Miss Redwood was mopping up the yellow painted floor of her kitchen, as Matilda softly pushed open the door and looked in.

“Who’s that?” said the housekeeper.  “Floor’s all wet; and I don’t want no company till there’s a place for ’em to be.  Stop! is that Tilly Englefield?  Why, I declare it is!  Come right in, child.  You’re the greatest stranger in town.”

“But I am afraid to come in, Miss Redwood.”

“Then you’re easy scared.  Come in, child.  Step up on that cheer, and sit down on my table.  There! now I can look at you, and you can look at me, if you want to.  I’ll be through directly, and it won’t take this paint no time to dry.  How’s all the folks at your house?”

“Gone to New York for the day; Aunt Candy and Cousin Clarissa are.”

“Wouldn’t ha’ hurted ’em to have took you along.  Why didn’t they?”

“Oh they were going shopping,” said Matilda.

“Well, had you any objections to go shopping?” said the housekeeper, sitting back on her feet and wringing her cloth, as she looked at Matilda perched up on the table.

“I hadn’t any shopping to do, you know,” said Matilda.

“I hain’t no shopping to do, nother,” said Miss Redwood, resuming her work vigorously; “but I always like to see other folks’ goins on.  It’s a play to me, jest to go in ‘long o’ somebody else and see ’em pull down all the things, and turn over all the colours in the rainbow, and suit themselves with purchases I wouldn’t look at, and leave my gowns and shawls high and dry on the shelf.  And when I go out, I have bought as many dresses as they have, and I have kept my money for all.”

“But sometimes people buy what you would like too, Miss Redwood, don’t they?”

“Well, child, not often; ’cause, you see, folks’s minds is sot on different things; and somehow, folks’s gowns have a way o’ comin’ out o’ their hearts.  I kin tell, pretty well, what sort o’ disposition there is inside of a dress, or under a bonnet, without askin’ nobody to give me a character.  What’s be come o’ you all these days?  Ha’ you made any more gingerbread?”

“No.”

“I guess you’ve forgotten all about it, then.  What’s the reason, eh?”

“I have been too busy, Miss Redwood.”

“Goin’ to school again?”

“No, I’ve been busy at home.”

“But makin’ gingerbread is play, child; that ain’t work.”

Matilda was silent; and the housekeeper presently came to a pause again; sat back on her feet, wrung her mopping cloth, and considered Matilda.

“Don’t you want to make some this afternoon?”

“If you please; yes, I should like it,” said the little girl.

“Humph!” said the housekeeper.  “What have you been tiring yourself with to-day?”

“I am not tired,” said Matilda.  “Thank you, Miss Redwood.”

“If I was to get a good bowl o’ sour cream now, and shew you how to toss up a short-cake ­how would you like that?”

“Oh, I would like it very much ­if I could.”

“Sit still then,” said the housekeeper, “till my floor’s dry.  Why hain’t you been to see me before, eh?  Everybody else in creation has been in at the parsonage door but you.  You ain’t beginnin’ to take up with that French minister, air you?”

“Oh no, indeed, Miss Redwood!  But he isn’t a French minister.”

“I don’t care what he is,” said the housekeeper; “he takes airs; and a minister as takes airs had better be French, I think.  What do you go to hear him for, then?”

“Aunt Candy takes me.”

“Then you don’t go because you want to? that’s what I am drivin’ at.”

“Oh no, indeed I don’t, Miss Redwood.  I would never go, if I could help myself.”

“What harm would happen to you if you didn’t?” asked the housekeeper, dryly.  But Matilda was distressed and could not tell.

“There is ministers as takes airs,” continued the housekeeper sitting up and giving her mop a final wring, “but they can’t kind o’ help it; it’s born with ’em, you may say; it’s their natur.  It’s a pity, but so it is.  That’s one thing.  I’m sorry for ’em, for I think they must have a great load to carry.  But when a man goes to bowin’ and curchying, outside o’ society, and having a tailor of his own to make his coat unlike all other folks, I think I don’t want to have him learn me manners.  Folks always takes after their minister ­more or less.”

“Do you think so?” said Matilda, dubiously.

