The next day rose very bright and fair.  Matilda had been sadly afraid it would rain; but no such matter; the sun looked and smiled over the world as if slyly wishing her joy on her good prospects.  Matilda took it so, and got ready for breakfast with a heart leaping with delight.  She had got no more news yet as to where she was going; but after breakfast Mrs. Candy made her dress herself in the gingham and put on her best boots, which made the little trunk all the emptier; and the trunk itself was locked.  Things were in this state, and Matilda mending lace in her aunt’s room; when Mrs. Candy’s maid of all work put her head in.

“The carriage has come, mum,” she said.

“What carriage?” said Mrs. Candy.

“Meself doesn’t know, then.  The bi says he’s come fur to get the chilt.”

“What boy?” said Mrs. Candy, in growing astonishment.

“Sure, an’ I haven’t been here long enough fur to know all the bi’s of the village.  He’s the bi that come wid the carriage, anyhow, an’ it’s the chilt he’s wanting.  An’ it’s the iligantest carriage you ever see in your life; and two iligant grey horses, an’ a driver.”

Mother and daughter looked at each other.  The lace had fallen from Matilda’s hands to the ground.

“Did he give no name?”

“It’s just what he didn’t, then.  Only he jumped down, and axed was the chilt ready.  I tould him sure I didn’t know, and he said would I go see.  An’ what ’ll I say to him, thin? for he’s waitin’.”

“I’ll speak to him myself,” said Mrs. Candy.  “Go on with your work, Matilda.”

But in a few minutes she came back, and bade the trembling child put up her lace and put on her hat, and go.  I am afraid the leave-taking was a short affair; for two minutes had hardly passed when Matilda stood in the hall, and Norton caught her by both hands.

“Norton!” she cried.

“Yes, I’ve come for you.  Come, Matilda, your trunk’s in.”

“Where are we going?” Matilda asked, as she let herself be led and placed in the carriage, which was a low basket phaeton.

“Where are we going!” echoed Norton.  “Where is it likely we are going, with you and your trunk?  Where did you mean to go to-day, Pink?”

“I don’t know.  I didn’t know anything about it.  O Norton, are we going to your house!”

“If Tom knows the road,” said Norton, coolly; “and I rather think the ponies do, if he don’t.  Why, Pink! do you mean to tell me you didn’t know you were coming to us?”

“I didn’t know a word about it.”

“Nor how mamma went to ask for you?”

“Aunt Candy didn’t tell me.”

“Did she tell you you were going anywhere?”

“Yes.  She made me pack up my clothes, but that’s all.”

“Didn’t you ask her?”

Matilda shook her head.  “I never do ask Aunt Candy anything.”

“Why?” said Norton, curiously.

“I don’t like to ­and she don’t like to have me.”

“She must be a nice woman to live with,” said Norton.  “You’ll miss her badly, I should say.  Aren’t you sorry, Pink?” he asked, suddenly, taking Matilda’s chin in his hand to watch the answer she would give.  The answer, all smiling and blushing, contented Norton; and the next instant the gray ponies swept in at the iron gate and brought them before the house door.

Matilda jumped out of the carriage with a feeling of being in an impossible dream.  But her boot felt the rough gravel of the roadway; the sun was shining still and warm on the lawn and the trees; the mid-country, rich-coloured with hues of autumn, lay glittering in light; the blue hills were over against her sleeping in haze; the gray ponies were trotting off round the sweep, and had left her and Norton standing before the house.  It was all real and not a dream; and she turned to Norton who was watching her, with another smile so warm and glad, that the boy’s face grew bright to see it.  And then there was Mrs. Laval, coming out on the verandah.

“My dear child!” she exclaimed, folding Matilda in her arms.  “My dear child!  I have had hard work to get you; but here you are.”

“Mamma, she did not know she was coming,” said Norton, “till I came for her.”

“Not know it?” said Mrs. Laval, holding her back to look at her.  “Why, child, you have grown thin!”

“It’s the hot weather, Aunt Candy says.”

“And pale!” said Mrs. Laval.  “Yes, you have; pale and thin.  Have you been ill?”

