Norton ran off upstairs.  His mother waited till he was safe in his room and then followed him.  But she stopped at Matilda’s door and softly went in.  Matilda’s hat was off; that was all; and on her knees beside a chair the little girl was, with bowed head, and sobbing.  Mrs. Laval’s arms came round her, gently drew her up and enfolded her.  “What is all this?” she whispered.

Matilda’s face was hid.

“What’s the matter, my darling?” Mrs. Laval repeated.  “Norton has told me all about it ­there is nothing for you to cry about.”

“Is he angry with me?” Matilda whispered.

“Angry with you!  No, indeed.  Norton could not be that.  And there is nothing else you need mind.”

“I am very sorry!” said poor Matilda.  “I hurt all their pleasure this morning, and they thought I was ­very disagreeable, I believe.”

“Nobody ever thought that yet,” said Mrs. Laval laughing a little; “and no harm is done.  It was nonsense for them to get you into that business at all.  It is all very well for them to give their grandmother a present; but for you it is quite needless; it is her place to give to you, and not yours to give to her; the cases are different.  Norton forgot that.”

“Then she will not think it strange that I am not in it?” said Matilda lifting up her face at last.

“Not at all.  It would be more strange if you were in it.”

“Norton proposed it.”

“Yes, I know; but Norton is not infallible.  He has made a mistake this time.”

“But I offended them, mamma,” said Matilda.

“They will get over it.  Now dry your eyes and take your coat off, and we will go down to luncheon.”

They went down together, and Mrs. Laval took care that no annoyance came to Matilda during the meal.  So after luncheon she was all ready to take a new start with Norton for Tiffany’s.

“You see, Pink,” said Norton as they were riding down, “all you have to do is to let people go their own way, and you go your’s.  That’s all.  That’s the way so many carts get through the streets.  It isn’t necessary to knock up against every one you come to; and people don’t like it.”

“I was only going my own way, Norton,” Matilda said gently; “but I had to give the reason for it; and that was what you all didn’t like.”

“Your reason interfered with our way, though,” said Norton.  “You as good as said it is wrong to do something we all do.”

“Well,” said Matilda very slowly, ­“ought you not to try to hinder people from doing what is not right?”

“How do you know what is not right?” said Norton.

“The Bible tells.”

“Where does the Bible say it is wrong to drink wine?” Norton asked quickly.

“I’ll shew you when we get home.”

“Everybody does it, anyhow,” said Norton; “and one must do what everybody does.”

“Mr. Richmond don’t, Norton.”

“Mr. Richmond!  He’s a minister.”

“Well!  Other people ought to be as good as ministers.”

“They can’t,” said Norton.  “Besides ­Mr. Richmond is all very well; he’s a brick; but then he is not a fashionable man, and he don’t know the world.”

“Are ministers ever fashionable men?” said Matilda, opening her eyes a little.

“Certainly.  Why not.  Dr. Blandford likes a good glass of wine as well as any one, and knows how to drink it.  He likes a good dinner too.”

“What do you mean, Norton?  Anybody knows how to drink a glass of wine.”

“Everybody don’t know how to drink half a dozen glasses, though,” said Norton.  “A wine may be out of place; and it is not good out of place.”

“You take it at dinner,” said Matilda.

“Yes, but different wines at different times of the dinner,” said Norton.  “Everything in its place, as much as everything in its own glass, and much more.  For instance, you take light wines with the soup; Hock, or Sauterne, or grandmamma’s favorite Greek wine.  Then champagne with the dinner.  Port goes with the cheese.  Then claret is good with the fruit; and sherry and madeira with the dessert, or any time.  And Dr. Blandford likes a bowl of whiskey punch to finish off with.”

“Is he your minister?”

“Dr. Blandford? yes.  That is, he’s grand-mamma’s.”

“Do you think he is as good as Mr. Richmond?”

“He’s better, for a dinner party,” said Norton.  “He knows what’s what, as well as anybody.  Now Pink, jump out; here we are.”

The stately brown-fronted store struck Matilda with a certain sense of awe.  Dr. Blandford was forgotten for the present.  She followed Norton in, and stood still to take breath.

“Now,” said Norton, “what shall we look at first?  What do you want?  How many things have you got to get, anyhow, Pink?”