“Why yes, child.  I said more or less; with some of ’em it’s a good deal less.  Don’t you do what Mr. Richmond tells you?”

“I try,” said Matilda.

“So I try,” said Miss Redwood, getting upon her feet.  “La! we all do ­a little.  It’s natur.  Don’t your aunt, now, take after her minister?”

“I suppose so,” said Matilda, with a sigh.

“Don’t you go gettin’ into that Frenchman’s ways.  Mr. Richmond’s thumb is worth all there is o’ him.”

“Miss Redwood,” said Matilda, “I want to ask you something.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“I want to know if you won’t do something for me.”

“Talk away,” said the housekeeper.  “I hear.”  She went meanwhile getting out the flour and things wanted for the short-cake.

“There’s a poor old woman that lives in Lilac Lane; Mrs. Eldridge, her name is.”

“Sally Eldridge,” said Miss Redwood.  “La!  I know her.  She’s poor, as you say.”

“You know where she lives?”

“Course I do, child.  I know where everybody lives.”

“You know she is very poor, and her house wants cleaning, and she hasn’t a great many things to be comfortable.”

“How come you to know it?” asked the housekeeper.

“I have been there.  I have seen her.  I know her very well.”

“Who took you there?”

“Nobody took me there.  I heard about her, and I went to see her.”

“You didn’t learn that of the French minister.”

“But he is not French, Miss Redwood.”

“I wisht he was,” said the housekeeper.  “I say nothin’ agin other country people, only to be sorry for ’em; but I get put out o’ my patience when I see one of the right stock makin’ a fool of himself.  Well, honey, what about Mis’ Eldridge?”

“I’ve got some money, Miss Redwood, ­somebody gave me some money, to get things for her and do what I like; and Norton Laval and I were going to have her made nice and comfortable.  But now Aunt Candy will not let me go there any more, and I can’t do what I wanted to do; and I thought ­Mr. Richmond thought ­maybe you would see to it for me.”

“What’s to be done?” said the housekeeper.

“Why, first of all, Miss Redwood, her house wants cleaning.  It is not fit to put anything nice into it.”

“All Lilac Lane wouldn’t be the worse of a cleanin’,” said the housekeeper; “men and women and all; but I don’t know who’s to do the cleanin’.”

“I thought maybe Sabrina Rogers would do it, ­if she was paid, you know.  She lives just over the way, and she is pretty clean.”

“Kin try,” said the housekeeper.  “No harm in tryin’.  I guess a dollar would fetch her round.  Supposin’ it was cleaned; what’s to do next?”

“Get things, Miss Redwood,” said Matilda, looking up at her eagerly.  “You know she wants so much.  I want to get a bedstead for her, and a decent bed; her bed isn’t a bed, and it lies on the floor.  And she has no way to wash herself; I want to send her a little washstand, and basin, and pitcher, and towels; and a table for the other room; and a saucepan to cook things in; and some bread, and meat, and sugar, and other things; for she hasn’t comfortable things to eat.  And one or two calico dresses, you know; she wants them so much.”

The child’s face grew excitedly eager.  There came a glitter in the housekeeper’s faded blue eye as it looked down upon her.

“But, honey, all these things’ll cost a sight o’ money.”

“I’ve got money.”

“It’ll take all you’ve got.”

“But I want to do what I can, Miss Redwood.”

“I kind o’ don’t think it’s right,” said the housekeeper.  “Why should you go a-spendin’ all your little savin’s upon Sally Eldridge?  And it’s only one old woman helped, when all’s done; there’s lots more.  It’s somebody else that ought to do it; ’tain’t your work, child.”

“But I want to do it, Miss Redwood.  And I’ve got the money.”

“I wonder how much better she’ll be at the end of six months,” said the housekeeper.  “Well, you want me to take this job in hand, do you?”

“If you can; if you would be so very good.”

“You make me feel as mean as water,” said the housekeeper.  “It’ll take me a little while to get up any notion o’ my goodness again.  I suppose it’ll come, with the old pride o’ me.  I know what the Bible says, but I kind o’ didn’t think it meant it; and I’ve been a makin’ myself comfortable all my days, or workin’ for it, and consolin’ my conscience with thinkin’ it was no use to help one; but now yours and mine would make two; and somebody else’s would ha’ been three.  La! child, you make me ashamed o’ myself.”

