Matilda hardly knew whether to welcome Sunday.  Her mind was in such a whirl, she was half afraid to have leisure to think.  There was little chance however for that in the morning; late breakfast and dressing disposed of the time nicely.  The whole family went to church to-day, David alone excepted; and Matilda was divided between delight in her new cloak and rich dress, and a certain troubled feeling that all the sweetness which used to belong to her Sundays in church at Shadywalk was here missing.  Nothing in the service gave her any help.  Her dress, to be sure, was merged in a crowd of just such dresses; silks and laces and velvets and feathers and bright colours were on every side of her and other brilliant colours streamed down from the painted windows of the church.  They were altogether distracting.  It was impossible not to notice the dash of golden light which lay across her own green silk dress and glorified it, so far; or to help watching the effect of a stream of crimson rays on Judy’s blue.  What a purple it made!  The colouring was not any more splendid or delicious indeed than one may see in a summer sunset sky many a day; but somehow the effect on the feelings was different.  And when Matilda looked up again at the minister and tried to get at the thread of what he was saying, she found she had lost the connection; and began instead to marvel how he would look, if the streak of blue which bathed his forehead were to fall a little lower and lie across his mouth and chin.  Altogether, when the service was ended and the party walked home, Matilda did not feel as if she had got any good or refreshment out of Sunday yet; more than out of a kaleidoscope.

“I’ll go to Mr. Rush’s Sunday school this afternoon” ­she determined, as she was laying off her cloak.

There was no hindrance to this determination; but as Matilda crossed the lower hall, ready to go out, she was met by Norton.

“Hollo,” said he.  “What’s up now?”

“Nothing is up, Norton.”

“Where are you going?”

So Matilda told him.

“Nothing else’ll do, hey,” said Norton.  “Well, ­hold on, till I get into my coat.”

“Why, are you going?”

“Looks like it,” said Norton.  “Why Pink, you are not fit to be trusted in New York streets alone.”

“I know where to go, Norton.  But I am very glad you will go too.”

“To take care of you,” said Norton.  “Why Pink, New York is a big trap; and you would find yourself at the wrong end of a puzzle before you knew it.”

“I have only got two blocks more to go, Norton.  I could hardly be puzzled.  Here, we turn down here.”

It was no church, nor near a church, the building before which the two paused.  They went up a few steps and entered a little hare vestibule.  The doors giving further entrance were closed; a boy stood there as if to guard them; and a placard with a few words on it was hung up on one of them.  The words were these

“And the door was shut.”

“What sort of a place is this?” said Norton.

“This is the Sunday school,” said Matilda.  “They are singing; don’t you hear them?  We are late.”

“It seems a queer Sunday school,” said Norton.  “Don’t they let folks in here?”

“In ten minutes” ­said the boy who stood by the door.

“Ten minutes!” echoed Norton.  “It’s quite an idea, to shut the door in people’s faces and then hang out a sign to tell them it is shut!”

“O no, Norton; ­that door isn’t this door.”

“That isn’t this?” said Norton.  “What do you mean, Pink?  Of course I know so much; but it seems to me this is this.”

“No, Norton; it means the door spoken of in the Bible ­in the New Testament; ­don’t you know? don’t you remember?”

“Not a bit,” said Norton.  “I can’t say, Pink, but it seems to me this is not just exactly the place for you to come to Sunday school.  Don’t look like it.”

“Mr. Richmond told me to come here, you know, Norton.”

But Norton looked with a disapproving eye upon what he could see of the neighbourhood; and it is true that nobody would have guessed it was near such a region as Blessington avenue.  The houses were uncomely and the people were poor; and more than that.  There was a look of positive want of respectability.  But the little boy who was keeping the door was decent enough; and presently now he opened the door and stood by to let Norton and Matilda pass in.

There they found a large plain room, airy and roomy and light, filled with children and teachers all in a great breeze of business.  Everybody seemed to be quite engrossed with something or other; and Norton and Matilda slowly went up one of the long aisles between rows of classes, waiting and looking for somebody to speak to them.  The children seemed to have no eyes to give to strangers; the teachers seemed to have no time.  Suddenly a young man stood in front of Norton and greeted the two very cordially.