“You know how many people there are at home.  Then there are two or three others I have to think of.”

“Hm! ­seven or eight, I declare,” said Norton.  “Well, let us walk round and see everything generally.”

There were a good many people who seemed to be doing just that; besides a crowd who were undoubtedly purchasers.  Slowly Norton and Matilda began their round of the counters.  Very slowly they went; for the loads of rich plate were a great marvel to the unused eyes of the little girl.  She had to beg a great deal of explanation from Norton as to the use and meaning of different articles.  Pitchers and tureens and forks and spoons she could understand; but what could possibly be the purpose of a vast round vase, with doves sitting opposite each other on the lip of it? doves with frosted wings, most beautiful to behold.

“That?” said Norton.  “That’s a punch bowl.”

“A punch bowl!  And how much would that cost, Norton?”

“Do you want it?  Too much for your purse, Pink.  That is marked two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“For a punch bowl!” said Matilda.

“Yes, why not?”

But Matilda did not say why not.  What must be the rest of the dinner, when the punch bowl was two hundred and fifty dollars?

“And here’s an epergne,” said Norton.  “That is to stand in the centre of the dinner table ­for ornament.  That’s seven hundred and fifty.”

“What’s inside of the punch bowl, Norton? it is yellow.”

“Gold,” said Norton.  “It is lined with gold ­gold washed, that is.  Gold don’t tarnish, you know.”

They went on.  It was a progress of wonders, to Matilda.  She was delighted with some wood carvings.  Then highly amused with a show of seals; Norton wished to buy one, and it took him some time to be suited.  Then Norton made her notice a great variety of useful articles in morocco and leather and wood; satchels and portemonnaies, and dressing boxes, and portfolios and card cases; and chains and rings and watches.  Bronzes and jewellery held them finally a very long time.  The crowd was great in the store; people were passing in and passing out constantly; the little boys the door-openers were busy opening and shutting all the time.  At last they let out Matilda and Norton.

“Now, Pink,” said the latter, well pleased, “do you know what you want?  Have you seen anything you want?”

“O yes, Norton; a great many things; but it is all confusion in my head till I think about it at home.”

“We have got other places to go to,” said Norton.  “Don’t decide anything till you have seen more.  We can’t go anywhere else to-day though.  We’ve got to go home to dinner.”

Matilda’s head was in a whirl of pleasure.  For amidst so many beautiful things she was sure she could do Christmas work charmingly; and at any rate it was delightful only to look at them.  She tried to get her thoughts a little in order.  For Norton, she would make the watch guard; that was one thing fixed.  A delicate bronze paperweight, a beautiful obelisk, had greatly taken her fancy, and Norton had been describing to her the use of its originals in old Egypt; it was not very costly, and Matilda thought she would like to give that to Mrs. Laval.  But she would not decide till she saw more; and for her sisters, and for everybody else indeed, she was quite uncertain yet what to choose.  She thought about it so hard all the evening that she was able to throw off the gloom of David and Judy’s darkened looks.

Next day, however, she had too much time to think.  It was Sunday.  Matilda was up in good time, as usual, and came down for breakfast; but there was no breakfast and nobody to eat it, till the clock shewed the half hour before ten.  Bells had been ringing long ago for Sunday school, and had long ago stopped.  Matilda was so hungry, that breakfast when it came made some amends for other losses; but then it was church time.  And to her dismay she found that nobody was going to church.  The long morning had to be spent as it could, with reading and thinking.  Matilda persuaded Norton to take her to church in the afternoon, that she might know the way.

“It don’t pay, Pink,” said Norton; “however, I’ll go with you, and you can see for yourself.”

Matilda went and saw.  A rich, splendid, luxuriously furnished church; a warm close atmosphere which almost put her to sleep; and a smooth-tongued speaker in the pulpit, every one of whose easy going sentences seemed to pull her eyelids down.  Matilda struggled, sat upright, pinched her fingers, looked at the gay colours and intricate patterns of a painted window near her, and after all had as much as she could do to keep from nodding.  She was very glad to feel the fresh air outside again.

“Well,” said Norton.  “Do you feel better?”

“Is that Dr. Blandford?”

“That is he.  A jolly parson, ain’t he?”

“The church was so warm,” said Matilda.