“But Miss Redwood,” said Matilda, in much surprise, “you are always doing something for somebody; I don’t know what you mean.”

“Not this way, child,” said the housekeeper.  “I kind o’ thought my money was my own, after I had worked for it.”

“Well, so it is.”

“And so is your’n your’n; but it looks like as if what was your’n was the Lord’s.  And to be sure, that’s what the minister is always a sayin’; but I kind o’ thought it was because he was the minister, and that Sarah Redwood hadn’t no call to be just exactly as good as him.”

And to Matilda’s bewilderment, she saw the corner of Miss Redwood’s apron lifted to wipe off a tear.

“Come, child, make your short-cake!” she began with fresh vigour.  “There’s water to wash your hands.  Now we must be spry, or the minister ’ll be wanting his tea, and I should feel cheap if it warn’t ready.  I’ve got my lesson, for to-day; and now you shall have your’n.  I never did want many blows of the hammer to drive a nail into me.  Here’s an apron for you.  Now sift your flour, just as you did for the gingerbread; and we’ll have it baking in no time.  Short-cake must be made in five minutes, or it’ll be heavy; and it must bake almost as quick.  Turn it up, dear, with the ends o’ your fingers, while I pour the cream in ­just toss it round ­don’t seem to take hold o’ nothing ­kind o’ play with it; and yet you must manage to throw the mixin’s together somehow.  Yes, that’ll do very well, that’ll do very well; you’ve got a real good hand, light and firm.  Now bring it together, dear, in one lump, and we’ll cut it in two pieces and put it in the pans.”

This was done satisfactorily, and the pans were slipped into the hot oven.  Matilda washed her hands, and the housekeeper made neat and swift preparations for tea.  Everything was so nice about her, her kitchen and pantries were in such a state of order and propriety, and so well supplied too; it was a pleasure to see her go from one to the other and bring out what she wanted.  Matilda was allowed to take cups, and plates, and sugar, and butter from her hand, and found it a most enlivening kind of amusement; especially the placing her own plate and knife, and seeing it there on Mr. Richmond’s tea-table.  Then came the excitement of taking out the short-cake, which had puffed itself up and browned in the most pleasant manner; and then the minister was called out to tea.  It was an odd little room, between the study and the kitchen, where they took tea; not big enough for anything but the table and a convenient passage round it.  Two little windows looked out over a pleasant field, part of which was cultivated as the parsonage garden, and beyond that, to white palings and neat houses, clustering loosely in pretty village fashion.  Among them, facing on the street which bordered the parsonage and church grounds at the back, Matilda could see the brown front of the Academy, where Norton Laval went to school; and trees mingled their green tops with the house roofs everywhere.  The sun was going down in the bright western sky, which was still beyond all this, and nothing disagreeable was within sight at all.

“What are you thinking about, Tilly, that you look so hard out of my windows?” the minister asked.

“Nothing, Mr. Richmond.  At least ­I was thinking, whether you knew Norton.  Norton Laval.”

“He comes to the Sunday-school, I think.  No, I do not know him very well.  Do you?”

“Oh yes.”

“Is he a nice fellow?”

“He is very nice, Mr. Richmond.”

“Does he love the Bible as well as you do?”

“I don’t think he knows much about it, Mr. Richmond,” Matilda answered, looking wistful.

“If he is a friend of your’s, cannot you help him?”

“I do try,” said Matilda.  “But, Mr. Richmond, you know a boy thinks he knows about things better than I do, or than any girl does.”

Mr. Richmond smiled.

“Besides, I can’t see him now,” Matilda added.  “I have no chance.”  And a cloud came over her face.

“Miss Redwood,” said the minister, “do you think you can manage a certain business in Lilac Lane which Matilda had a mind to entrust to you?  I suppose you have been consulting about it.”

“Does Mr. Richmond think it’ll do much good?” was the housekeeper’s rejoinder.

“Do I think what will do good?”

“Gettin’ a new bedstead and fixin’s for Sally Eldridge.”