“Are you coming to join us?” he asked with a keen glance at them.  And as they did not deny it, though Norton hardly made an intelligible answer, he led them up the room and at the very top introduced them to a gentleman.

“Mr. Wharncliffe, will you take charge of these new comers?  For to-day, perhaps it will be the best thing.”

So Norton and Matilda found themselves at one end of a circular seat which was filled with the boys and girls of a large class.  Very different from themselves these boys and girls were; belonging to another stratum of what is called society.  If their dress was decent, it was as much as could be said of it; no elegance or style was within the aim of any of them; a faded frock was in one place, and a patched pair of trowsers in another place, and not one of the little company but shewed all over poverty of means and ignorance of fashion.  Yet the faces testified to no poverty of wits; intelligence and interest were manifest on every one, along with the somewhat spare and pinched look of ill supplied appetites.  Norton read the signs, and thought himself much out of place.  Matilda read them; and shrank a little from the association.  However, she reflected that this was the first day of her being in the school; doubtless when the people saw who and what she was they would put her into a class more suited to her station.  Then she looked at the teacher; and she forgot her companions.  He was a young man, with a very calm face and very quiet manner, whose least word and motion however was watched by the children, and his least look and gesture obeyed.  He sent one of the boys to fetch a couple of Bibles for Matilda and Norton, and then bade them all open their books at the first chapter of Daniel.

The first questions were about Nebuchadnezzar and his kingdom of Babylon.  Unknown subjects to most of the members of the class; Mr. Wharncliffe had to tell a great deal about ancient history and geography.  He had a map, and he had a clear head of his own, for he made the talk very interesting and very easy to understand; Matilda found herself listening with much enjoyment.  A question at last came to her; why the Lord gave Jehoiakim, king of Judah, into the hands of the king of Babylon?  Matilda did not know.  She was told to find the 25th chapter of Jeremiah and read aloud nine verses.

“Now why was it?” said the teacher.

“Because the people would not mind the Lord’s words.”

The next question came to Norton.  “Could the king of Babylon have taken Jerusalem, if the Lord had not given it into his hands?”

Norton hesitated.  “I don’t know, sir,” he said at length.

“What do you think?”

“I think he could.”

“I should like to know why you think so.”

“Because the king of Babylon was a strong king, and had plenty of soldiers and everything; and Jehoiakim had only a little kingdom anyhow.”

“The Bible says ‘there is no king saved by the multitude of an host.’  How do you account for the fact that when strong kings and great armies came against Jerusalem at times that she was serving and trusting God, they never could do anything, but were miserably beaten?”

“I did not know it, sir,” said Norton flushing a little.

“I thought you probably did not know it,” said Mr. Wharncliffe quietly.  “You did not know that many a time, when the people of the Jews were following God, one man of them could chase a thousand?”

“No, sir.”

“Who remembers such a case?”

Norton pricked up his ears and listened; for the members of the class spoke out and gave instance after instance, till the teacher stopped them for want of time to hear more.  The lesson went on.  The carrying away of Daniel and his companions was told of, and “the learning and the tongue of the Chaldeans” was explained.  Gradually the question came round to Matilda again.  Why Daniel and the other three noble young Jews would not eat of the king’s meat?

Matilda could not guess.

“You remember that the Jews, as the Lord’s people, were required to keep themselves ceremonially clean, as it was called.  If they eat certain things or touched certain other things, they were not allowed to go into the temple to worship, until at least that day was ended and they had washed themselves and changed their clothes.  Sometimes many more days than one must pass before they could be ‘clean’ again, in that sense.  This was ceremony, but it served to teach and remind them of something that was not ceremony, but deep inward truth.  What?”

Mr. Wharncliffe abruptly stopped with the question, and a tall boy at one end of the class answered him.

“People must keep themselves from what is not good.”

“The people of God must keep themselves from every thing that is not pure, in word, thought, and deed.  And how if they fail sometimes, Joanna, and get soiled by falling into some temptation? what must they do?”

“Get washed.”

“What shall they wash in, when it is the heart and conscience that must be made clean?”

