What She Could. Warner Susan
does 'rising up' mean, Maria? What do you rise for?"
"Why, it means just that you promise to be good, you know."
"But I have heard you promise that a number of times, it seems to me; without 'rising up,' as you call it. Will the promise not better, if you make it on your feet instead of sitting?"
"Now, mamma," said Maria, flushing, "isn't that just wicked in Letitia?"
"My dear, I do not understand one word at present of what this is all about," her mother answered.
Perhaps Matilda was in the same mood, for she was a thoughtful little child all the way to school that morning. And at the close of the school day, when the children were going home, she went slowly and demurely along the icy street, while her sister and companions made a merry time. There had been a little thaw in the middle of the day, and now it had turned cold again, and the sidewalks were a glare of ice. Matilda was afraid, and went cautiously; Maria and the others took the opportunity for a grand slide, and ran and slipped and slid and sailed away homewards, like mad things. One after another, they passed her and rushed along, till Matilda was left the last, slowly shuffling her little feet over the track the feet of the others had made doubly slippery; when quick steps came up behind her, and a pleasant voice spoke —
"Are you afraid you are going to tumble down?"
Matilda started, but lifted her eyes very contentedly then to the face of the speaker. They had a good way to go, for he was a tall young man. But he was looking down towards her with a bright face, and two good, clear blue eyes, and a smile; and his hand presently clasped hers. Matilda had no objection.
"Where is everybody else? how come you to be all alone?"
"They have gone ahead, sliding on the ice."
"And you do not practise sliding?"
"I am always afraid I shall fall down."
"The best way is not to be afraid; and then you don't fall down. See; no! hold fast. I shall not let you slip!"
And the gentleman and Matilda slid along the street for half a block.
"How do you like that?"
"Very well, Mr. Richmond, with you holding me."
"It doesn't give you courage, eh? Well, we will walk on soberly together. I didn't see you stand when Maria did last night?"
"Mr. Richmond, I did not know just what it all meant; and so I sat still."
"You did not know just what it all meant?"
"No, sir."
"Then you were perfectly right to sit still. But that means that I did not speak so that you could understand me? Was it so?"
"I did not understand – " said Matilda.
"It comes to that, I suppose. It is my fault. Well, I shall remember and be very careful what I say the next time. I will speak so that you will understand. But in that case, I want you to do one thing for me, Tilly; will you?"
"If I can, Mr. Richmond."
"Do you think I would ask something you could not do?"
Matilda looked up to the blue eyes again; they were fastened upon her gravely, and she hesitated.
"Mr. Richmond – I don't know. You might."
"I hope not," he said, smiling. "I will try not. You won't promise me?"
"If I can I will, Mr. Richmond."
"I am only going to ask you, when you hear what I have to say next time, if you understand it, will you do what you think you ought to do?"
There fell a silence upon that. Mr. Richmond's firm step on the icy ground and Matilda's light footfall passed by house after house, and still the little one's tongue seemed to be tied. They turned the corner, and went their way along Matilda's own street, where the light of afternoon was now fading, and the western sky was throwing a reflection of its own. Past the butcher's shop, and the post-office, and house after house; and still Matilda was silent, and her conductor did not speak, until they stopped before the little gate leading to the house, which was placed somewhat back from the road. At the gate Mr. Richmond stood still.
"What about my question, Matilda?" he said, without loosing his hold of the little hand which had rested so willingly in his all the way.
"Aren't you coming in, Mr. Richmond?"
"Not to-night. What about my question?"
"Mr. Richmond," said the child, slowly, – "I do not always do the things I ought to do."
"No; I know you do not. But will you do that thing, which you will think you ought to do, when you have heard me, and understood what I say, the next time the Band has a meeting?"
Matilda stood silent, her hand still in Mr. Richmond's.
"What's the matter?"
"Perhaps I shall not want to do it," she said, looking up frankly.
"I ask you to do it all the same."
Matilda did not move, and now her face showed great perplexity.
"Well?" said Mr. Richmond, smiling at last.
"Perhaps I cannot do it, Mr. Richmond?"
"Then, if you think you cannot do it, will you come and tell me?"
Matilda hesitated and pondered and hesitated.
"Do you wish it very much, Mr. Richmond?" she said, looking up appealingly into his face.
"I do wish it very much."
"Then I will!" said Matilda, with a sigh.
He nodded, shook her hand, and turned away with quick steps. Matilda went in and climbed the stairs to the room she and Maria shared together.
"What were you talking to Mr. Richmond so long about?" said Maria.
"I wasn't talking to Mr. Richmond. He was talking to me."
"What's the difference? But I wish he would talk to Ailie Swan; she wants it, I know. That girl is too much!"
"What has she done?"
"Oh, you don't know; she isn't in your set. I know. She's just disagreeable. I think people ought to be civil, if they are ever so good."
"I thought good people were civil always."
"Shows you don't know much."
"Isn't Ailie Swan civil?"
"I do not call it civility. What do you think, Tilly? I asked her if my South America wasn't good? and she said she thought it was not. Isn't that civility?"
"What did you ask her for?"
"Because! I knew my South America was good."
"Let me see it."
"Nonsense! You do not know the first thing about it." But she gave her little sister the sheet on which the map was drawn. Matilda took it to a table under the window, where the dying light from the western sky fell brightest; and putting both elbows on the table and her head in her hands, studied the map.
"Where is the atlas?"
"What do you want of the atlas?"
"I want to see if it is like."
"It is like, of course, child."
"I can't tell without seeing," Matilda persisted. And Maria grumblingly brought the atlas, open at the map in question. Matilda took it and studied anew.
"It is getting dark," said she at length. "But your South America is crooked, Maria."
"It isn't!" said Maria, vehemently. "How should it be crooked, when we angle it on, just according to the rules?"
"Angle it on?" repeated Matilda, looking at her sister.
"Yes. Oh, you don't understand, child; how should you? I told you you didn't know anything about it. Of course, we have rules and things to go by; and my South America was put on just right."
"It is not straight,