“I don’t know what ‘fixin’s’ are, in this connection,” said the minister.  “I have heard of ‘light bread and chicken fixings,’ at the South.”

“The bread and the chickens are comin’ too, for all I know,” said the housekeeper.  “I mean sheets, and coverlets, and pillows, and decent things.  She hain’t none now.”

“I should think she would sleep better,” said the minister, gravely.

“Had this child ought to spend her little treasures for to put that old house in order?  It’s just sheddin’ peas into a basket that has got no bottom to it.”

“So bad as that?” said the minister.

“Well, Mr. Richmond knows,” the housekeeper went on, “there ain’t no end o’ the troubles there is in the world, nor yet o’ the poverty; and Sally Eldridge, she’ll be the better maybe, as long as the things last; but there’s all the rest o’ Lilac Lane, without speaking of what there is beside in Shadywalk; and the chilld ’ll be without her dollars, and the world ’ll be pretty much where it was.”

“I don’t see but that reasoning would stop my preaching, Miss Redwood.”

“I don’t mean it, sir, I’m sure.”

“I don’t think you mean what you say.  What is the use of giving me a good cup of tea, when so many other people cannot have one at all?”

“The minister knows a cup o’ good tea when he sees it,” answered the housekeeper.

Mr. Richmond laughed.  “But don’t you think Sally Eldridge, for instance, would know a good bed?”

“There ain’t no possibilities o’ makin’ some o’ them folks keerful and thrivin’,” said the housekeeper, firmly. “’Tain’t in ’em; and what’s the use o’ havin’ things if folks ain’t keerful?  Sally Eldridge had her house respectable once; I mind her very well, when she kept the gate at Judge Brockenhurst’s big place; and she had wages, and her man he had good wages; and now the peas is all out o’ the basket.  And is there any use, buyin’ more to put in?  The basket ’ll never be mended.  It’ll let out as fast as it takes in.”

“The basket, as you put it, is out of Sally’s hands now,” Miss Redwood.  “She is one of the helpless ones.  Don’t you think it would be a good thing to make her life more comfortable?  I think we had better take her some of this short-cake, Matilda.  Miss Redwood, as for you, I shall expect to hear that you have lamed your arm doing something for her comfort, or half broken your back carrying a heavy basket to Lilac Lane, or something of that sort, judging by what I know of you already.”

“I’m willin’,” said the housekeeper.  “But it ain’t this child’s business.  She hain’t no call to give all she’s got to Sally Eldridge.”

“I suppose,” said the minister, with a look at Matilda, which both she and the housekeeper read with their hearts, ­“I suppose she is thinking of the word that will be spoken one day, ’Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these,’ ­’He that hath pity upon the poor, lendeth to the Lord; and that which he hath given will He pay him again’!”

“Then Mr. Richmond thinks it would be a good use of her money?”

“There might possibly be better; but if it is the best she knows, that is all she can do.  I have a great opinion of doing what our hands find to do, Miss Redwood; if the Lord gives other work, He will send the means too.”

“There’s a frame bedstead lyin’ up in the loft,” said the housekeeper.  “’Tain’t no good to any one, and it only wants a new rope to cord it up; perhaps the minister would let Sally have that; and it would save so much.”

“By all means, let her have that; and anything else we can spare.  Now, Matilda, you and I will go and attend to our other business.”

They went back to the study, where the light was growing soft.  Mr. Richmond drew up the blinds of the west window and let in the glow and colour from a rich sunset sky.  He stood looking at it, with the glow upon his face; and standing so, spoke ­

“What was it, Matilda?”

Matilda on her part sat down in a chair, and with a face of childish grave meditation, peered into the great bunch of asparagus with which Miss Redwood had filled the minister’s chimney.  She sat in shadow all over, and answered as if taking out the very secret burden of her heart for her friend’s inspection.

“Mr. Richmond, I can’t do Band work any more.  I can’t do anything.  I can’t do anything at all.  You told us to buy up opportunities; but I have no opportunities now even to buy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir,” said the child, slowly.  “I am quite sure.  I cannot do any work at all.  And I would like it so much.”

“Wait a bit,” said the minister, still looking at the evening glow; “maybe you are too hasty.”

“No, sir.  Aunt Candy will not let me go out, and I can see nobody.”