“He keeps cool,” said Norton.  “That’s one thing about Dr. Blandford.  You always know where to have him.”

“I wish Mr. Richmond was here,” said Matilda.

The wish must have been strong; for that very evening, when she went to her room, earlier than usual because everybody was ready to go to bed Sunday night, she wrote a letter to her minister at Shady walk.

“BLESSINGTON AVENUE, De, 18 ­

“DEAR MR. RICHMOND, ­I am here, you see, and I am very happy; but I am very much troubled about some things.  Everything is very different from what it was at Shadywalk, and it is very difficult to know what is right to do.  So I think I had better ask you.  Only there are so many things I want to ask about, that I am afraid my letter will be too long.  Sometimes I do not know whether the trouble is in myself or in the things; I think it is extremely difficult to tell.  Perhaps you will know; and I will try to explain what I mean as clearly as I can.

“One thing that puzzles me is this.  Is it wrong to wish to be fashionable? and how can one tell just how much it is wrong, or right.  Mrs. Laval is having some beautiful clothes made for me; ever so many; silks and other dresses; they will be made and trimmed as fashionable people have them; and I cannot help liking to have them so.  I am afraid, perhaps, I like it too much.  But how can I tell, Mr. Richmond?  There is another little girl in the house here, Mrs. Laval’s niece; about as old as I am, or not much older; and she has all her things made in these beautiful ways.  Is it wrong for me to wish to have mine as handsome as hers? because I do; and one reason why I am so glad of mine is, that I shall be as fashionable as she is.  She calls people who are not fashionable, ‘country people.’

“There is another thing.  Having things made in this way costs a great deal of money.  I don’t know about that.  The other day I paid two dollars more than I need, just to have the toes of my boots right.  You would not understand that; but the fashion is to have them narrow and rounded, and last year they were square and wide.  And it is so of other things.  I buy my own boots and gloves; and I could save a good deal if I would buy the shapes and colours that are not fashionable.  What ought I to do? and how can I tell?  It troubles me very much.

“I think that is the most of what troubles me, that and spending my money; but that is part of it.  I don’t want to be unlike other people.  Is that wrong, or is it pride?  I didn’t know but it was pride, partly; and then I thought I would ask you.

“Another thing is, ought I to speak to people about what they do that is not right?  I don’t mean grown up people, of course; but the boys and Judy.  I don’t like to do it; but yet I thought I must, as I had promised to do all I could in the cause of temperance; and I did, and some of them were very much offended.  They drink wine a great deal here, and I did not like to see Norton do it.  So I spoke, and I don’t think it did any good.

“My letter is getting very long, but there is one other thing I want to ask about.  There are a great many poor children in the streets; boys and girls; so dirty that you cannot imagine it; they sweep the street crossings.  What can I do for them?  Ought I not to give pennies always? all I can?

“I believe that is all.  O and I wish you could tell me what to do Sundays.  The people here do not care about going to church; and I have been once and I don’t wonder.  I could hardly keep my eyes open.  I miss the Sunday school and you very much.  I wish I could see you.  Give my love to Miss Redwood.  Your affectionate

“MATILDA ENGLEFIELD.

“It will be Matilda Laval after this, but I thought I would sign my own old name once.

This letter was duly posted the next day.  And almost as soon as the mails up and down made it possible, Matilda received her answer.

“SHADYWALK PARSONAGE, De, 18 .

“MY DEAR LITTLE TILLY, ­I appreciate your difficulties to the full.  They are difficulties, enough to puzzle an older head than yours.  Yet I think there is a simple way out of them, not through your head however so much as your heart.  Keep that right, and I think we can get at the answer to your questions.

“The answer to them all is, Live by your motto. ’Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus.’  Try everything by this rule.  In spending your money, in deciding between boot-tips and dollars, in the question of reproving wrong in others, in the matter of kindness to the street-sweepers, put your motto before you; and ask yourself, how would the Lord Jesus do if he were here in person and had the same point to decide?  The answer to that will tell you how, doing in his name, you ought to act yourself.  Pray for direction; and whether you dress or speak or spend money, take care that it is Christ you are trying to please ­not yourself, nor yet Miss Judy; but indeed let it be your best pleasure to please Him.

