Miss Redwood did not come back the next morning to get breakfast.  No sign of her.  Mr. Richmond and Matilda managed it, between them.  Norton, I am afraid, was not up till Matilda called him, and that was when the coffee was nearly ready.

Matilda learned how to get breakfast at the parsonage, and Norton learned to be up and help her; for they made a long stay at the old brown house.  Mrs. Laval’s Swiss servants were all down with ship fever; and the two children were forbidden to come even near the house.  Mrs. Laval herself staid at home and did what she could for the sufferers; but she and Miss Redwood kept house alone together.  Not a servant would be hired to come within reach of the dreadful contagion; and not a friend thought it was any use to go there just then to see anybody.  Mrs. Laval and Miss Redwood had it all to themselves, with no one to look at besides but Mr. Richmond and the doctor.  Mr. Richmond came to them constantly.

The flow of human sympathy went all to the house with the brown door.  It was remarkable how many friends were eager to know how the children got on; and how many more were anxious to be allowed to come in to help Matilda.

“What shall I do, Mr. Richmond?” she would say.  “There have been three this morning.”

“Who were they, Tilly?”

“Mrs. Barth, and Miss Van Dyke, and Miss Spenser ­oh, there were four! ­and Ailie Swan.”

“Do you want Ailie to help you?”

“No, Mr. Richmond; I don’t want anybody but Norton.”

“Well, I don’t.  You may tell them that we do not want anybody, Matilda.  I have seen Mrs. Pottenburg; she will come in to scrub floors and do the hard work.”

So for several weeks the two children and the minister kept house together; in a way highly enjoyed by Matilda, and I think by Mr. Richmond too.  Even Norton found it oddly pleasant, and got very fond of Mr. Richmond, who, he declared privately to Matilda, was a brick of the right sort.  All the while the poor Swiss people at Mrs. Laval’s farmhouse were struggling for life, and their two nurses led a weary, lonely existence.  Norton sometimes wished he and Matilda could get at the gray ponies and have a good drive; but Matilda did not care about it.  She would rather not be seen out of doors.  As the weeks went on, she was greatly afraid that her aunt would come back and reclaim her.

And Mrs. Candy did come back; and meeting Mr. Richmond a day or two after her return, she desired that he would send Matilda home to her.  She had just learned where she was, she said.

“You know that Matilda has been exposed to ship fever?” said Mr. Richmond.

“No.  I heard she was at your house.”

“But not until she had been in the house with the fever patients, and nursing them, before any one knew what was the matter.  Had she not better stay where she is, at least until we can be certain that she has got no harm?”

“Well, perhaps,” said Mrs. Candy, looking confused; “it is very perplexing; I cannot expose my daughter ­”

“She will stay where she is,” said Mr. Richmond, “for the present.  Good morning.”

He never told Matilda of this encounter.  And before another week had gone, Mrs. Candy and Clarissa had again left Shadywalk.

So week after week went by peacefully.  The beautiful days of October were all past; November winds came, and the trees were bare, and the frosts at night began to be severe.  The sick people were getting better, and terrible qualms of fear and sorrow now and then swept over Matilda’s heart.  Her aunt would surely want her back now, and she should never finish her visit at Mrs. Laval’s!

One day she was in Mr. Richmond’s study, all alone, thinking so.  There was a flurry of snow in the air, the first snow of the season, falling thickly on the grass, and eddying in windy circles through the pine trees.  Matilda had knelt in a chair at the window to watch it, with that spasm of fear at her heart.  Now it is winter! she thought.  Aunt Candy must be home soon.  Yet the whirling great flakes of snow were so lovely, that in a few minutes they half distracted her from her fear.

It came back again when she saw Mr. Richmond appear from the end of the church porch and make his way across the snow towards the parsonage door.  Matilda watched him lovingly; then was possessed with a sudden notion that he was bringing her news.  He walks as if he had something to say, she said to herself; and he will come in and say it.

He came in and warmed his hands at the fire, without sitting down; certainly there was an air of business about him, as she had thought.  Matilda stood watching and waiting; that fear at her heart.

“Where’s Norton?” said Mr. Richmond.

“He went out a good while ago.  I don’t know, sir.”

“I suppose you have expected to hear of your aunt’s coming home, before now, Matilda?”

“Yes, sir,” said the child.  He watched her furtively.  No curiosity, no question; her face settled rather into a non-expectant state, as if all were fixed for her for ever ­a look Mr. Richmond did not like to see.

“She has come home.”

He saw the colour flit on Matilda’s cheek; her mouth had quitted its lines of peace and gaiety and become firm; she said nothing.

“You are not glad to hear of it, Matilda.”

“No, sir.”

“It is no pleasure to tell you of it; but it is necessary.  How do you feel towards her now?”

“Mr. Richmond,” said the child, slowly, “I think I don’t hate her any more.”

“But you would like to be excused from living with her?”

Matilda did not reply; no answer was necessary to so self-evident a proposition; the child seemed to be gathering her forces, somehow, mentally.

“Take courage,” said her friend.  “I have concluded that you never shall live with her any more.  That is at an end.”

He saw the lightning flash of delight come into Matilda’s eyes; a streak of red showed itself on her cheek; but she was breathless, waiting for more words to make her understand how this could be, or that she had heard right.