“Whose servant are you?”

“I am Christ’s servant,” said the child, softly.

“Well.  Being His servant, do you want to do His will, or your own?”

“Why ­I want to do His will,” Matilda answered, speaking a little slowly.

“Isn’t it His will just now that you should be without your old liberty, and unable to do these things you want to do?”

“Yes, sir,” Matilda said, rather unwillingly.  “I suppose it is.”

“Are you willing His will should be done?”

Mr. Richmond had faced round from the window now, and Matilda met his look, and did not answer for a moment.

“Is it His will, Mr. Richmond, that I should have no opportunity to do anything?”

“What do you think?  If He had chosen to do it, He could have placed you in the midst of the fullest opportunity.  He has placed you under the rule of your aunt.  Are you willing His will should be done, and as long as He pleases?”

Matilda looked in her friend’s face, but it put the question steadily; and she faltered and burst into tears.

“That is a great question, Tilly,” said the minister, kindly.  “Is it yourself you want to please? or the Lord Jesus?  He can have these outside things done by other people, even if you cannot help in them; but of you the first thing He wants is an obedient child.  Will you be obedient?  That is, will you agree to His will?”

“Mr. Richmond ­must I be willing to do nothing?” Matilda asked without uncovering her face.

“If the Lord bids you do nothing.”

“But I thought ­He bade me ­do so many things?”

“So He does; and just now the very first and foremost of them is, that you should be content with His will.”

The daylight had faded sensibly when the next words were spoken, so many seconds went by before Matilda was ready to speak them.

“Mr. Richmond,” she said, after that pause of hidden struggle, “isn’t it very hard?”

“It depends upon how much any one loves the Lord, my dear child.  The more you love Him, the less you want your own will.  But you were never more mistaken in your life, than just now, when you thought He had taken all your opportunities away.”

“Why, what opportunities have I, Mr. Richmond?” said Matilda, lifting up her face.

“This, for one.  Opportunity to be obedient.  The Bible says that Christ, coming here to stand in our place and save us, learned obedience by the things which He suffered; and I don’t know but we must, too.”

Matilda looked very hard at her adviser; it was not easy for her to get at this new thought.

“Cannot you as truly obey, when God says you must be still, as when He says you must work?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in either case, obedience is in the heart ­not in the fingers or the tongue.  Isn’t it so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You see one opportunity, Matilda.”

“Yes, sir.”  The answers were very meek.

“My dear child, is that the only one?”

“I cannot go out, Mr. Richmond.”

“No, I understand.  But in the house.  Have you no opportunities to be patient, for instance?”

“Yes, sir!” and a faint colour rose in Matilda’s cheek.

“My child, patience is something that, when God’s children show, they always honour Him.”

“How, Mr. Richmond?”

“It shows His grace and power in them; for they cannot be truly patient without His help.  And then others see it and acknowledge that there is reality in religion, and that God’s will is beautiful.”

“I never thought of that,” said Matilda.

“Have you no opportunity to forgive injuries, or unkindness?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Richmond!” The answer came from some deep place in Matilda’s heart.

“Do you use that opportunity well?”

“I don’t think I have, Mr. Richmond,” said Matilda, looking very sorrowful.  “I think, instead, I have been hating my ­”

“Yes.  Shall that be at an end now?”

“But how can it?” said Matilda.  “I get so vexed” ­and she wiped away a tear.  “I get so vexed, Mr. Richmond!”

“I am very sorry you have occasion.  But you cannot forgive people unless you have occasion.”

“How can I then?”

“By going to Jesus, just as the sick people went to Him in the old time, and getting cured, as they did.  ’If thou canst believe; all things are possible to him that believeth.’”

Matilda steadied her trembling little lips, and stood listening.

“Haven’t you opportunities to do kindnesses?” Mr. Richmond then said, softly.  Matilda looked up and bowed her head a little.  Perhaps lips were not ready.

“Do you use them well?”

“I think not, Mr. Richmond ­lately.”

“You know, you can do kindness indoors as well as out of doors, and to disagreeable people as well as to nice people.  We are commanded to be followers of God, as dear children.”

The tears gathered again.