“No, ma’am,” said Matilda; but her eyes were watering now in very gladness and tenderness.

“Not ill?” said the lady.  “And yet you are changed, ­I do not know how; it isn’t all thinness, or paleness.  What is the matter with you, dear?”

“Nothing ­only I am so glad,” Matilda managed to say, as Mrs. Laval’s arms again came round her.  The eyes of mother and son met expressively.

“I don’t like to see people cry for gladness,” whispered the lady.  “That is being entirely too glad.  Let us go and see where you are to live while you are with me.  Norton, send York up with her box.”

Matilda shook herself mentally, and went up-stairs with Mrs. Laval.  Such easy, soft-going stairs! and then the wide light corridor with its great end window; and then Mrs. Laval went into a room which Matilda guessed was her own, and through that passed to another, smaller, but large enough still, where she paused.

“You shall be here,” she said; “close by me; so that you cannot feel lonely.”

“Oh, I could not feel lonely,” cried Matilda.  “I have a room by myself at home.”

“But not far away from other people, I suppose.  Your sister is near you, is she not?”

“Oh, Maria is gone, long ago.”

“Gone?  What, entirely?  Not out of the village?”

“She is in Poughkeepsie.  I have not seen her in a great many weeks.”

“Was that her own wish?”

“Oh no, ma’am; she was very sorry to go.”

“Well, you must have been very sorry too.  Now, dear, here are drawers for you; and see, here is a closet for hanging up things; and here is your washing closet with hot and cold water; the hot is the right hand one of these two faucets.  And I hope you will be happy here, darling.”

She spoke very kindly; so kindly that Matilda did not know how to answer.  I suppose her face answered for her; for Mrs. Laval, instead of presently leading the way down-stairs again, sat down in a chair by one of the windows and drew Matilda into her arras.  She took off her hat, and smoothed away the hair from her forehead, and looked in her face, with eyes that were curiously wistful and noteful of her.  And Matilda’s eyes, wondering, went over the mid-country to the blue mountains, as she thought what a new friend God had given her.

“Are you well, dear?” said the lady’s voice in her ear softly.

“Quite well, ma’am.”

“What has changed you so since last June?”

“I didn’t know that I was changed,” Matilda said, wondering again.

“Are you happy, my love?”

The question was put very softly, and yet Matilda started and looked into Mrs. Laval’s eyes to see what her thought was.

“Yes,” said the lady, smiling; “I asked you if you were quite happy.  How is it?”

Matilda’s eyes went back to the blue mountains.  How much ought she to tell?

“I think ­I suppose ­I ought to be happy,” she said at last.

“I think you always try to do what you think you ought to do; isn’t that so?”

“I try,” said Matilda in a low voice.

“How happens it, then, dear, that you do not succeed in being happy?”

“I don’t know,” said Matilda.  “I suppose I should, if I were quite good.”

“If you were quite good.  Have you so many things to make you happy?”

“I think I have.”

“Tell them to me,” said Mrs. Laval, pressing her cheek against Matilda’s hair in caressing fashion; “it is pleasant to talk of one’s pleasant things, and I should like to hear of yours.  What are they, love?”

What did the lady mean?  Matilda hesitated, but Mrs. Laval was quietly waiting for her to speak.  She had her arms wrapped round Matilda, and her face rested against her hair, and so she was waiting.  It was plain that Matilda must speak.  Still she waited, uncertain how to frame her words, uncertain how they would be understood; till at last the consciousness that she had waited a good while, drove her to speak suddenly.

“Why, ma’am,” she said, “the first thing is, that I belong to the Lord Jesus Christ.”

The lady paused now in her turn, and her voice when she spoke was somewhat husky.

“What is the next thing, dear?”

“Then, I know that God is my Father.”

“Go on,” said the lady, as Matilda was silent.

“Well ­that is it,” said Matilda.  “I belong to the Lord Jesus; and I love Him, and I know He loves me; and He takes care of me, and will take care of me; and whatever I want I ask Him for, and He hears me.”

“And does He give you whatever you ask for?” said the lady, in a tone again changed.

