It was growing dusk when Matilda got home.  She tapped at Mrs. Laval’s door before seeking her own.

Mrs. Laval was sitting on a low chair in front of the fire.  She had bid “come in,” at the knock, and now received Matilda into her arms; and making her sit down on her lap, began taking off her things between kisses.

“You have got home safe and warm,” she said, as she pulled off Matilda’s glove and felt of the little fingers.

“O yes!  I had a beautiful ride,” Matilda answered.

“And a pleasant visit?”

Now the answer to this was not so easy to give.  Matilda struggled for an answer, but truth would not find one.  Mortification did.  She flung her arms round Mrs. Laval’s neck and hid her face, for she felt the tears were coming.

“My darling!” said the lady, very much surprised, ­“what is the matter?  Was it not pleasant?”

But Matilda would not say that either.  She let her action speak for her.  Mrs. Laval kissed and caressed her, and then when the child lifted up her head, asked in a more business-like tone, “What was it, Matilda?”

“I don’t know,” ­was all that Matilda could say.

“Were they not glad to see you?”

“I thought they were, at first,” said Matilda.  “I was very glad to see them.  Afterwards” ­

“Yes, what afterwards?”

“Something was the matter.  I think ­maybe ­they felt a little bad because I have so much more than they have; and I don’t deserve it any more.”

“I understand,” said Mrs. Laval.  “I dare say.  Well, dear, we will try and find some way of making them feel better.  Don’t you be troubled.  What have you been about all day?  I have scarcely seen you.  Did you go to Laddler’s this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am.  Norton took me there.”

“And you got your boots, such as you wanted?”

“I got them ­I believe so.  They are narrow toes.”

“Was that what you wanted?” said Mrs. Laval smiling.

“I could have got broad toed boots for a good deal less, but he said they were out of fashion; they were last year’s style.”

“Yes, he knows,” said Mrs. Laval.  “Of course he knows, for he makes them.”

“Don’t other people know?”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Laval; “but really I never think about it.  I take what he gives me and am sure it is all right.  That is the comfort of going to Laddler.”

“But wouldn’t you have found it out, if I had got the square toes?”

“I might have found it out,” said Mrs. Laval laughing, “but I should not have known it was wrong.  I should have taken it for the last style.”

“Then what difference does it make?” said Matilda.

“It makes a good deal of difference to the shoemaker,” said Mrs. Laval; “for as often as he can bring in a new fashion he can make people buy new shoes.  But how was it at Madame Fournissons?”

“It was all right,” said Matilda.  “She tried everything on, and made them all fit.”

Mrs. Laval wrapped arms a little closer about the tiny figure on her lap.

“Now do you know,” she said, “there is another piece of work you have got to attend to.  Has Norton told you about Christmas?”

“Yes, ma’am; something.”

“You know there is a great time of present giving.  You must take your turn, with the rest.  How will you manage it?”

“Manage what, ma’am?”

“Manage to get gifts for all these people?  Shall I do it for you?”

“Why I cannot do it,” said Matilda simply; “because I have nothing to get them with.”

Mrs. Laval laughed and kissed her.  “Suppose I supply that deficiency?  You could not very well do it without money, unless you were a witch.  But if I give you the money, darling?  Here are twenty dollars; now you may spend them, or I will spend them for you.  Would you like to do it?”

“I would like to do it very much!” said Matilda flushing with excitement, ­“if I can.”

“Very well.  Norton will shew you where pretty things are to be bought, of various sorts.  You can get everything in New York.  I expect I shall not see you now for three weeks to come; you will be shopping all the time.  You have a great deal to do.”

Matilda flushed more and more, clasped the notes in her hand, and looked delighted.

“Well, I suppose I must let you go,” said Mrs. Laval, “for I must get ready for dinner, and you must.  But first, ­Matilda, when are you going to call me mamma?  This is not to make you forget the mother you had, maybe a better one than I am; but I am your mother now.  I want you to call me so.”

Matilda threw her arms round Mrs. Laval’s neck again.  “Yes ­I will,” she whispered.  There were new kisses interchanged between them, full of much meaning; and then Matilda went up to her room.