“Now as to your Sundays.  If your people do not go to church regularly, you can probably do what you like on Sunday afternoons.  Go up your avenue two blocks, turn down then to your right for two blocks more, and you will come to a plain looking brick building, not exactly like a church, nor like a common house.  There is Mr. Rush’s Sunday school.  Go in there, and you will find work and pleasure.  And then write again to

“Your very affectionate friend,

“F.  RICHMOND.”

It would be hazardous to say how many times Matilda read this letter.  I am afraid some tears were shed over it.  For to tell truth, difficulties rather thickened upon the little girl this week.  In the first place, Norton was away at school almost all day.  David and he came home to luncheon, which now became the dinner time of the young ones; but even so, he was full of his studies and his mates, and his new skates, and the merits of different styles of those instruments, and Matilda could hardly get anything out of him.  David talked little; but he was always more self-absorbed.  And with Judy, this week, Matilda had nothing to do.  That young lady ignored her.  Matilda went out shopping a good deal with Mrs. Laval; that was her best resource.  The shops were an unfailing amusement and occupation; for everywhere she had her Christmas work to think of, and everywhere accordingly she kept her eyes open and studied what was before her; weighed the merits and noted the prices even of stuffs and ribbands; and left nothing unexamined that eyes could examine in the fancy stores.  And when she got home, Matilda went to her room and made notes of the things she had seen and liked that she thought might be good for a present to one or another of the friends she had to reckon for.  The obelisk held its place in her favour for Mrs. Laval; but with respect to the other people a crowd of images filled her imagination.  Japanese paperweights, and little tea-pots; so pretty, Matilda thought she must buy one; ivory and Scotch plaid and carved wood paper knives, and one with a deer’s foot handle.  Little Shaker work-baskets, elegantly fitted up; scent-bottles; a carved wood letter-holder at Goupil’s; a bronze standish representing a country well with pole and bucket.  At Goupil’s, where Mrs. Laval had business to attend to, Matilda’s happy eyes were full of treasure.  She wandered round the room gazing at the pictures, in a dream of delight; finding soon some special favourites which she was sure to revisit with fresh interest every time she had a chance; and Mrs. Laval took her there several times.  Once Mrs. Laval, having finished what she came to do, was at a loss where to find Matilda; and only after going half round the long gallery, discovered her, wrapt in contemplation, standing before a large engraving which hung high above her on the wall.  Matilda’s head was thrown back, gazing; her two little hands were carelessly crossed at her back; she was a sort of picture herself.  Mrs. Laval came up softly.

“What are you looking at, my darling?”

Matilda started.  “Have you got through, mamma? did you want me?”

“I have got through; but I do not want you unless you are ready.  What have you found that pleases you?”

“Look, mamma.  That one ­the woman holding a lamp ­don’t you see?”

It was Holman Hunt’s figure of the woman searching for the lost piece of money.

“What is it?” said Mrs. Laval.

“Don’t you remember, mamma? the story of the woman who had ten pieces of silver and lost one of them? how she swept the house, and looked until she found it?”

“If I had nine left, I should not take so much trouble,” said Mrs. Laval.

“Ah, but, mamma, you know the Lord Jesus does not think so.”

“The Lord! What are you talking of, my child?”

“O you do not remember, mamma!  It is a parable.  The Lord Jesus means us to know how He cares for the lost ones.”

Mrs. Laval looked from Matilda to the picture and back again.

“Do you like it so very much?” she said.

“O I do, mamma! it’s beautiful.  What an odd lamp she has.”

“That is the shape lamps used to be,” said Mrs. Laval.  “Not so good as ours.”

“Prettier,” said Matilda.  “And it seems to give a good light.  No, it don’t, though; it shines only on a little place.  But it’s pretty.”

“You do love pretty things,” said Mrs. Laval laughing.  “We will come and look at it again.”

Matilda, it shewed how enterprising she was getting to be, had already privately inquired the price of the picture.  It was fifteen dollars without a frame.  Far up over her little head indeed.  She drew a long breath, and came away.