“If He don’t, He will give me something better,” was the answer.

Maybe Mrs. Laval might have taken up the words from some lips.  But the child on her lap spoke them so quietly, her face was in such a sweet rest of assurance, and one little hand rose and fell on the window-sill with such an unconscious glad endorsement of what she said, that the lady was mute.

“And this makes you happy?” she said, at length.

“Sometimes it does,” answered Matilda.  “I think it ought always.”

“But, my dear little creature, is there nothing else in all the world to make you feel happy?”

Matilda’s words were not ready.

“I don’t know,” she said.  “Sometimes I think there isn’t.  They’re all away.”

The last sentence was given with an unconscious forlornness of intonation which went to her friend’s heart.  She clasped Matilda close at that, and covered her with kisses.

“You won’t feel so here?” she said.

But the child’s answer was in pantomime.  For she had clung to Mrs. Laval as the lady had clasped her; and Matilda’s head nestling in her neck and softly returning a kiss or two, gave assurance enough.

“All away?” said Mrs. Laval.  “Well, I think that too sometimes.  You and I ought to belong to each other.”

And then presently, as if she were shaking off all these serious reflections, she bade Matilda arrange her things comfortably in closet and drawers; and then when she liked, come down to her.  So she went out, and the man with the little trunk came in and set it in a corner.

Matilda felt in dreamland.  It was only like dreamland, to take out her things, which a few hours ago she had packed in the dismal precincts of her aunt’s house, and place them in such delightful circumstances as her new quarters afforded.  The drawers of her dressing-table were a marvel of beauty, being of a pale sea-green colour, with rosebuds painted in the corners.  Her little bedstead was of the same colour and likewise adorned; and so the chairs, and a small stand which held a glass of flowers.  The floor was covered with a pretty white mat, and light muslin curtains lined with rose, hung before the windows.  The spread on her bed was a snow white Marseilles quilt, Matilda knew that; and the washing closet was sumptuous in luxury, with its ample towels and its pretty cake of sweet fragrant soap.  Every one of these things Matilda took note of, as she was obeying Mrs. Laval’s advice to put her things in some order before she came down-stairs.  And she was thinking, also, what ‘opportunities’ she could possibly have here.  There would be nothing to try her patience or her temper; nothing disagreeable, in fact, except the thought of going away again.  How could she ever bear that? And then it occurred to Matilda that certainly she had opportunity and occasion to give thanks; and she knelt down and did it very heartily; concluding as she rose up, that she would leave the question of going away till it came nearer the time.

She went with a light heart downstairs then; how odd it was to be at home in that house, going up and down with her hat off!  She passed through one or two rooms, and found Mrs. Laval at last in a group of visitors, busy talking to half a dozen at once.  Matilda stole out again, wondering at the different Mrs. Laval down-stairs from the one who had sat with her in her little room half an hour ago.  On the verandah she met Norton.  He greeted her eagerly, and drew her round the house to a shady angle where they sat down on two of the verandah chairs.

“Now what shall we do this afternoon?” said Norton.  “What would you like?”

“I like everything.  Oh, I like everything!” said Matilda.

“Yes, but this is nothing,” said Norton.  “Shall we go take a long drive?”

“If Mrs. Laval goes ­I should like it very much.”

“If she don’t go, we will,” said Norton.  “The roads are in good order, and the ponies want exercise.  I don’t believe mamma will go, for she is expecting a whole shipload of servants, and Francis will have to go to the station for them.”

“Then he will want the horses, won’t he?”

“Not the ponies.  He will get somebody’s great farm waggon, to bring up all their goods and things.  You and I will go driving, Pink.”

“Will you drive?” asked Matilda.

“Certainly.”

Matilda thought more than ever that she was in fairyland.  She sat musing over her contentment, when Norton broke in again.

“You are very fond of that aunt of yours, aren’t you?”

It was a point blank question.  Matilda waited, and then softly said “No.”

“Not?” said Norton.  “That’s funny.  Hasn’t she done everything in the world to make you love her?”

“Please, Norton,” said Matilda, “I would rather not talk about her.”

“Why not, Pink?” said Norton, showing his white teeth.