At the top of the stairs, in each story, there was a large open space, a sort of lobby, carpeted and warm and bright, into which the rooms opened.  Matilda paused when she got to her own, and stood by the rails thinking.  The twenty dollars had not at all taken away her regret on the subject of Letitia’s dress; rather the abundance which came pouring in upon her pricked her conscience the more with the contrast between her own case and that of her sister, which a little self-denial on her part would have rendered less painful.  Mrs. Laval had unwittingly helped the feeling too by her slight treatment of the matter of the boots; it appeared that she would never have known or cared, if Matilda had got the objectionable square toes.  Judy would; but then, was Judy’s laugh to be set against Letitia’s joy in a new dress? a thing really needed?  Matilda could not feel satisfied with her action.  When she bought those boots, she had not done it according to her motto; that was the conclusion.

She came to that conclusion before she opened the door of her room; but then she took up the consideration of how the mischief might be remedied; and all the while she was dressing and putting away her walking things, her head in a delightful bustle of thoughts tried different ways of disposing of her money.  She must consult Norton; that was the end of it.

“Well,” said Norton, when she had a chance to do this after dinner, ­“I see what is before us; we have got to go into all the stores in New York between this and Christmas; so we had best begin to-morrow.  To-morrow we will go ­ Do you know what sort of things you want, Pink?”

“Only one or two.”

“See now.  You must have something for everybody.  That is, counting great and small, six persons in this house.  Any beside?”

“O yes; but I know what to do for them, Norton; at least I shall know; it is only these that trouble me.”

“What will you offer to grandmamma?”

“I just don’t know, Norton!  I can’t even imagine.”

Norton pondered.

“Hollo, Davy!” he cried presently.  “You and Judy come over here.  I want to talk to you.”

Judith and her brother came over the room to where Norton and Matilda were.  Judith sat down, but David stood waiting.

“The thing is, friends and relatives,” Norton began, “how and by what measures we can jointly and severally succeed in distinguishing ourselves, in the matter of our Christmas offerings to Mrs. Lloyd.  I want your opinion about it.  It is always nearly as much bother as Christmas is worth.  The old lady don’t want anything, that I ever discovered, and if she did, no one of us is rich enough to relieve her.  Now a bright plan has occurred to me.  Suppose we club.”

“Club what?” said David.

“Forces.  That is, put our stock together and give her something clever ­from the whole of us, you know.”

David looked at the new member of the quartette, as if to see whether she would do to work with; Judy whistled softly.

“What shall we give her?” said that young lady.  “She has got everything under the sun already.”

“Easier to find one thing than four things, then,” said Norton.

“I think it will do,” said David.  “It is a good idea.  And I saw the article at Candello’s yesterday.”

“What was it?”

“A liqueur stand.  Grandmamma was admiring it.  It is very elegant; the shapes of the flasks and cups are so uncommon, and so pretty.”

“David is a judge of that,” said Norton by way of comment to Matilda.  “I go in for colour, and he for shapes.”

“There is no colour here,” said David; “it is all clear glass.”

“The cordial will give the colour,” said Norton.  “Yes, I think that will do.  Hurra!  Grandmamma is always on my mind about this time, and it keeps down my spirits.”

“Who’ll go and get it?” said Judy.

“We’ll all go together,” said Norton.  “We are all going to get it; didn’t you understand?  I want to see for myself, for my part, before the thing’s done.  I say! let us each give a glass, and have our names engraved on them.”

“I don’t want anybody to drink out of ‘Judy,’” said the young lady tossing her head.

“Grandmamma will think she is kissing you,” said Norton.  “She’ll wear out that glass, that’s the worst of it.”

“Then somebody else will have to drink out of ‘David,’” said Judy’s brother.  “I don’t know about that.”

“Well, she’d like it,” said Norton.

“But I wouldn’t,” said Judy.  “I have no objection to her kissing me; but fancy other people!”

“It won’t hurt,” said Norton.  “You’ll never feel it through the glass.  But anyhow, we’ll all go to Candello’s to-morrow and see the thing, and see what we’ll do.  Maybe she’ll give us cordial in our own cups.  That would be jolly! ­if it was noyau.”

“You are getting jolly already,” said Judith.  “Does Matilda ever get jolly?”

“You’ll find out,” said Norton; “in course of time, if you keep your eyes open.  But I don’t believe you know a brick when you see it, Judy.”

“A brick!” said that young lady.

“Yes.  There are a great many sorts, David can tell you.  Bricks are a very old institution.  I was studying about Chaldaean bricks lately.  They were a foot square and two or three inches thick; and if they were not well baked they would not stand much, you know.”

“What nonsense you are talking!” said Judith scornfully.

