Trading. Warner Susan
to be glad about, and this work to do for Sarah!"
There was a profound silence for a minute or two. Judy was astonished out of speech. David, perhaps, disgusted. Norton was a little proud that Matilda had independence enough to dare to speak out, even if he chafed a little under the subject of her plain speaking. The elder ladies looked at one another with an odd expression in their eyes. When Mrs. Lloyd spoke she went back to the practical question.
"How much money do you expect it will take, to do what you want for these poor people, Matilda?"
"I don't know, ma'am, yet. My teacher will find out and tell me."
"Is it your teacher who has suggested the plan?"
"The plan? – O no, ma'am," said Matilda. "It is my plan. I have been talking him into it."
"Who is he?" Mrs. Lloyd asked.
"Mr. Wharncliffe."
"What Wharncliffe? Is he any connection of General Wharncliffe?"
"His brother," said Norton.
This seemed, Matilda did not know why, to give satisfaction to her elders. Mrs. Lloyd went on with an unbent face.
"How much money have you got, Matilda, to work with?"
"Not a great deal, ma'am; I have saved a little. It won't take such a very great deal to get all I want. It is only common things."
"Saved!" Judy burst out. "Saved! Now we have got at it. This is the secret. This is why we are such good temperance people and think it's wicked to buy liqueur glasses. O yes! we save our money that way, no doubt."
"Judy," said her brother, "I'm ashamed of you."
"No need," said Judy coolly. "Keep it for yourself, next occasion."
"What is all this?" said Mrs. Lloyd.
"Nothing that had better go any further," said Mrs. Laval. "Nothing of any consequence, mother."
"It is of no consequence," said Judy, "because David and Norton made it up."
"And Judy didn't," said Norton.
"Not I; it was your affair," said the young lady. "My connections are not given to saving."
"That is very true indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Bartholomew, bursting out into a laugh; "and you, Judy, least of all your 'connections.'"
"But what is all this?" repeated Mrs. Lloyd, seeing that the faces around her were moved by very various sorts of expression. It had to come out. Judy and Norton told the story between them, with some difficulty. Matilda felt very sorry, and very doubtful of the effect. David looked exceedingly dissatisfied. Mrs. Lloyd listened with unchanged gravity.
"There! you may call it what you like," Judy said in conclusion. "But I like to have things go by their right names."
"It wouldn't be always best for you," said her brother.
"Do you think it is wrong, my dear, to drink wine?" Mrs. Lloyd asked, addressing Matilda.
Matilda did not well know what to answer. She, a child, what business had she to 'think' anything about the right or the wrong of things done by people so much older and wiser than herself? And yet, that did not change the truth, and the truth was what she must answer.
"I have promised not to do it," she said, almost shrinkingly.
"That affects your own drinking or not drinking. Do you think it is wrong for other people?"
Again Matilda hesitated. She would have welcomed almost any interruption of Judy's; but this time Judy kept as still as a mouse. And so did everybody else. Matilda's colour came and went.
"If you please, ma'am," she said at last, "I don't want to say what you will think rude."
"I will not think it rude," said Mrs. Lloyd with a little laugh. "I want to know what notion such a child as you has got in her head. Do you think it is wrong?"
"Yes, ma'am," Matilda-answered softly.
"Hear her!" cried Judy. "She has got an idea that wine is money in another form, and heavy to drink."
Matilda thought that Judy had unwittingly put her very meaning into the words; but she did not say so.
"My dear," said Mrs. Lloyd, "I have drunk wine all my life. It has never hurt me."
Matilda was silent.
"Is that your notion, that it is unwholesome?"
"No, ma'am."
"What then?"
"People take too much of it," said Matilda; "and it ruins them; and if all good people would let it alone, wouldn't it help to make the rest let it alone?"
"Insufferable piggishness!" said Mrs. Bartholomew. "You must excuse me, Zara. I hope you will teach your adopted child better manners, arid get rid of a little of this superb folly."
"I am not so sure about the folly," said Mrs. Laval.
"I am sure about the manners," said Mrs. Lloyd. "She has said nothing but what I have made her say. Now, my dear, you have fulfilled your part of the bargain between us, and I will do my part."
The old lady produced a gold five dollar piece from her purse and put it in Matilda's hand. Then drawing the child kindly towards her, she added,
"And from this time you must call me grandmamma, will you? as the others do; and I will call you my grandchild."
She kissed the astonished Matilda, and the subject was dismissed. At least by the elders; the young people did not so easily let it drop. No sooner were they by themselves than Judy held forth in a long tirade, about "presumption" and "artfulness" and "underhand ways;" waxing warm as she went on; till Norton was provoked to answer, and the debate between them grew hot. Matilda said never a word, nor did David; she kept outwardly very quiet; but an hour after, if anybody could have seen her he would have seen a little figure cuddled down in a corner of her own room and weeping abundant tears. So ended the Christmas Sunday and the Christmas festival.
CHAPTER IV
There were too many pleasant things on hand for Judy's behaviour to have any very lasting effect on Matilda's spirits, besides that a good share of independence was one of her valuable characteristics. With the new light of Monday morning, her heart leapt up anew at thought of all the comfort preparing for Sarah and at her growing stock of means for the same. She got out her purse and counted her money. With the new gold piece there was a nice little sum; not enough indeed, but Matilda had hopes of David, and hopes floating and various, that somehow what was needful would be forthcoming when the time came.
The week was about half gone, when one afternoon David came to Matilda's door and knocked. Matilda had shut herself up to write a letter to Maria, and opened the door to David with a good deal of surprise and pleasure. The second time, this was. He came in and sat down.
"Where do you think I have been?" said he.
"To see Sarah?" said Matilda eagerly.
"You are quick," said David smiling. "No, I have not been to see Sarah exactly; but I have been to see where she lives and all about her."
"Did you see where she lives?"
"Yes."
"David, isn't it horrid?"
"It's disgusting!" said David.
"But she can't help it," said Matilda, again eagerly.
"No, she can't, but somebody ought to help it. There ought not to be any such horror possible in such a city as this."
"So I think. But who ought to help it, David? How could anybody help it?"
"There used to be a way among my people," said the boy proudly. "The corners of the cornfields, and the last of the grapes on the vines, and the dropped ears of corn, and the last beatings of the olives, were commanded to be left for the poor."
"But there are no vines nor cornfields nor olives here," said Matilda.
"Nothing so good," replied David. "I believe people grow wicked in cities."
"Then