“I don’t enjoy it.”

“Don’t you?” said Norton.  “That’s funny again.  I should think you would.”

“Why?” said Matilda, curiously.

“There’s so much to say, that’s one thing.  And then she’s so good to you.”

“Who told you she was so good to me?”

“I can see it in your face.”

Matilda sat silent, wondering what he meant.

“You can always tell,” said Norton.  “People can’t hide things.  I can see she has been doing no end of kindnesses to you all summer long.  That has made you so fond of her.”

Matilda was puzzled and sat silent, not knowing what it was best to say; and Norton watching her stealthily saw a wistful little face, tender and pure, and doubtful, that just provoked caresses.  He dropped what was in his hands and fairly took possession of Matilda, kissing the pale cheeks, as if she were his own particular plaything.  It was unlike most boys, but Norton Laval was independent and manly above most boys.  Matilda was astonished.

“Drive? to be sure we will drive,” said Norton, as he let her go.  “We will drive all over creation.”

The visitors went away just at this juncture, and the children were called in to dinner.  And after dinner Norton made some of his words good.  Mrs. Laval was not going out; she gave leave to Norton to do what he pleased, and he took Matilda to drive in the basket phaeton.

“Norton,” she said, as they were just setting forth.

“Well?”

“If you would just as lieve, I wish you wouldn’t, please, go past Aunt Candy’s.”

“Not go past?” said Norton.  “Why, Pink?”

“If you would just as lieve, I would rather not.”

Norton nodded, and they took another way.  But now this was better than fairyland.  Fairyland never knew such a drive, surely.  The afternoon was just right, as Norton had said; there was no dust, and not too much sun; the roads were in fine order; and they bowled along as if the ponies had had nothing to do in a great while.  Now it was hardly within the memory of Matilda to have seen the country around Shadywalk as she saw it this afternoon.  Every house had the charm of a picture; every tree by the roadside seemed to be planted for her pleasure.  The meadows and fields of stubble and patches of ploughed land, were like pieces of a new world to the long housed child.  Norton told her to whom these fields belonged, which increased the effect, and gave bits of family history, as he knew it, connected with the names.  These meadows belonged to such a gentleman; his acres counted so many; were good for so much; taken capital care of.  Here were the fields and woods of such-a-one’s farm; he kept cows and sent milk to New York.  That house among the trees was the homestead of one of the old county families; the place was beautiful; Matilda would see it some day with Mrs. Laval; that little cottage by the gate was only a lodge.  Matilda desired to know what a lodge was; and upon the explanation, and upon many more details correlative and co-related, went into musings of her own.  But the sky was so fair and blue; the earth was so rich and sunny; the touches of sear or yellow leaves here and there on a branch gave such emphasis to the deep hues still lingering on the vegetation; the phaeton wheels rolled so smoothly; that Matilda’s musings did not know very well what course to keep.

“Well what are you thinking of?” said Norton after a silence of some time.

“I was thinking of Lilac Lane, just then.”

“Lilac Lane!  Do you want to see it?”

“Very much, Norton,” said Matilda, gleefully; “but not this afternoon.  I haven’t been there in a great, great while.”

“I should not think you would want to be ever there again.  I can’t see why.”

“But then what would become of the poor people?”

“They do not depend upon you,” said Norton.  “It is not your look-out.”

“But ­I suppose,” Matilda said, slowly, “I suppose, everybody depends upon somebody.”

“Well?” said Norton, laughing.

“You needn’t laugh, though, Norton; because, if everybody depends upon somebody, then, everybody has somebody depending upon him, I suppose.”

“Who depends upon you?”

“I don’t know,” said Matilda.  “I wish I did.”

“Not Mrs. Old-thing there, at any rate.  And how can anybody tell, Pink?”

“I don’t know,” said Matilda; “and so it seems to me the best way would be to act as if everybody depended on you; and then you would be sure and make no mistake.”

“You would be making mistakes the whole time,” said Norton.  “It would be all one grand mistake.”

“Ah, but it cannot be a mistake, Norton,” ­she stopped suddenly.