“Some of those bricks were not nonsense, for they have lasted four thousand years.  That’s what I call ­a brick!”

“You wouldn’t know it if you saw it though,” David remarked.

“You shut up!” said Norton.  “Some of your ancestors made them for Nebuchadnezzar.”

“Some of my ancestors were over the whole province of Babylon,” said David.  “But that was not four thousand years ago.”

“When I get back as far as Nebuchadnezzar,” said Norton shutting his eyes, as if in the effort at abstraction, “I have got as far as I can go.  The stars of history beyond that seem to me all at one distance.”

“They do not seem so to me,” said David.  “It was long before Nebuchadnezzar that Solomon reigned; and the Jews were an old people then.”

“I know!” said Norton.  “Nothing can match you but the Celestials.  After all, Noah’s three sons all came out of the ark together.”

“But the nations of Ham are all gone,” said David; “and the nations of Japhet are all changing.”

“This fellow’s dreadful on history?” said Norton to Matilda.  “I used to think,” he went on as the coloured waiter just then came in with coffee, “I used to think there were some of Ham’s children left yet.”

“But not a nation,” said David.

The one of Ham’s children in question came round to them at this minute, and the talk was interrupted by the business of cream and sugar.  The four children were all round the coffee tray, when Mrs. Laval’s voice was heard calling Matilda.  Matilda went across the room to her.

“Are they giving you coffee, my darling?” said Mrs. Laval, putting her arm round her.

“I was just going to have some.”

“I don’t want you to take it.  Will it seem very hard to deny yourself?”

“Why no,” said Matilda; then with an effort, ­“No, mamma; not if you wish me to let it alone.”

“I do.  I don’t want this delicate colour on your cheek,” and she touched it as she spoke, “to grow thick and muddy; I want the skin to be as fair and clear as it is now.”

“Norton takes coffee,” said Mrs. Bartholomew.

“I know.  Norton is a boy.  It don’t matter.”

“Judy!” Mrs. Bartholomew called across the room, “Judy! don’t you touch coffee.”

“It’s so hot mamma, I don’t touch it.  I swallow it without touching.  It goes right down.”

“I don’t like you to drink it.”

“It would be a great deal pleasanter to drink it, than to swallow it in that way,” said Judy, coming across the room with a hop, skip and jump indescribable.  “But coffee is coffee anyhow.  Mayn’t I take it a little cooler and a little slower next time?”

“It will make your complexion thick.”

“It will make my eyes bright, though,” said Judy unblushingly.

“I never heard that,” said Mrs. Bartholomew laughing.

“O but I have, though,” said Judy.  “I have seen your eyes ever so bright, mamma, when you have been drinking coffee.”

“Yours are bright enough without it,” said her mother.

“Yes’m,” said Judy contentedly, standing her ground.

Matilda wondered a good deal at both mother and daughter, and she was amused too; Judy was so funnily impudent, and Mrs. Bartholomew so lazily authoritative.  She nestled within Mrs. Laval’s arm which encircled her, and felt safe, in the midst of very strange social elements.  Mrs. Lloyd eyed her.

“How old is that child, Zara?”

“About Judith’s age.”

“No, she isn’t, aunt Zara,” said Judy.  “She is about seven years and three months.”

“And what are you?” said her aunt.

“Judith is over twelve,” said Mrs. Bartholomew.  “Surely that child is not so old?”

“Matilda is the shortest,” said Mrs. Laval, looking from one to the other.

“And much the youngest looking,” said Mrs. Lloyd.  “How do you like New York, my dear?”

“She likes it,” said Judy, ­“if she only could have got a black satin cloak.”

Matilda stared at her in mingled amazement and shame.  Mrs. Laval laughed and hugged Matilda up a little closer.

“A black satin cloak?” she repeated.  “Did you wish for a black satin cloak, my dear?”

“Trimmed with a deep fall of lace,” added Judy.

“O Judy,” exclaimed Matilda, “you said nothing about lace!”

“You wanted it, though,” said Judith.

“I never thought of such a thing, mamma, as lace,” said Matilda appealingly.

“But you did wish for the satin?”

“Judy seemed to think it would be pretty.  She wanted me to ask you to get it.”

The shout of laughter which was raised upon this, Matilda did not at all understand.  They all laughed, Judy not the least of them.  Matilda was very much ashamed.