“It’s true,” said Mr. Richmond.

“But ­how then?” said Matilda.

“Mrs. Laval wants you.”

“Wants me?” Matilda repeated, anxiously.

“She wants you, to keep you for her own child.  She lost a little daughter once.  She wants you to be in that little daughter’s place, and to live with her always.”

“But, aunt Candy will not,” said Matilda, “she will not ­”

“Your aunt Candy has consented.  I have arranged that.  It is safely done, Matilda.  You are to live with Mrs. Laval, and be her child from henceforth.”

Matilda still looked at Mr. Richmond for a minute or two, as if there must be words to follow that would undo the wonderful tale of these; but seeing that Mr. Richmond only smiled, there came a great change over the child’s face.  The fixedness broke up.  Yet she did not smile; she seemed for the instant to grow grave and old; and clasping her little hands, she turned away from Mr. Richmond and walked the breadth of the room and back.  Then she stood still again beside the table, sober and pale.  She looked at Mr. Richmond, waiting to hear more.

“It is all true,” said her friend.

“Is it for always?” Matilda asked, in a low voice.

“Yes.  Even so.  Mrs. Laval was very earnest in wishing it.  I judged you would not be unwilling, Matilda.”

The child said nothing, but the streak of colour began again to come into her cheeks.

“You are now to be Mrs. Laval’s child.  She adopts you for her own.  In all respects, except that of memory, you are to be as if you had been born hers.”

“Does Norton know?”

“I have not spoken to him.  I really cannot tell.”

Again silence fell.  Matilda stood with her eyes downcast, the colour deepening in each cheek.  Mr. Richmond watched her.

“Have I done right?” he asked.

“You, sir?” said Matilda, looking up.

“Yes.  Have I done right?  I have made no mistake for your happiness?”

“Did you do it, sir?”

“Yes, in one way.  Mrs. Laval wished it; I arranged it.  You know your mother left me the power.  Have I done right?”

“Mr. Richmond,” said the child, slowly, “I am afraid to think.”

Her friend smiled again, and waited till the power of speech should come back.

“Was aunt Candy willing?” she said then.

“No, I do not think she was willing.  I think the plan was not agreeable to her.  But she gave her consent to it.  The reasons in favour of the plan were so strong that she could not help that.”

Matilda privately wondered that any reasons could have had so much weight; and rather fancied that Mr. Richmond had been the strongest reason of them all.

“And it is all done?” she said, lifting up her eyes.

“All done.  Arranged and finished.  But Mrs. Laval is afraid to have you come home before next week.”

“Mr. Richmond,” said the child, coming close, and stealing her hand into his, “I am very much obliged to you!”

Her friend sat down and drew his arm around her; and Matilda’s other hand on his shoulder, they were both still, thinking, for some little time.

“Mr. Richmond,” Matilda whispered, “I think I am somebody else.”

“I hope not, Tilly.”

“Everything in the world seems different.”

“Very naturally; but you can keep your self yet, I trust.  If I thought not, I should wish the whole thing undone.”

“I ought to be better,” said Matilda.

“We ought always to be better.  Circumstances cannot change that. Nothing happens that the Lord does not mean shall help us to be better.  And yet, sometimes circumstances seem to make it more difficult.”

“These don’t, Mr. Richmond; do they?”

“I don’t know, Tilly.  They may.”

“How?”

“I will not forestall them, Tilly.  If you watch, you will soon find out, whether they do or not.”

“Are you afraid I shall be different, Mr. Richmond? not growing better, I mean.”

“I have not seen you tried, except in one way, you know.”

“I shall have more opportunities; shall I not, Mr. Richmond?”

“Different opportunities.  You have had no lack of them so far, have you?”

“Of one sort, Mr. Richmond.”

“Ah, but remember, my child, we are never without opportunities to do the Lord’s will; plenty of opportunities.  What you are thinking of now, is opportunity to do your own will; isn’t it?”

“I was thinking of helping people, and doing things for those who have no money.”

“Yes.  And is not that a pleasure?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“When the Lord puts it out of our power to have this pleasure, it shows that those things are not His will for us just then, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is our opportunity then?”

“I know what you mean, Mr. Richmond.  You mean, that then we can be patient.”

“And content.”

“Content?”

“Yes; if it is God’s will.  We must be content always to do that.”

“But I suppose,” said Matilda, “I shall, maybe, have more chance to do those things, Mr. Richmond.”

“If so, I hope you will do them.  But I want you to be always ready to do all the will of God.  It is easy to pick out a pleasant duty here and there, or an unpleasant duty even; and stand ready to be faithful in that.  But I want you to watch and be faithful in all things, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.”

“I will try, Mr. Richmond.”

“In every change of circumstances, Matilda, we find both new opportunities and new difficulties.  God has something new for us in every change.  The thing is, to be ready for it.”

“How can one always find out, Mr. Richmond, what it is?”

“If you watch, and are obedient, the Lord will show it to you.”

Norton’s step sounded on the piazza.  Mr. Richmond loosened the hold of his arm, and Matilda rushed off.  Not so fast but that she stopped midway between him and the door and said, soberly ­

“Thank you, Mr. Richmond.  I think I understand.  I will try.”