“What cannot be a mistake?”

“It cannot be a mistake, to do anything that God has given you to do.”

“How can you tell?” said Norton.  “It’s all like a Chinese puzzle.  How can you tell which piece fits into which?”

“But if every piece fitted, then the pattern would be all right,” said Matilda.

“Yes,” said Norton, laughing; “but that is what I say!  How can you tell?”

“Mr. Richmond says, that whenever we have an opportunity to do anything or to learn anything, the Lord means that we should use it.”

“I have a nice opportunity to turn you over on these rocks and smash the carriage to pieces; but I don’t mean to do it.”

“You know what I mean, Norton; nobody has an opportunity to do wrong.  I mean, you know, an opportunity to do anything good.”

“Well now, Pink,” said Norton, drawing the reins a little, and letting the ponies come to an easy walk, ­“see what that would end in.  As long as people have got money, they have got opportunities.  I suppose that is what you mean?”

“Yes,” said Matilda.  “That is part.”

“Well.  We might go on and help all the people in Lilac Lane, mightn’t we? and then we could find plenty more to help somewhere else; and we could go on, using our opportunities, till we had nothing to live upon our selves.  That is what it must come to, if you don’t stop somewhere.  We should have to sell the carriages and the ponies, and keep two or three servants instead of eight; and mamma would have to stop wearing what she wears now; and by and by we should want help ourselves.  How would you like that?  Don’t you see one must stop somewhere?”

“Yes,” said Matilda.  “But what puzzles me is, where ought one to stop?  Mr. Richmond says we ought to use all our opportunities.”

“If we can,” said Norton.

“But, Norton, what we can’t, is not an opportunity.”

“That’s a fact!” said Norton, laughing.  “I didn’t know you were so sharp, Pink.”

“I should like to ask Mr. Richmond more about it,” said Matilda.

“Ask common sense!” said Norton.  “Well, you don’t want to go to Lilac Lane to-day.  Is there anywhere you do want to go?”

“No.  Oh yes, Norton.  I should like to stop and see if Mr. Richmond has got home, and to ask Miss Redwood a question.  If you would just as lieve.”

“Where does Miss Redwood live?”

“Oh, she is Mr. Richmond’s housekeeper.”

“All right,” said Norton.  And then the gray ponies trotted merrily on, crossed a pretty bridge over a stream, and turned their faces westward.  By and by the houses of the village began scatteringly to appear; then the road grew into a well-built up street; the old cream-coloured church with its deep porch hove in sight; and the ponies turned just short of it and trotted up the lane to the parsonage door.  Norton jumped down and tied the horses, and helped Matilda out of the carriage.

“Are you going in?” she asked.  But it appeared that Norton was going in.  So he pulled the iron knocker, and presently Miss Redwood came to the door.

“Yes, he’s home,” she said, almost before they could ask her; “but he ain’t at home.  I ‘spect he’ll take his meals now standin’ or runnin’ for the next six weeks.  That’s the way he has to pay for rest, when he gets it, which ain’t often neither.  It tires me, just to see him go; I’ll tell him you called.”

“But mayn’t we come in, Miss Redwood? just for a minute?”

“La, yes, child,” said the housekeeper, making way for them; “come in, both on ye.  I didn’t s’pose you was wantin’ me; I’ve got out o’ the way of it since the minister’s been away; my callers has fell off somehow.  It’s odd, there don’t one in twenty want to see me when I’m alone in the house, and could have time in fact to speak to ’em.  That’s the way things is in the world; there don’t nothin’ go together that’s well matched, ‘cept folks’ horses; and they ‘re out o’ my line.  Come in, and tell me what you want to say.  Where have ye come from?”

“I have been having a delightful ride, Miss Redwood, ever so far, farther than ever I went before.”

“Down by Mr. James’s place and the mill, and round by Hillside,” Norton explained.

The housekeeper opened her pantry and brought out a loaf of rich gingerbread, yet warm from the oven, which she broke up and offered to the children.

“It’s new times, I ’spect, ain’t it?”

“It’s new times to have such good gingerbread,” said Norton.  “This is prime.”