The latter part of the week another engrossment appeared, in the shape of her new dresses from Mme. Fournissons.  Mrs. Laval tried them all on; and Matilda’s head had almost more than it could stand.  So many, so handsome, so elegantly made and trimmed, so very becoming they were; it was like a fairy tale.  To these dresses Mrs. Laval had been all the week adding riches of under-clothing; a supply so abundant that Matilda had never dreamed of the like, and so elegant and fine in material and make as she had never until then even seen.  Now Matilda had a natural liking for extreme neatness and particularity in all that concerned her little person; and to have such plenty of things to wear, so nice of their kind, and full liberty to put them on clean and fresh as often as she pleased, fulfilled her utmost notions of what was desirable.  Her mental confusion arose from the articles furnished by Mme. Fournissons.  The lustre of the silk, the colour of the blue, the richness of the green, the ruffles, the costly buttons, the tasteful trimmings, the stylish make, all raised a whirl in Matilda’s mind.  She was a little intoxicated.  Nobody saw it; she was very demure about it all; made no show of what she felt; all the same she felt it.  She could not help a deep satisfaction at being dressed to the full as well as Judy; a feeling that was not lessened by a certain sense that the satisfaction was on her part alone.  Of the two, that is.  Mrs. Laval openly expressed hers.  Mrs. Lloyd nodded her dignified head and remarked, “That child will do you no discredit, Zara.”  Mrs. Bartholomew looked at her, which was much; and Norton declared that from a pink she had bloomed out into a carnation.  All these things Matilda felt; and unconsciously in all that concerned dress and equipment she began to set a new standard for herself.  One thing must match with another.  “Of course, I must have round-toed boots,” she said to herself now.  She began to doubt whether she must not get at least one pair of gloves more elegant than any she found at Shadywalk, to go with her silk dresses and her new coat.  She hesitated still, for the price was a dollar and a quarter.

Upon all this came Mr. Richmond’s letter; and Matilda found it did not exactly fit her mood of mind.  She was confused already, and this made the confusion worse.  Then Saturday came; and Norton was free; and he and Matilda made another round of shop-going.  The matter was growing imminent now; Christmas would be in a fortnight.  But the difficulty of deciding upon the choice of presents seemed as great as ever.  Seeing more things to choose from, only increased the difficulty.  They went this morning to Stewart’s, to find out what might be displayed upon the variety counter; they went to a place where Swiss carvings were shewn; finally they went to Anthony’s; and they could not get away from this last place.

“It’s long past one o’clock, Pink,” said Norton as they were going down the stairs.

“What shall we do, Norton?  I’m very hungry.”

“So am I. One can always do something in New York.  We’ll go and have dinner.”

“At home?”

“No indeed.  Short of home.  We’ll jump into an omnibus and be at the place in a minute.”

It did not seem much more, and they went into a restaurant and took their places at a little marble table, and Norton ordered what they both liked; oyster pie and coffee.

“But mamma does not like me to drink coffee,” said Matilda suddenly.

“No harm, just for once,” said Norton.  “She would let you, if she was here, I know.”

“But she isn’t here, and I don’t like to do it, Norton.”

“I have ordered it.  You’ll have to take it,” said Norton.  “Judy takes it every night, and her mother does not wish her to have any.”

“What then?” said Matilda.

“Nothing; only that you two are not much alike.”

“David don’t look at me any more, since last week,” said Matilda.  “Do you suppose he never will again?”

“No hurt if he don’t,” said Norton.  “He has my leave.  Well, Pink, what are you going to get?”

“I don’t know a bit, Norton ­except one or two things.  I am certain of nothing else but just one or two.”

“I am going to get that ring for mamma; that’s fixed.  The one with that pale malachite.  Grandmamma is disposed of.  Then for aunt Judy a box of French bon-bons.  I think I’ll give Davy a standish ­I haven’t picked it out yet; but I don’t know about Judy.  It’s hard to please her, I never did but once.”

“Then I shall not,” said Matilda.

“And it doesn’t matter, either.  Here’s your coffee, Pink; and here’s mine.”