“The blood of Christ.”

“How will that make us clean?”

There was hesitation in the class; then as Mr. Wharncliffe’s eye came to her and rested slightly, Matilda could not help speaking.

“Because it was shed for our sins, and it takes them all away.”

“How shall we wash in it then?” the teacher asked, still looking at Matilda.

“If we trust him?” ­she began.

“To do what?”

“To forgive, ­and to take away our wrong feelings.”

“For his blood’s sake!” said the teacher. “’They have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.’  And as the sacrifices of old time were a sort of picture and token of the pouring out of that blood; so the outward cleanness about which the Jews had to be so particular was a sort of sign and token of the pure heart-cleanness which every one must have who follows the Lord Jesus.

“And so we come back to Daniel.  If he eat the food sent from the king’s table he would be certain to touch and eat now and then something which would be, for him, ceremonially unclean.  More than that.  Often the king’s meat was prepared from part of an animal which had been sacrificed to an idol; to eat of the sacrifice was part of the worship of the idol; and so Daniel and his fellows might have been thought to share in that worship.”

“But it wouldn’t have been true,” said a boy in the class.

“What would not have been true?”

“He would not have been worshipping the idol.  He didn’t mean it.”

“So you think he might just as well have eaten the idol’s meat? not meaning any thing.”

“It wouldn’t have been service of the idol.”

“What would it have been?”

“Why, nothing at all.  I don’t see as he would have done no harm.”

“What harm would it have been, or what harm would it have done, if Daniel had really joined in the worship of Nebuchadnezzar’s idol?”

“He would have displeased God,” said one.

“I guess God would have punished him,” said another.

“He would not have been God’s child any longer,” said Matilda.

“All true.  But is no other harm done when a child of God forgets his Father’s commands?”

“He helps others to do wrong,” said Matilda softly.

“He makes them think ’tain’t no odds about the commands,” a girl remarked.

“How’s they to know what the commands is?” a second boy asked, “if he don’t shew ’em?”

“Very true, Robert,” said Mr. Wharncliffe.  “I have heard it said, that Christians are the only Bible some folks ever read.”

“’Cause they hain’t got none?” asked one of the class.

“Perhaps.  Or if they have got one, they do not study it.  But a true, beautiful life they cannot help reading; and it tells them what they ought to be.”

“Daniel gave a good example,” said the slim lad at the end of the class.

“That we can all do, if we have a mind, Peter.  But in that case we must not seem to do what we ought not to do really.  We help the devil that way.  Now read the 9th and 10th verses.  What was Daniel’s friend afraid of?”

“Afraid the king would not like it.”

“If Daniel and his friends did not eat like the others.  Do our friends sometimes object to our doing right, on the ground that we shall not be like other people if we do?”

There was a general chorus of assent.

“Well, we don’t want to be unlike other people, do we?”

Some said yes, and some said no; conflicting opinions.

“You say no, Heath; give us your reasons.”

“They make fun of you” ­said the boy, a little under breath.

“They fight you” ­said another more boldly.

“They don’t want to have nothing to do with you,” a girl said.

“Laugh, and quarrel, and separate you from their company,” repeated the teacher.  “Not very pleasant things.  But some of you said yes.  Give us your reasons, if you please.”

“We can’t be like Christ and like the world,” Peter answered.

“‘Ye are not of the world, even as I am not of the world,’” said Mr.
Wharncliffe.  “Most true!  And some of us do want to be like our Master. 
Well? who else has a reason?”

“I think it is very hard,” said Matilda, “to do right and not be unlike other people.”

“So hard, my dear, that it is impossible,” said the teacher, looking somewhat steadily at his new scholar.  “And are you one of those who want to do right?”

Matilda answered; but as she did so something made her voice tremble and her eyes fill.

“For the sake of doing right, then, and for the sake of being like Jesus, some of us are willing to be unlike other people; though the consequences of that are not always pleasant.  Is there nothing more to be said on the subject?”

“The people that have the Lord’s name in their foreheads, will be with him by and by,” remarked a girl who had not yet spoken.

“And he is with them now,” said Mr. Wharncliffe.  “Yes, Sarah.”