“See how much kindness you can do.  No matter whether it is deserved or not.  That is no part of the question.  And have you not opportunity to learn something?”

“I am not going to school,” said Matilda.

“Nor learning anything at home?”

“Not much.  Not much that is good for anything.”

“Never mind.  You can do that for God.”

“Oh no, Mr. Richmond; it is not useful enough.”

“You do not know how useful it may be.”

“Yes, sir, because it isn’t that sort of thing.  Aunt Candy is making me learn to mend lace.  It is no use at all.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” said Mr. Richmond.  Matilda looked up with fresh eagerness into his face.

“Whenever the Lord puts you in the way of learning anything, you may be sure He means you to learn it.  He knows the use; and if you neglect the chance, the next thing will be, you will find He will give you work to do which you cannot do, because you neglected to learn what He gave you to learn.”

“But mending lace?” said Matilda.

“I don’t care what it is.  Yes, mending lace.  I don’t know what use you will find for that accomplishment, and you don’t; all the same, you will know, when the time comes; and then you will be very sorry and mortified to find yourself unable for the work given you, if you despised your opportunity of preparation.  And then it will be too late to mend that, as well as the lace.”

“And is that true of all sorts of things, Mr. Richmond?”

“Of all sorts of things.  Whenever the Lord puts a chance of learning something in your way, you may be quite sure He has a use and a meaning in it.  He has given it to you to do.”

“Then all my learning to cook, and do things about the house?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Richmond, smiling.  “It is not difficult to see a use for that; is it?”

“No, sir ­I suppose not,” the child said, thoughtfully.

“Have you not opportunities for being thankful too, in the midst of all these other things?”

“Yes, Mr. Richmond.”

But the child stood looking at him with a wistful, intent face, and wide-open, thoughtful eyes; so sober, and so eager, and so pitiful, that it made an unconscious plea to the minister’s heart.

“Come,” said he; “we have so much to say to our Lord, let us say it.”

And they kneeled down, and Mr. Richmond put all Matilda’s heart into a prayer for her, and some of his own.

“I must go now, Mr. Richmond,” Matilda said presently after.  But she said it with a much more cheerful tone.

“I shall want to hear how you get on,” said Mr. Richmond.  “When will you take tea with me again?”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir.  Aunt Candy is always at home.”

“And keeps you there?”

“Yes, sir.  Lately.  She didn’t at first.”

“Well, I must see about that.  I think you must be allowed to come and see me, at all events.  Perhaps you do not know, Matilda, that your mother in almost the last hour of her life asked me to take care of you.”

“Did she?” Matilda exclaimed, with a wonderful change of voice and manner.

“Yes.  She did.  In your aunt’s presence.”

“And you will, Mr. Richmond?” said the child, a little timidly.

“And I will ­while I live myself.”

“Then I can come and see you, Mr. Richmond?”

“I think you can.  I will see about it.”

Matilda gave her friend a good night which was almost joyous, and then ran out to the kitchen.

“Miss Redwood,” she said, “did you change your mind again about Mrs. Eldridge?  I thought you agreed, and that you were going to do all that for me.”

“No, child; I hain’t changed my mind.  I changed it oncet, you know, to come over to you.  I never did go both ways, like a crab.”

“But you said at tea ­”

“Well, I wished the minister’d tell you to keep your money to hum.  ’Tain’t your work, as I can see, to fit out Sally Eldridge with notions; it’s like enough it’s mine, and I’m willin’ to take it, and do it, and see to it.  You put your money by, child, against a wet day.  Maybe you’ll want it yet.”

“Don’t you remember, Miss Redwood, what Mr. Richmond repeated at tea? ­’the Lord will pay it again?’”

“Well,” said the housekeeper, “let the pay come to me, then.”

“No,” said Matilda, “that won’t do.  It’s my business, Miss Redwood, and I asked you to do it for me; and I’ll give you the money.  How much do you want?”

“I hain’t bought the things yet; I don’ know; and some of ’em won’t have to be bought, with a little contrivance.  I’ll spend the least I kin; and then we’ll talk about it.”

Matilda gave her an energetic kiss and hurried away.  But I am afraid the housekeeper’s apron went up to her eyes again.