But after a little struggle with herself, Matilda pushed her cup as far away as she could, and drew the glass of ice-water up to her plate instead.  The dinner was good enough, even so; and Norton called for ice-cream and fruit afterward.  And all the time they consulted over their Christmas work, which made it wonderfully relishing.  It was curious to see how other people too were evidently thinking of Christmas.  Here there was a brown paper parcel; there somebody had an armful; crowds came to get their luncheon or dinner, as Norton and Matilda were doing; stowed their packages on the chair or sofa beside them and refitted themselves for more shop-going.  All sorts of people, ­and all sorts of lunches!  Some had soup and steak and tartlets; some had coffee and muffins; some had oysters and ale; some took cups of tea and an omelet.  It was as good to see what was going on, as to take her own part in it, almost, to Matilda; and yet her own part was very satisfactory.  They went home only to order the horses and go to drive in the Park; Norton and she alone.  It was a long afternoon of enchantment.  The place, and the people, and the horses and the équipages; and the strange animals; and the lake and its boats; everything was a delight, and Norton had as much pleasure as he expected in seeing Matilda’s enjoyment and answering her questions.

“Norton,” said the little girl at length, “I don’t believe anybody here is having such a good time as we are.”

“Why?” said Norton.

“They don’t look so.”

“You can’t tell about people from their looks.”

“Can’t you?  But I am sure you can, Norton, partly.  People don’t look stupid when they feel bright, do they?”

Norton laughed a good deal at this.  “But then, Pink,” he remarked, “you must remember people are used to it.  You have never seen it before, you know, and it’s all fresh and new.  It’s an old story to them.”

“Does everything grow to be an old story?” said Matilda rather thoughtfully.

“I suppose so,” said Norton.  “That makes people always hunting up new things.”

Matilda wondered silently whether it was indeed so with everything.  Would her new dresses come to be an old story too, and she lose her pleasure in them?  Could the Park? could the flowers?

“Norton,” she broke out, “there are some things that never grow to be an old story.  Flowers don’t.”

“Flowers ­no, they don’t,” said Norton; “that’s a fact.  But then, they’re always new, Pink.  They don’t last.  They are always coming up new; that’s the beauty of them.”

“I do not think that is the beauty of them,” Matilda answered slowly.

“Well, you’d get tired of them if they didn’t,” said Norton.

“Do people get tired of coming here?” Matilda asked again, as her eye roved over the gay procession of carriages which just then they could trace along several turns in the road before them.

“I suppose so,” said Norton.  “Why not?”

“I do not see how they ever could.  Why it’s beautiful, Norton!  And the air is so sweet.”

“I never know how the air is.”

“Don’t you!  But then you lose a great deal that I don’t lose.  I am smelling it all the while.  Are there any flowers here in summer time?”

“Lots.”

“It must be lovely then.  Norton, it must be nice to come here and walk.”

“Walking is stupid,” said Norton.  “I can’t see any use in walking, except to get to a place.”

“Norton, do you see a boy yonder, coming towards us, on a black pony?”

“I see him.”

“It looks so like David Bartholomew.”

“You’ll see why, in another minute.  It’s himself.”

“I didn’t know he rode in the Park too,” said Matilda, as David passed them with a bow.

“Everybody rides in the Park ­or drives.”

“That is what we are doing?”

“Exactly.”

“I should think it was pleasant to ride on horseback.”

“This is better,” said Norton.

“I wonder whether David will ever look pleasant at me again.”

“It don’t signify, so far as I see,” said Norton.  “David Bartholomew has his own way of looking at every thing; the Park and all.  He likes to take that all alone by himself, and so he does other things.  He paddles his own canoe at school, in class and out of class; he don’t want help and he don’t give it.”

“Don’t he play either, in any of your school games?”

“Yes ­sometimes; but he keeps himself to himself through it all.”

“Norton, do the other boys dislike him because he is a Jew?”

“No!” said Norton vehemently.  “He dislikes them because they are not Jews; that is a nearer account of the matter.  Pink, you and I are going to have lessons together.”

“Does mamma say so?”

“Yes; at last; because if you went to school you would be broken off half way when we go home to Shadywalk.  So mamma says we may try, and if I teach well and you learn well, she will let it stand so.  How do you like it?”

“O very much, Norton!  But when will you have time?”

“I’ll find the time.  Now Pink, how much do you know?”

“O Norton, you know I don’t know any thing.”

“That’s all in the air,” said Norton.  “You can read, I suppose, and write?”

“Yes, I can read and write.  But then I haven’t been to school in ever so long.”

“Never mind that.  If we go nine miles an hour, how far shall we have gone if we are out three hours and a half?”

Matilda answered this and several more puzzling questions with pretty prompt correctness.