“And then there will be a great gulf between,” said a boy.

“Well, I think we have got reason enough,” said Mr. Wharncliffe.  “To be on the right side of the dividing gulf then, we must be content to be on the same side of it now.  Daniel judged so, it is clear.  On the whole, did he lose anything?”

The teacher’s eyes were looking at Norton, and he was constrained to answer no.

“What did he gain?”

Norton was still the one looked at, and he fidgeted.  Mr. Wharncliffe waited.

“I suppose, God gave him learning and wisdom.”

“In consequence of his learning and wisdom, which were very remarkable, what then?”

“The king’s favour,” said Norton.

“Just what the friends of the young Jews had been afraid they would lose.  They ‘stood before the king;’ that means they were appointed to be king’s officers; they served him, not any meaner man.  Now how does this all come home to us?  How are we tempted, as Daniel and his fellows were tempted?”

Norton, at whom Mr. Wharncliffe glanced, replied that he did not know.  Matilda also was silent, though longing to utter her confession.  The questioning eyes passed on.

“The fellows think you must do as they does,” said a lad who sat next Matilda.

“In what?”

That boy hesitated; the next spoke up, and said, “Lying, and lifting.”

“And swearing,” added a third.

“How if you do not follow their ways?”

“Some thinks you won’t never get along, nohow.”

“What is your opinion, Lawrence?”

The boy shifted his position a little uneasily.  “They say you won’t, teacher.”

“So Daniel’s friend was afraid he would not get along, if he did not eat the king’s meat.  Girls, does the temptation come to you?”

There was a general chorus of “Yes, sir,” and “Yes, sir.”

“Have you tried following the Lord’s word against people’s opinion?”

Again “Yes, sir” ­came modestly from several lips.

“Do you find any ill come from it?”

“Yes, sir, a little,” said a girl who might have been two or three years older than Matilda.  “You get made game of, and scolded, sometimes.  And they say you are lofty, or mean.  Sometimes they say one to me, and sometimes the other.”

“And they plague a feller,” said a boy; “the worst kind.”

“Is it hard to bear?”

“I think it is,” said the girl; and one or two of the boys said again, “Yes, sir.”

“Reckon you’d think so, if you tried, teacher,” another put in.  “They rolled Sam in the mud, the other day.  There was six of ’em, you see, and he hadn’t no chance.”

“Sam, how did it feel?  And how did you feel?”

“Teacher, ’twarn’t easy to feel right.”

“Could you manage it?”

“I guess not, at first.  But afterwards I remembered.”

“What did you remember?”

“I remembered they didn’t know no better, sir.”

“I think you are mistaken.  They knew they were doing wrong; how wrong, I suppose they did not know.  Well, Sam ­’if any man suffer as a Christian, let him not be ashamed, but let him glorify God on this behalf.’  Were you ashamed?”

“No, sir.”

“God says, ‘Them that honour me, I will honour;’ and, ­’Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.’  The honour that he gives will be real honour.  It is worth while waiting for it.  Now our time will be up in two minutes ­Peter, what lesson do you get from all this? for yourself?”

“To be more careful, sir.”

“Of what, my boy?”

“Careful not to have anything to do with bad ways.”

“Can’t be too careful; the temptation comes strong.  Ellen, what is your lesson?”

“I never saw before how much a good example is.”

“Ay.  God often is pleased to make it very much.  Well, Dick.”

“Teacher, I don’t think New York is like that ’ere place.”

“Don’t you?  Why not?”

“Folks can’t get along that way in our streets.”

“How do you find it, Sam? and what is your conclusion from the lesson.”

“I wish I was more like Dan’l, teacher.”

“So I wish.  You and I are agreed, Sam.  And Daniel’s God is ours, remember.  Heath?”

“They was rum fellers, teacher, them ’ere.”

“That is your conclusion.  Well! so some people thought then.  But Daniel and his fellows came to glory.  What have you to say, Joanna?”

“I think I hain’t been keerful enough, teacher.”

“Robert?”

“I think it is best to let go everything else and trust God.”

“You’ll make no mistake so, my boy.  Sarah, what is the lesson to you?”

