Trading. Warner Susan
is this?" said the voice.
And a gentle answer came; not like Judy's proclaiming of herself, yet clear and frank too.
"Matilda Laval, what would you like of all things, if you could have it?"
Matilda hesitated. "There are so many things" – she began, – "it isn't very easy" —
"So many things you would like?"
"Yes, ma'am. Not for myself," she added, in a kind of horror at being supposed to entertain such wishes under the flood of good things that had come upon her that evening.
"Well, go on. It is for yourself in one way. Say what, of all you can think of, would give you most pleasure."
Matilda's hands came together with a certain pang of hope, as she answered.
"If I could make somebody comfortable that I know of; – a poor, good girl, who is not comfortable at all."
"One of your sisters?"
"O no, ma'am; no relation."
"What is the matter with her, and how could you make her comfortable?"
"She is a very poor girl," said Matilda, so eager that she did not know what to bring out first; – "she lives in a cellar room with a wet mud floor, and no bed to sleep on that is like a bed; of course she cannot be very clean, nor have any comfort at all; and I should like to make them comfortable."
"Who is she?"
"A very poor girl, that goes to Sunday school. But she is very good."
"Does she live there alone?"
"O there are three of them; her mother and little brother."
"Then why does not the mother earn money and live better?"
"She works for it; she sews; but the people give her almost nothing for her work; and Sarah sweeps a crossing."
"How did you come to know all this?"
"I saw Sarah in Sunday school; and I heard about her from my teacher, and he shewed me the place where she lives. He knows she is good."
"And what do you want to do for her?"
"I want to get her out of that place, and into a decent room, and give her a comfortable bed."
"What is her name?"
"Sarah Staples."
"How long would she keep decent, do you think?"
"Always," said Matilda confidently. "I am sure she would be just as nice as she possibly could. Where she is, she has no chance."
"Well, go; the witch will look into it."
Matilda went out, hardly knowing what to think, or whether she might hope anything from this very doubtful interview. Just as she reached the door, she was called back.
"Have you no wishes for yourself, little girl?"
"No, ma'am; thank you."
"Is there nothing in the world you would like?"
"I suppose, a great many things," said Matilda; "but I have got so many now, I am afraid to wish."
"Why?"
"I don't think I ought to wish for anything more, for myself."
"You are the first person I ever saw, young or old, who put an 'ought' before his wishes. Most people put it after them. Well, as a reward, tell the one more thing, for yourself, that you would wish for if you could have it."
Matilda thought, and hesitated. She did not at all like to tell her thought. At last the witch urged her to speak out and be quick.
"If I were to choose – and wish for anything more," Matilda said slowly, – "which I don't; but if I did wish for anything more, it would be for a beautiful picture I have seen."
"Aha!" said the witch. "Where did you see it?"
"At Goupil's."
"And what picture was it?"
"It was the picture of the woman searching for the lost piece of money."
"Well. You are an odd child. You may go; and if there is anybody else to come, let them make haste. I am as tired as if I were not a witch."
A minute after David entered the den.
"I know who you are," said the witch. "Speak your heart's desire; and in one word, if you can."
"In one word, Hebrew."
"What of Hebrew?"
"To learn it."
"Learning is a thing I cannot do for you."
"No, but the means."
"What means?"
"Permission, time, books, and a teacher."
"You are another odd one. Is that your dearest heart's wish, David Bartholomew?"
"I think it is the greatest I have, at present."
"Well. Leave it with me and go."
"Hallo, David!" exclaimed Norton as he came out into the hall; "the people are all gone; the last one just had the door shut behind him."
"It's time," said David.
"Takes more than a party to shake you out of your gravity," said Norton. "Time? why yes, it's past twelve."
"Sunday!" exclaimed Matilda.
The other three, they were together in the hall, all burst out laughing.
"It's Sunday; and Christmas is over, and the Christmas tree," said Norton. "But the fruits keep. Extraordinary tree! Well, Pink; we have got to go and sleep now. Do you want to take another look at the tree?"
They all went into the drawing-room which had been the scene of so much festivity. The tree stood there yet in its tub, with ribbands and gilt work hanging to it; but the lights were burnt out, and the splendour was gone, and its riches were scattered. It was a thing of the past already.
"The fruits will keep," Norton repeated. "Did you find out who the witch was, David?"
"I thought I knew."
"I knew I knew," said Norton; "but she had somebody else to speak for her. What a jolly witch! We shall hear from her some of these days. Well, good night."
Kisses and thanks and good nights had to be exchanged with the older members of the family; and Sunday was well begun when at last Matilda shut her door behind her. She had to take one look at her watch; it was no doubt a little beauty; and to Matilda's vision it was a very fruit and embodiment of fairyland. Beyond even her wildest dreams of what was possible from a Christmas tree. Her own watch! She could scarcely believe it, even with the watch lying securely in her hand. And with the delicate minute hand pointing but fifteen minutes off from one o' clock, she still stood gazing and rapt. Then as the hand went on to fourteen minutes, and thirteen, Matilda started and laid it down. To have her own watch telling her it was time to go to bed! But she must just look at Mrs. Bartholomew's present.
Hurriedly she untied the box and pulled off the silver paper. And within the silver paper inside the box lay a dainty gold bracelet.
It was extremely pretty, and had cost a great deal, no doubt. It was very kind of Judy's mother to give it. Nevertheless round the bracelet crept a sort of cobweb of thoughts and feelings which were not all of pleasure. It was too late to examine into them now. Matilda wrapped up the trinket again and put it away, and went to bed; as happy as it seemed possible for her to be.
Sunday morning was high and bright, it must be confessed, when she awoke. Bells were ringing, the eight o' clock bells she thought they must be; but indeed they were the bells for Sunday school. Matilda did not guess that, and so was not in an immediate hurry to get out of bed and end the luxurious rest which the excitements and late hours of the day before had made so welcome and so long. She lay still, shut her eyes, and opened them upon the morning brightness, with a thrilling and bounding rapture of recollection that there was a little gold watch in her drawer which owned her for its mistress and would be her inseparable friend and