“You’ll do,” said Norton.  “I knew you were sharp.  You can always tell whether a person has a head, by the way he takes hold of numbers.”  A partial judgment, perhaps; for Norton himself was very quick at them.

“Can you read any thing except English, Pink?” he went on.

“No, Norton.”

“Never tried?”

“No, Norton.  How could I try without being taught?”

“Of course,” said Norton.  “There’s a jolly dog cart ­isn’t it?  Mamma wants you to read a lot of things besides English, I can tell you.”

“How many can you read, Norton?”

“Latin, and Greek, and German, and French, I am boring at now.”

“Don’t you like it?  Is it boring?”

“I like figures better.  David is great on languages.  Well, Pink, you shan’t have ’em all at once.  Now I want to ask you another question.  What do you think was the greatest battle that was ever fought in the world?”

“Battle?  O I don’t know any thing about battles, Norton.”

“Well, who was the greatest hero, then; the greatest man?”

Matilda pondered, and Norton watched her slyly in the intervals of attending to his ponies.

“I think, Norton, the greatest man I ever heard about, was Moses.”

Norton’s face quivered with amusement, but he kept it a little turned away from Matilda and asked why she thought so?

“I never heard of anybody who did such great things; nor who had such great things?”

“Had?  What did he have?” said Norton.  “I never knew he had any thing particular.”

“Don’t you remember? the Lord spoke with him face to face, as we speak to each other; and once he had a sight of that wonderful glory.  It must have been something so wonderful, Norton, for it made Moses’ face itself shine with light.”

“That’s a figure of speech, Pink.”

“What is a figure of speech?”

“I mean, that isn’t to be taken for real and earnest, you know.”

“Yes it is, Norton, for the people were frightened when they saw him, and ran away.”

“Pink, Pink, Pink!” exclaimed Norton, and stopped.

“What?” said Matilda.

“Nothing.  And so Moses is your greatest man!  That is all you know!”

“Why, who do you know that is greater?” said Matilda.

“You never read any history but the Bible?”

“Not much.  Who do you know that is greater, Norton?”

“Whom do I know.  Well, Pink, if I were to tell you, you wouldn’t understand, till you have read about them.  Why you have got all to read about.  I guess you’ll have to begin back with Romulus and Remus.”

“How far back were they?”

“How far back?  Ages; almost before history.”

“Before Moses?”

“Before Moses!  No, I suppose not.  I declare I don’t know when that old fellow was about.”

“But there is history before Moses, Norton?”

“Not Roman history,” said Norton; “and that is what we are talking about.”

“Were they great, Norton?”

“Who?”

“Those two men you spoke of.”

“Romulus and Remus?  O! ­Well, Romulus founded Rome.”

“And when was that?”

“Well, I don’t know, that’s a fact.  I believe, somewhere about eight or nine centuries before our era.”

“I would like to read about it,” said Matilda meekly.

“And you shall,” said Norton, firing up; “and there’s Grecian history too, Pink; and French and English history; and German.”

“And American history too?” ventured Matilda.

“Well, yes; but you see we haven’t a great deal of history yet, Pink; because we are a young people.”

“A young people?” said Matilda, puzzled.  “What do you mean by that?”

“Why yes; it was only in 1776 that we set up for ourselves.”

“Seventeen seventy six,” repeated Matilda.  “And now it is eighteen” ­

“Near a hundred years; that is all.”

Matilda pondered a little.

“Where must I begin, Norton?”

“O with Romulus and Remus, I guess.  And then there’s grammar, Pink; did you ever study grammar?”

“A little.  I didn’t like it.”

“No, and I don’t like it; but you have to learn it, for all that.  And geography, Pink?”

“O I was drawing maps, Norton; but then I had to come away from school, and I was busy at aunt Candy’s, and I have forgot nearly all I knew, I am afraid.”

“Never mind,” said Norton delightedly; “we’ll find it again, and a great deal more.  I’ll get you some nice sheets of paper for your maps, and a box of colours; so that you can make a pretty affair of them.  I declare!  I don’t know whether we can begin, though, before Christmas.”

“O yes, Norton.  I have more time than I know what to do with.  I would like to begin about Romus” ­

“Romulus.  Yes, you shall.  And now, if we turn round here we shall not have too much time to get home, I’m thinking.”