The girl, a very poorly dressed one, hesitated, and then said a little falteringly, ­

“It’s nice to be clean inside, teacher.”

The teacher paused a moment also before his eye came to Matilda, and then it was very soft.

“What does my new scholar say?”

Matilda struggled with herself, looked down and looked up, and met the kind eyes again.

“One must be willing to be unlike the world,” she said.

“Is it easy?”

“I think it is very hard, sir.”

“Do you find it so, my friend?” he asked, his eye going on to Norton.  But the bell rang just then; and in the bustle of rising and finding the hymn Norton contrived to escape the answering and yet without being rude.

As they were turning away, after the services were ended, Matilda felt a light touch on her shoulder and her teacher said quietly, “Wait.”  She stood still, while he went up to speak to somebody.  All the other children passed out, and she was quite alone when Mr. Wharncliffe came back to her.

“Which way are you going?”

“Down the avenue, sir.”

“What avenue?”

“Blessington avenue.  But only to 40th street.”

“Let us go together.”

They had the walk to themselves; for though Norton had waited for Matilda till she came out, he sheered off when he saw what company she was in, and contented himself with keeping her in sight.  Just then Norton did not care to come to closer quarters with Mr. Wharncliffe.  This gentleman talked pleasantly with Matilda; asked how she happened to come to the school, how long she had been in the city, and something about her life at Shadywalk.  At last he came back to the subject of the afternoon’s lesson.

“You think it is difficult to be as loyal as Daniel was?”

“What is ‘loyal,’ sir?”

“It is being a true subject, in heart; ­faithful to the honour and will of one’s king.”

“I think it is difficult” ­Matilda said in a subdued tone.

“How come you to find it so?”

“Mr. Wharncliffe,” said Matilda suddenly making up her mind, “it is very hard not to want to be fashionable.”

“I don’t know that there is any harm in being fashionable,” said her teacher quietly.  But though his face was quiet, it was so strong and good that Matilda felt great reliance on all it said.

“Isn’t there?” she asked quite eagerly.

“Why should there be?”

“But ­it costs so much!” Matilda could not help confessing it.

“To be fashionable?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You do not dress yourself, I suppose.  The money is not your money, is it?”

“Yes, sir, some of it is my money; because I have an allowance, and get my own shoes and gloves.”

“And you find it costs a great deal to be fashionable?”

“Yes, sir; a great deal.”

“What would you like to do with your money?”

“There is a great deal to do,” said Matilda soberly.  “A great many people want help, don’t they?”

“More than you think.  I could tell you of several in the class you have just been with.”

“Then, sir, what ought I to do?” ­and Matilda lifted two earnest, troubled eyes to the face of her teacher.

“I think you ought to look carefully to see what the Lord has given you to do, and ask him to shew you.”

“But about spending my money?”

“Then you will better be able to tell.  When you see clearly what you can do with a dollar, it will not be very hard to find out whether Jesus means you should do that with it, or buy a pair of gloves, for instance.  We will talk more about this and I will help you.  Here is your house.  Good bye.”

“But Mr. Wharncliffe,” said Matilda, eagerly, as she met the clasp of his hand, ­“one thing; I want to stay in your class.  May I?”

“I shall be very glad to have you.  Good bye.”

He went off down the avenue, and Matilda stood looking after him.  He was a young man; he was hardly what people call a handsome man; his figure had nothing imposing; but the child’s heart went after him down the avenue.  His face had so much of the strength and the sweetness and the beauty of goodness, that it attracted inevitably those who saw it; there was a look of self-poise and calm which as surely invited trust; truth and power were in the face, to such a degree that it is not wonderful a child’s heart, or an older person’s, for that matter, should be won and his confidence given even on a very short acquaintance.  Matilda stood still in the street, following the teacher’s receding figure with her eye.

“What are you looking at?” said Norton, now coming up.

“O Norton! didn’t you like the school very much?”

“They’re a queer set,” said Norton.  “They’re a poor set, Pink! a miserable poor set.”

“Well, what then?  Don’t you like the teacher?”

“He’s well enough; but I don’t like the company.”

