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 had your hands 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 said he was.”

“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; and that they 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 of appropriation which 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 was home.  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; they said 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 do you say 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 like very much, 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 that will be 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 of motherly hands 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, I allow him, 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 do you do, 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.”

“Then they knew 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 earning their bread 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 of her,” 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 of that,” 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?”

“I don’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; they said, 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 ought not to 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.  Do you know 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 are we going 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 not wicked to 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.