“Oh Judy, Judy!” her aunt said.  “Matilda, black satin is what old ladies wear.  She has been fooling you, as she fools everybody.  You mustn’t believe Judy Bartholomew in anything she tells you.  You would be a little old woman, in a black satin cloak with deep lace.”

“She said nothing about lace,” Matilda repeated.  “But I shall learn what is proper, in her company.”

And Matilda’s little head, despite her confusion, took the airy set upon her shoulders which was with her the unconscious expression of disdain or disapprobation.  There was another burst of laughter.

“Your shoulders are older than your face, my dear,” observed Mrs. Lloyd.  “Judith must take care what she does.  I see there is something in you.”

Happily this speech was Greek to Matilda; she had not the least knowledge of what called it forth.  However, she took it as a sign that Mrs. Lloyd was beginning to like her a little.  All the more she was sorry, as her feet went up the stairs that night, that the way was not clear about the Christmas gift for the stately old lady.

She had meant to speak of it to the other children, but had no chance.  After Mrs. Laval called her to tell her about the coffee, the quartette party was broken up; the two boys had left the room and not come back again.  So what would have been better disposed of at once, was of necessity laid over to the next day.  Matilda had scruples about taking part in a gift that had anything to do with the promotion of drinking.  She knew well enough what liqueur was; she had tasted it on the occasion of that first memorable visit she and Maria had made to Mrs. Laval’s house; she knew it was very strong, stronger than wine, she thought; for people only drank it out of little glasses that would not hold much more than a good thimbleful.  She had seen it once or twice already at Mrs. Lloyd’s served after dinner.  She had seen David and Norton and Judy all take it.  Now she herself was pledged to do all she could in the cause of temperance.  Her all would not be much here, something said to her; nobody would mind what she thought or said; true.  Nevertheless, ought she not to do what she could? according to her old motto.  And following her new motto, to “do all in the name of the Lord Jesus,” could she rightly join, even silently, in a plan to make a present of drinking flasks and glasses?  But if she refused, what a fuss it would make!

Matilda went slowly up the stairs thinking of it; and arrived in her room, she turned on the gas and opened her Bible and sat down to study the question.  She found she could not read, any more than those few strong words; they seemed to cover the whole ground; “Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus.”  Could she, as his little servant, help the other children in giving such a gift?  And she was pledged, as a member of the Commission no less than as a servant of Christ, to do all she could for the cause of temperance.  Would it not be something for the cause of temperance, if she declared off from having anything to do with the liqueur stand?  She had felt she must try somehow to speak to David and Norton about their own drinking wine; this was a good chance, and if she let this chance go ­I can never do it another time, she thought to herself.  But oh, the difficulty and the pain of it!  They thought her a baby, and a little country girl, who knew nothing; they would laugh at her so, and perhaps be angry too.  How could she do it!  And once or twice Matilda put her head down on her book in the struggle, wishing with all her heart it were not so hard to be a Christian.

But all her thoughts and her prayers only made her more and more sure which way lay the course of duty; and along with that grew a heavy looking forward to the next day and the trial it would bring.  How to manage the matter best was a question.  To speak privately to Norton alone would be far the easiest; but then, that might not secure the effect of her protest against wine and cordials and all such things, as she wished to make it; Norton would perhaps cover it up, for the sake of shielding her and himself from the reproaches of the others; and so the work would not be done.  She could not decide.  She was obliged to go to bed and leave it to circumstances to open the way for her.  She half made up her mind that the “opportunities” of her new position were as likely to be opportunities for self denial as for anything else.  This was not what she had expected.

Saturday morning rose still and fair.  The wind had gone down; the severe cold had abated; the weather was beautifully prosperous for the children’s expedition.  Now if Matilda could get a chance to speak before they set out ­It would be awkward to have to speak in the store, maybe before a shopman, and when they were all on the very point of finishing what they came to do.  Matilda was ready to wish the day had been stormy; and yet she wanted to go to Tiffany’s, where Norton had said he would take her; and to Candello’s too, for the matter of that

There was another question Matilda had to settle with herself, only she could not attend to so many things at once.  Her twenty dollars for Christmas purchases; how was all that to be spent “in the name of the Lord Jesus”?  She could not think of it just now, except by snatches; she kept remembering it, and trying to reckon how many people she had to buy things for.  New York certainly was a very puzzling place to live in.