“Have you ever made it since I showed ye?” Miss Redwood asked Matilda.

“No ­only once ­I hadn’t time.”

“When a child like you says she hain’t time to play, somebody has got something that don’t belong to him,” said the housekeeper.

“O Miss Redwood, I wanted to know, what about Lilac Lane?”

“Well, what about it?”

“Did you do as you said you would? you know, last time I asked you, you hadn’t got the things together.”

“Yes, I know,” said the housekeeper.  “Well, I’ve fixed it.”

“You did all as we said we would have it?” exclaimed Matilda, eagerly.

“As you said you would have it.  ’Twarn’t much of it my doing, child.  Yes; Sally Eldridge don’t know herself.”

“Was she pleased?”

“Well, ‘pleased’ ain’t to say much.  I got Sabriny Rogers to clean the house first.  They thought I was crazy, I do believe. ’Clean that ’ere old place?’ says she.  ‘Why, yes,’ says I; ‘don’t it want cleanin’?’ ‘But what on airth’s the use?’ says she.  ‘Well,’ says I, ’I don’t know; but we’ll try.’  So she went at it; and the first day she didn’t do no more than to fling her file round, and you could see a spot where it had lighted; that’s all.  ‘Sabriny,’ says I, ’that ain’t what we call cleanin’ in my country; and if I pay you for cleanin’ it’s all I’ll do; but I’ll not pay nobody for just lookin’ at it.’  So next time it was a little better; and then I made her go over the missed places, and we got it real nice by the time I had done.  And then Sally looked like somethin’ that didn’t belong there, and we began upon her.  She was wonderful taken up with seein’ Sabriny and the scrubbin’ brush go round; and then she begun to cast eyes down on herself, as if she wished it could reform her.  Well, I did it all in one day.  I had in the bedstead, and put it up, and had a comfortable bed fetched and laid on it; and I made it up with the new sheets.  ‘Who’s goin’ to sleep there?’ says Sally Eldridge, at last.  ‘You,’ says I. ‘Me?’ says she; and she cast one o’ them doubtful looks down at herself; doubtful, and kind o’ pitiful; and I knew she’d make no objection to whatever I’d please to do with her, and she didn’t.  I got her into a tub o’ water, and washed her and dressed her; and while I was doin’ that, the folks in the other room had put in the table and the other things, and brought the flour and cheese, and that; and laid a little rag carpet on the floor, and when Sally was ready I marched her out.  And she sat down and looked round her, and looked round her; and I watched to see what was comin’.  And then she begun to cry.”

“To cry!” Matilda echoed.

“The tears come drop, drop, down on her new calico; it fitted nice and looked real smart; and then, the first word she said was, ’I ain’t a good woman.’  ‘I know you ain’t,’ says I; ‘but you kin be.’  So she looked round and round her at everything; and then, the next word she said was, ‘The dominie kin come now.’  Well!  I thought that was good enough for one day; so I give her her tea and come home to my own an ashamed woman.”

“Why, Miss Redwood?”

“’Cause I hadn’t done it ages ago, dear, but it was left for you to show me how.”

“And is Mrs. Eldridge really better?”

“Has twice as much sense as ever she showed when she was in all that muss.  I am sure, come to think of it, I don’t wonder.  Things outside works in, somehow.  I believe, if I didn’t keep my window panes clear, I should begin to grow deceitful ­or melancholy.  And folks can’t have clean hands and a dirty house.”

“Thank you, Miss Redwood,” said Matilda, rising.

“Well, you ain’t goin’ now?  The minister ’ll be in directly.”

“I’ll come another time,” said Matilda.  “I’m afraid Mrs. Laval would be anxious.”

“La, she don’t mind when her horses come home, I’ll engage.”

“But she might mind when we come home,” said Matilda.  “We have been out a great while.”

“Out? why, you don’t never mean you come from Mrs. Laval’s’?”

“Yes, she does,” said Norton.  “We’ve got her.”

“Hm!  Well, I just wish you’d keep her,” said the housekeeper.  “She’s as poor as a peascod in a drouth.”

At which similitude Norton laughed all the way home.