“They were very well behaved, Norton; quite as well as the children at Shadywalk.”

“Shadywalk was Shadywalk,” said Norton, “but here it is another thing.  It won’t do.  Why Pink, I shouldn’t wonder if some of them were street boys.”

“I think some of those in the class were good, Norton; boys and girls too.”

“Maybe so,” said Norton; “but their clothes weren’t.  Faugh!”

Matilda went into the house, wondering at her old problem, but soon forgetting wonder in mixed sorrow and joy.  All the beauty of being a true child of God rose up fresh before her eyes; some of the honour and dignity of it; nothing in all the world, Matilda was sure, could be so lovely or so happy.  But she had not honoured her King like Daniel; and that grieved her.  She was very sure now what she wanted to be.

The next morning she took up the matter of her Christmas gifts in a new spirit.  What was she meant to do with her twenty dollars?  Before she could decide that, she must know a little better what it was possible to do; and for that Mr. Wharncliffe had promised his help.  She must wait.  In the meanwhile she studied carefully the question, what it was best for her to give to her sisters and the members of her immediate family circle; and very grave became Matilda’s consideration of the shops.  Her little face was almost comical now and then in its absorbed pondering of articles and prices and calculation of sums.  An incredible number and variety of the latter, both in addition and subtraction, were done in her head those days, resolving twenty dollars into an unheard of number of parts and forming an unknown number of combinations with them.  She bought the bronze obelisk for Mrs. Laval; partly that she might have some pennies on hand for the street sweepers; but then came a time of fair weather days, and the street sweepers were not at the crossings.  Matilda purchased furthermore some dark brown silk braid for Norton’s watchguard, and was happy making it, whenever she could be shut up in her room.  She dared not trust Judy’s eyes or tongue.

One day she was busy at this, her fingers flying over the braid and her thoughts as busy, when somebody tried to open her door, and then tapped at it.  Matilda hid her work and opened, to let in Judy.  She was a good deal surprised, for she had not been so honoured before.  Judith and her brother were very cool and distant since the purchase of the liqueur stand.

“What do you keep your door locked for?” was the young lady’s salutation now, while her eyes roved over all the furniture and filling of Matilda’s apartment.

“I was busy.”

“Didn’t you want anybody to come in?”

“Not without my knowing it.”

“What were you doing then?”

“If I had wanted everybody to know, I should not have shut myself up.”

“No, I suppose not.  I suppose you want me out of the way, too.  Well, I am not going.”

“I do not want you to go, Judy, if you like to stay.  That is, if you will be good.”

“Good?” said the other, her eyes snapping.  “What do you call good?”

“Everybody knows what good means, don’t they?” said Matilda.

“I don’t,” said Judy.  “I have my way of being good ­that’s all.  Everybody has his own way.  What is yours?”

“But there is only one real way.”

“Ain’t there, though!” exclaimed Judy.  “I’ll shew you a dozen.”

“They can’t be all good, Judy.”

“Who’s to say they are not?”

“Why, the Bible.”  The minute she had said it the colour flushed to Matilda’s face.  But Judy went on with the greatest coolness.

“Your Bible, or my Bible?”

“There isn’t but one Bible, Judy, that I know.”

“Yes, there is!” said the young lady fiercely.  “There’s our Bible, that’s the true.  There’s yours, that’s nothing, that you dare bind up with it.”

“They both say the same thing,” said Matilda.

“They DON’T!” said the girl, sitting upright, and her eyes darted fire.  “They don’t say a word alike; don’t you dare say it.”

“Why Judy, what the one says is good, the other says is good; there is no difference in that.  Did you ever read the New Testament?”

“No! and I don’t want to; nor the other either.  But I didn’t come to talk about that.”

“What do you call goodness, then?”

“Goodness?” said Judy, relapsing into comparatively harmless mischief; “goodness?  It’s a sweet apple ­and I hate sweet apples.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that.  Goody folks are stupid.  Aren’t they, though!”

“But then, what is your notion of real goodness?”

“I don’t believe there is such a thing.  Come! you don’t either.”

“I don’t believe in goodness?”