The other children seemed to be as full of business as she, and much less quiet about it.  So Matilda did not find a chance to speak to Norton in private, which in her trouble she would have done if she could.  It was all bustle and discussion till they went to get ready for their walk.  Matilda laced on her new boots, Judy won’t have any occasion to look scornfully at those, she said to herself.  They are as nice as they can be.

A little to her surprise, when she got downstairs she found Miss Judy dressed in a black silk pelisse.  What was the difference between silk and satin, Matilda wondered?  Judy caught her glance perhaps, for with a twinkle of her own sharp black eyes she burst out into a peal of laughter.

“What is the matter now?” her brother asked.

“Things become people so differently,” said Judith saucily.  “Something you couldn’t understand, Davy; men don’t, nor boys neither.  Matilda and I understand.”

“Matilda don’t understand much that you do,” said Norton.

“An’ that’s thrue for ye!” said Judy with a strong Irish accent.  “Faith, the craythur, she’s just innicent!”

“Hush, Judy,” said her brother laughing; and “You’re a case, Judy,” said Norton; and so they went out at the front door.  Matilda’s opportunity was gone; she had thought to speak out to them all while they were in the hall; and now she was a little too vexed to speak, for a while.  However, it was a gay walk down the avenue and then down Broadway.  The day was very fine and all the world seemed to be out and astir.  Norton was talking very busily too, and the excitement of business soon chased away the momentary excitement of displeasure.  In the midst of all this, every few blocks they came to street sweepers.  A little girl or a little boy, grey and ragged, keeping a clean crossing and holding out eager little hands for the pennies they did not get.  David and Norton and Judith did not so much as look at the children, passing the outstretched hands as if unseen; and Matilda had no pennies; nothing but her twenty dollar bill.  Every few blocks there was one of these poor, grey dusty figures and one of those little empty hands.  Matilda might have forgotten one or two, if that had been all; it was impossible to forget this company.  How came their life to be so different from her life?  What a hard way to spend one’s days! always at a street corner.  And where did they hide themselves at night?  And did any of those poor little ones ever know what Christmas meant?  And most of all, what could or ought she to do for them, she who had so much?  What could be squeezed out of those twenty dollars to refresh the corners of the streets? anything?

Thinking about this, and replying to Norton, and finding her way among the crowds of people, they had come to Candello’s before Matilda had found a time to speak anything of what was chiefly on her mind.

It was a long bright store, elegant with its profusion of beautiful things in glass and porcelain and bronze.  Every foot of the counters and of the floor, along the sides of the room, seemed to Matilda to be filled with things to be looked at.  Such beautiful basins and ewers, just for washing!  Such charming vases and flower glasses!  Such handsome clocks and statuettes and lamps!  Then there were painted cups, and flowered goblets and tumblers, and flasks wonderfully cut, and bowls, large and beautiful, but clearly not for toilet use, that excited Matilda’s wonderment.  She was lost in delight as well as wonder.

“Here,” said David, and the word struck like a blow upon her nerves of hearing, ­“here is the article.  Isn’t that unexceptionable now?”

With the others, Matilda turned to see what he was pointing at.  A glass liqueur stand, with a crystal flask and tiny cups to match; as pretty and elegant as it could be; even rare in its delicate richness among so many delicate and rich things.  The others were eager in their praise.  Matilda was silent.

“Don’t you like it, Pink?” said Norton.

“It is as pretty as it can possibly be,” Matilda answered.  “But Norton” ­

“Then we might as well get it,” said Norton.  “We’re all agreed.  There’s no use in looking further when you are suited.”

“So I think,” said David.  “I never do.”

“That is as good as Mrs. Lloyd could do for herself,” said Judith.

“But Norton” ­said Matilda.

“Shall we have our names put on the cups?” said Norton.

“But Norton,” said Matilda desperately, “we are not all agreed.  I am very sorry! ­I like it very much ­it’s beautiful” ­

“You are afraid you haven’t money enough?” said Norton.  “Never fear!  Davy and I will pay the largest half; you and Judy shall give less, but it don’t make any difference.  I’ll tell you!  David and I will get the stand and the flask; and you two shall give the cups.”

“It isn’t that,” said Matilda, very much distressed; “it is not that, Norton; it is something else.  It is” ­

“What in the world is it?” said Judy, balancing herself daintily on one toe.

“It is ­that I don’t drink wine, you know.”

“What’s that to do?” said Judy, while the two boys both looked at Matilda. “You haven’t to drink or let it alone; it is not for your use anyhow.”

