think of touching Mrs. Eldridge’s things.”

“No.  I should think not.  But you are not sorry you came?  Don’t you find, that as I said, it pays?”

“Oh yes, sir!  But ­”

“But what?”

“There is so much to do.”

“Yes!” said the minister, thoughtfully.  And it seemed to have stopped his talk.

“Is Mrs. Rogers the other one?” Matilda asked.

“The other one?” repeated Mr. Richmond.

“The other opportunity.  You said there were two in Lilac Lane, sir.”

“I do not know Mrs. Rogers.”

“But she is another one that wants the Bible read to her, Mr. Richmond.  She lives just across the way; I found her out by going to borrow a tea-kettle.”

“You borrowed your tea-kettle?”

“Yes, sir.  Mrs. Eldridge has none.  She has almost nothing, and as she says, there is nobody that cares.”

“Well, that will not do,” said the minister.  “We must see about getting a kettle for her.”

“Then, Mr. Richmond, Mrs. Rogers is a third opportunity.  She has been sick a-bed for five years, and there is not a Bible in the house.”

“There are opportunities starting up on every side, as soon as we are ready for them,” said the minister.

“But Mr. Richmond ­I am afraid, ­I am not ready for them.”

“Why so, my dear child?  I thought you were.”

“I am afraid I was sorry when I found out about Mrs. Rogers.”

“Why were you sorry?”

“There seemed so much to do, Mr. Richmond; so much disagreeable work.  Why, it would take every bit of time I have got, and more, to attend to those two; every bit.”

There came a rush of something that for a moment dimmed Mr. Richmond’s blue eyes; for a moment he was silent.  And for that moment, too, the language of gold clouds and sky was a sharp answer ­the answer of Light ­to the thoughts of earth.

“It is very natural,” Mr. Richmond said.  “It is a natural feeling.”

“But it is not right, is it?” said Matilda, timidly.

“Is it like Jesus?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it cannot be right.  ’Who being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God; but made Himself of no reputation, and took upon Himself the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men:  and being found in fashion as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross.’

“Who ‘pleased not Himself.’  Who ‘had not where to lay His head!’ Who, ‘though He was rich, yet for our sakes He became poor.’  ’He laid down His life for us, and we ought to lay our lives down for the brethren.’”

Matilda listened, with a choking feeling coming in her throat.

“But then what can I do, Mr. Richmond? how can I help feeling so?”

“There is only one way, dear Matilda,” said her friend.  “The way is, to love Jesus so much, that you like His will better than your own; so much, that you would rather please Him than please yourself.”

“How can I get that, Mr. Richmond?”

“Where we get all other good things.  Ask the Lord to reveal Himself in your heart, so that the love of Him may take full possession.”

The walk was silent for the greater part of the remaining way ­silent and pleasant.  The colours of sunset faded away, but a cool, fair, clear heaven carried on the beauty and the wordless speech of the earlier evening.  At Matilda’s gate Mr. Richmond stopped, and holding her hand still, spoke with a bright smile.

“I will give you a text to think about and pray over, Matilda.”

“Yes, Mr. Richmond.”

“Keep it, and think of it, and pray about it, till you understand it, and love it.”

“Yes, Mr. Richmond.  I will.”

“The words are these.  You will find them in the fourth chapter of the Second Epistle to the Corinthians.”

“In the fourth chapter of the Second Epistle to the Corinthians.  Yes, sir.”

“These are the words.  ’Always bearing about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our body.’  Good night.”