“Goodness!” repeated Judy impatiently, “you needn’t stare.  I don’t choose to be stared at.  You know it as well as I. When you are what you call good, you just want the name of it.  So do I sometimes; and then I get it.  That’s cheap work.”

“Want the name of what?”

“Why, of being good.”

“Then goodness is something.  You wouldn’t want the name of nothing.”

Judy laughed.  “I haven’t come here to be good to-day,” she said; “nor to talk nonsense.  I want to tell you about something.  We are going to have a party.”

“A party! when?”

“Christmas eve.  Now it is our party, you understand; mine and Norton’s and David’s; mamma has nothing to do with it, nor grandmamma, except to prepare everything. That she’ll do; but we have got to prepare the entertainment; and we are going to play games and act proverbs; and I have come to see how much you know, and whether you can help.”

“What do you want me to know?” said Matilda.  “I’ll help all I can.”

“How much do you know about games?  Can you play ’What’s my thought like?’ or ‘Consequences?’ or anything?”

“I never played games much,” said Matilda, with a sudden feeling of inferiority.  “I never had much chance.”

“I dare say!” said Judy.  “I knew that before I came.  Well of course you can’t act proverbs.  You don’t know anything.”

“What is it?” said Matilda.  “Tell me.  Perhaps I can learn.”

“You can’t learn in a minute,” said Judy with a slight toss of her head, which indeed was much given to wagging in various directions.

“But tell me, please.”

“Well, there’s no harm in that.  We choose a proverb, of course, first; for instance the boys are going to play ’It’s ill talking between a full man and a fasting.’  This is how they are going to do it.  Nobody knows, you understand, what the proverb is, but they must guess it.  Norton will be a rich man who wants to buy a piece of land; and David is the man who owns the land and has come to see him; but he has come a good way, and he is without his dinner, and he feels as cross as can be, and no terms will suit him.  So they talk and talk, and disagree and quarrel and are ridiculous; till at last Norton finds out that Davy hasn’t dined; and then he orders up everything in the house he can think of, that is good, and makes him eat; and when he has eaten everything and drunk wine and they are cracking nuts, then Norton begins again about the piece of land; and the poor man is so comfortable now he is willing to sell anything he has got; and Norton gets it for his own price.  Won’t it be good?”

“I should think it would be very interesting,” said Matilda; whom indeed the description interested mightily.  “But how could I help?  I don’t see.”

“O not in that you couldn’t, of course; Davy and Norton don’t want any help, I guess, from anybody; they know all about it.  But I want you to help me.  I wonder if you can.  I don’t believe you can, either.  I shall have to get somebody else.”

“What do you want me to do?” said Matilda, feeling socially very small indeed.

“I am going to play ‘Riches bring care.’  I am a rich old woman, like grandmamma, only not like her, for she is never worried about anything; but I am worried to death for fear this or that will come to harm.  And I want you to be my maid.  I must have somebody, you know, to talk to and worry with.”

“If that is all,” said Matilda, “I should think I could be talked to.”

“But it isn’t all, stupid!” said Judy.  “You must know how to answer back, and try to make me believe things are going right, and so worry me more and more.”

“Suppose we try,” said Matilda.  “I don’t know how I could do, but maybe I might learn.”

“I’d rather have it all in the house,” said Judy, “if I can.  Two proverbs will be enough; for they take a good while ­dressing and all, you know.”

“Dressing for the proverbs?”

“Of course!  Dressing, indeed!  Do I look like an old woman without dressing?  Not just yet.  We must be dressed up to the work.  But we can practise without being dressed.  When the boys come home to-night, we’ll come up here to the lobby and practise.  But I don’t believe you’ll do.”

“Will it be a large party, Judy?”

“Hm ­I don’t know.  I guess not.  Grandmamma doesn’t like large parties.  I dare say she won’t have more than fifty.”

Fifty seemed a very large party to Matilda; but she would not expose her ignorance, and so held her peace.  Judy pottered about the room for a while longer, looking at everything in it, and out of it, Matilda thought; for she lounged at the windows with her arms on the sill, gazing up and down at all that was going on in the street.  Finally said they would try a practice in the evening, and she departed.