“No, I know that; but I don’t think it is right ­I mean, ­I mean,” said Matilda, gathering courage, “I have promised to do all I can to prevent people from drinking wine.  I can’t help in such a present as this.”

“They don’t drink wine out of these little cups,” said David.  “It is something different; it is Noyau, or Curacoa, or Chartreuse, or Maraschino, or some of those things, you know.”

“Yes, but it is stronger,” said Matilda in a low voice.  “It’s stronger than wine.”

“She’s temperance!” exclaimed Judith, turning round on one heel and coming back into position.  “She’s temperance!  We are all wicked at Mrs. Lloyd’s; we drink Hock and we sip Curacoa.  I suppose she has only been where people drink gin and lager; and she thinks it’s all alike.”

“She has been at Briery Bank, Judy,” said Norton, “where the wines are as good as in Blessington Avenue.”

“Then she ought to have learned better!” said Judy.  “That’s all I have to say.”

“But Pink,” said Norton, and he was very kind, though he looked vexed, ­“this is not anything about your drinking or not drinking, you know.  Grandmamma will have her wine and she will offer her cordial, just the same; it don’t make any difference; only we want to give her something she will like, and she will like this; don’t you see?”

“Yes, Norton, I see,” said Matilda, her eyes filling with tears; “I am very sorry; but I wish you and David wouldn’t have anything to do with wine, either.”

“She don’t mention me!” exclaimed Judy.  “Either I’m so good I’m safe; or I’m so bad it’s no use trying to take care of me.  You poor boys, she will try to take care of you.  What impertinence!”

“No more than if you did it, Judy, come, now!” said Norton.  “It’s no such thing; it’s only nonsense.  Now Pink, don’t be nonsensical!”

“We can do it without her being in the affair, if she doesn’t like it,” said David.  “But I do not understand,” he went on, addressing himself to Matilda.  “Giving a present isn’t drinking wine, is it?”

“No,” said Matilda, who by this time could hardly speak at all.  “But Mr. David, it is helping somebody else to drink.”

“Do you think what you do would help or hinder?”

“What you do might.”

“We shall go on just the same, whatever way you take.  What difference can it make, whether your money is in it or not?”

“I don’t know,” said Matilda struggling; ­“none, perhaps, whether my money is in it.  But my name would be in it.”

“Do you think that would make any difference? ­stop, Norton, I want to understand what she will say.  What would your name do, in it or out of it?”

“Ridiculous! to spend time talking to her!” said Judy.  “That is just what she wants.”

But David waited for his answer; and Matilda’s eyes were all glittering, while her little head took its inexpressible air of self-assertion.

“I don’t know ­I can’t, tell,” she said, answering David as if she had not heard Judy; ­“it might do nothing, but I have promised to use it on the right side.”

“Promised whom?” said David.  “Maybe it is a promise that need not stand.  Promised whom?”

“Yes, whom did you promise, Pink?” said Norton.

Matilda hesitated and then spoke.

“I promised the Lord Jesus Christ,” she said slowly.

She was looking at nobody in particular, yet her eye caught the expression of annoyance on Norton’s face; she did not see the cloud of disgust and surprise that came over David’s.  He turned away.  Judith’s eyes snapped.

“Isn’t that neat now?” she said.  “We have got a saint among us, sure enough.  Well ­saints know how to take care of their money; we all know that.  What are we poor sinners going to do for grandmamma’s present? that’s the question.  I propose that we get her a prayerbook, very large, and black, with gilt clasps and her name on the cover; then everybody will know that Mrs. Lloyd is a good woman and goes to church.”

“Be still, Judy!” said her brother sternly.

“Propose something yourself then,” said Judith.  “We can’t do anything at Candello’s, that’s clear.  I don’t believe there’s an innocent thing here beside tea cups.  I’ve seen people drink brandy and water in tumblers; and bowls hold whiskey punch.  Dear me! what a pity it is that good things are so bad!”

“Hush, Judy!” said Norton; “you won’t hurt anybody by being too good.”

“It’s a way I despise,” said Judith coolly.  “When I hurt anybody, I like to know it.  I never shut my eyes and fire.”

“It’s a wonder you don’t take better aim, then,” said Norton impatiently.  “You are firing wild just now.  Matilda has a right to think as she likes, and she don’t shut her eyes and fire.  There’s nothing of a coward about her.  But then we don’t think as she thinks, about some things; and I say we’ll get this liqueur stand and she shall find something else for her part.”

“I’ll tell all about it, though, at home,” said Judy.

“I dare say Matilda would as lieve you did,” said Norton.  “Come, David ­will you finish this business?  You and I and Judy will go thirds in it.  I’ve got some other matters to attend to with Matilda, and time is running away; and Monday school begins.  Come, Pink ­we have got to go to Tiffany’s.”

“What o’clock is it, Norton?” Matilda asked as soon as they were outside of the shop.

“Near twelve, Pink.  I declare! time does run.”

“Norton, couldn’t we go home first, and go to Tiffany’s after luncheon? there’ll be a long afternoon, you know.”

“Every place is so crowded in the afternoon,” said Norton.  “But you want to go home, Pink?  Well, you shall.  We shouldn’t have much time before luncheon, that’s a fact.”

So they got into a street car that was passing.

“Whatever made you say that, Pink?” Norton burst out when they were seated.  “David and Judy are set against you now.”

“I think they were before, Norton.”

“No, they weren’t; or if they were, I don’t care; they had nothing to say.  Now you have given them a handle.”

“I didn’t say anything very bad,” said Matilda with her voice trembling a little.

“No, but they’ll take it so.  What is it to us, what grandmamma, or any one else, does with a thing after we have given it? That is none of our affair.  We only make the present.”

“It would be very strange, though, to give anybody something you were not willing he should use,” said Matilda.

“Of course.  I am willing.  I don’t care what anybody does with a thing, after I have done with it.”

“I care,” said Matilda softly.

“Why?  Now Pink, you don’t.  What do you care whether grandmamma drinks curacoa or not after dinner?”

Matilda hesitated.

“I wish she wouldn’t,” she said then again softly.  “Then you and David and Judy wouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t we?” said Norton rather shortly.

“Because, people get too fond of such things.  And it ruins them.”

“It hasn’t ruined me yet,” said Norton.

But that was about as far as Matilda could go, and she burst into tears.  She kept them back bravely, while they were in the car, but she could not find voice to reply to any of Norton’s kind words, which were meant to be very soothing; and as soon as they got home she went straight to her room.  Norton went to his mother.

“We have had a splendid confounded time! mamma,” he burst out.

“Splendid and confounded?” his mother repeated.

“No, ma’am.  Splendidly confounded, I should have said.  We went to get grandmamma’s present.  And Pink, she has contrived to make David and Judy as mad with her as they can be; and that’s saying a good deal, when you are talking English.  Now how it’s to be undone, I don’t know.  I suppose Pink is crying her eyes out about it.  She had no heart to go to Tiffany’s or anything.  We are going after dinner, though.”

“But what is the matter? what has she done, Norton?”

“Came out with temperance and religion, and all that sort of thing, to David and Judy; fancy it, mamma! and more than that, with the very part of religion that they like least of all.  Wouldn’t help us buy a liqueur stand for grandmamma, because she doesn’t think it is right to use cordials.”

“What a child!” exclaimed Mrs. Laval.

“She’s got pluck,” said Norton, picking up a pin from the floor and energetically giving it a cast into the fire; “she’s a brick, she is!  I knew that the first day I saw her; but mamma, she is very soft in that spot.”

Mrs. Laval looked sober.  Perhaps she remembered that the late Mr. Laval had also been soft in that spot, though in an entirely different way.  Perhaps she recollected how many variously shaped glasses were needed around his dinner plate, and how he carried about a strong breath and a red face for hours afterward, and how she had been sometimes ever so little ashamed of him.  She was now silent.

“Mamma, can’t you talk to her?” Norton began again.

“About what?” said Mrs. Laval starting.

“This, ma’am; and make her a little more like other people.”

“I would just as lieve she wouldn’t drink wine, Norton; or you either.”

“Or grandmamma either, mamma?”

“You have nothing to do with that.  Your grandmamma is an old lady.  I am not talking of grandmamma, but of you.”

“Well do you want Matilda to preach temperance, ma’am?”

“You let Matilda alone.  She will not go far wrong.  She is never forward.  Was she to-day?”

“No,” said Norton laughing a little; “it was like a small canary bird chirping out a lecture.”

“You let her alone,” Mrs. Laval repeated; “and don’t let the others plague her.  And go get yourself ready to go to the table, my boy; the time for luncheon is very near.”

“I can’t help Judy’s plaguing her,” said Norton as he turned to go.  “David won’t do anything.  But won’t he hate her, from now!”