The Project Gutenberg EBook of Trading, by Susan Warner This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Trading Author: Susan Warner Release Date: October 1, 2009 [EBook #30149] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRADING *** Produced by Daniel Fromont. HTML version by Al Haines. [Transcriber's note: This is the fourth of a series of four novels by Susan Warner, all of which are in the Project Gutenberg collection: 1. What She Could 2. Opportunities 3. The House in Town 4. Trading] TRADING: FINISHING THE STORY OF "THE HOUSE IN TOWN," &c. BY THE AUTHOR OF "WIDE WIDE WORLD," "THE OLD HELMET," "WALKS FROM EDEN," &c., &c. "For the kingdom of heaven is as a man travelling into a far country, who called his own servants, and delivered unto them his goods." NEW YORK: ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, 530 BROADWAY. 1873. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. CAMBRIDGE: PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV TRADING. CHAPTER I. Christmas day was grey with clouds; on the roofs of the city and in the streets the sun never shone all day. People called it cold. Sarah Staples found it so on her crossing. Inside Mrs. Lloyd's front-door, however, it seemed to Matilda to be nothing but sunshine. She had not leisure to look at the grey sky, and to be sure the temperature was that of summer. Matilda had a great deal to do. Her various parcels were to be neatly tied up in white paper, with the names of the persons they were for nicely written thereon, and then committed to Mrs. Bartholomew for arranging on the Christmas tree. Then the presents for Anne and Letitia were to be directed and sent; Maria's basket packed and put in charge of the express-man; and several little letters written, one to Mr. Richmond. Till all these things were done, Matilda had no time to think of the weather; then she found that the snow was beginning to fall and coming thick. "Yes," said Norton, to whom she announced her discovery; "and it's stinging! and coming on to blow. It will be a night! I like it. That feels like Christmas." "Then there'll be no party?" said Matilda, rather more disappointed than she wanted to shew. "Party?" said Norton, "what about the party? It won't snow in here. Pink. What are you thinking of? The party'll be all the merrier. I tell you, it feels like Christmas." "But will they come, through all the storm?" "They'd come, if the hailstones were as big as eggs," said Norton. "You never saw one of grandmother's Christmas trees, Pink; and they never did anywhere else. No fear but they'll come, every one of them. You go along and get dressed." Matilda ran upstairs, glancing out of the hall window as she passed with a thrill of delight and mystery. The air was darkening already with the falling snow, and the wind swept it past the house in a white mass; by contrast the evening splendours seemed greater than ever. She dressed in a trembling excitement of pleasure, as far as her own part of the preparation went; then Mrs. Laval's maid came in to finish her toilette, and Mrs. Laval came to superintend it. Matilda had only to stand still and be curled and robed and sashed and slippered; till the work was done, the maid went, and Mrs. Laval took the child in her arms and asked if she was happy? "Very happy," Matilda said. "It does not take much to make you happy, love." "Why, mamma!" said Matilda looking down at her white ruffles and then at her adopted mother, "I have so much that I don't know what to do!" Mrs. Laval smiled and sighed, and kissed her again. "And yet Christmas night is only beginning," she said. But the wind and the hail dashed at the windows as if answering her that it had indeed begun outside. Mrs. Laval went away to her own dressing, and Matilda stood a moment at the window listening. It was long after dark now; but she could hear the whistle of the sleet as the wind bore it past, and the rush of ice and snow against the window-panes, and even through the close-fining sash she could feel a little gush of keen air. And for one moment Matilda's thoughts darted to Sarah, at her crossing and in her cellar home all that day and night. The contrast was as sharp as that little gush of icy air. Was it right? Matilda thought. Was it right, that her dainty white dress should be so pretty on her and the Christmas party so fine, when Sarah and others like her were in cold and wet and rags? It was too disagreeable to think about, as Matilda could not help it; and she went downstairs. How the house was lighted up! it was a second daylight, only more splendid. What delicious warm air filled every room, and every staircase, and every lobby! How handsome looked the marble floor of the hall, with its luxurious mats at every door! But as her foot touched the marble Matilda found something else to think of. Norton came out. He looked her up and down. "What's the matter, Norton?" said Matilda, a little wanting to know his opinion. "Nothing," said he nodding. "You'll do." "This will be a very funny dress for me to play proverbs in,—don't you think so? I don't look much like Judy's Satinalia." "Not much," said Norton. "You don't look much like Judy's anything. O Pink! do you know we are going to have a witch here to-night?" "A witch?" said Matilda. "A capital witch. It's a capital idea too, for it's a new thing; and it's so hard to get hold of something new. I expect this'll be the party of the season." "What do you mean?" said Matilda. "You'll see," said Norton. "Only don't be frightened. The witch won't hurt you." And here came Judy, and took a good silent stare at Matilda. The two girls were dressed alike. Norton watched them with a sly glance. Without any remark or salutation Judy passed them with a toss of her head, and went into one of the drawing-rooms. "She'll do," said Norton, with a competent nod of his head in Judy's direction. "That is, she'll do the insolent, whenever she has a mind to. She is a case, is Judy Bartholomew. Well, come, we must get out of the way, Pink. Somebody'll be here soon." So they strolled into the lighted drawing-rooms, where Judy and David were; and strolled about, consulting arrangements for the play, till the doors opened and other white dresses, and coloured sashes, and gallant white- trowsered young gentlemen began to pour in and claimed their attention. And ladies accompanied them, not a great many, but a few favoured mothers and aunts and elder sisters; and soon the drawing-rooms were all alive with motion and colour, and noisy with the hum of many voices. It was a wonderful scene to Matilda. She forgot that she had so little to do with it, and was so left out of it by the gay little throng. She did not at first think of that. To be sure she was a stranger; it was quite natural, as it seemed to her, that she should be left out. The pleasure was great enough, merely to look on. Everybody else was very busy talking and laughing and moving about the rooms,—all except herself. Matilda had never seen such a display of very young ladies and gentlemen; the variety of styles, the variety of dresses, the diversity of face and manner, were an extremely rich entertainment. She noticed airs and graces in some, which she thought sat very ill on them;—affectations of grown- up manner, tossings of curls, and flaunting of white gloves, and waving of fans, at which Matilda's simplicity was greatly astonished. Little gentlemen stood before little ladies, with hands behind their backs, and entertained them in conversation which appeared to be of the politest sort. And Judy's blue scarf flitted from end to end of the rooms, dipped to the floor as she courtesied to new comers, and fluttered with delight as she darted to speak to some favourite or other. The rooms grew very lively. The gas lights shone upon all the colours of the rainbow, moving and changing as if Mrs. Lloyd's house had been a kaleidoscope. David and Norton were not in the company. Suddenly Norton stood at Matilda's side. "What are you doing here, Pink?" "Nothing." Matilda looked and smiled at him. "Only looking at everything." "But you ought to be in it, Pink." "In what?" "Why! in the work; in the talk. What are you sitting in a corner here for?" "You know, Norton, I do not know anybody." "Hasn't Judy introduced you? Not to any one?" said Norton. "Left you here? Judy Bartholomew! if it wasn't Christmas night and an inconvenient time to make a row"— "Hush, hush, Norton. I am having a very good time," said Matilda, looking as she felt, like a very happy little girl. "Well," said Norton, "there are two odd people here to-night. One of 'em's Judy Bartholomew, and the other is— somebody you don't know. Come! come here. Esther Francis!—this is my sister, my new sister Matilda. Hasn't Judy introduced you?" Norton had caught by the arm, as she was passing, a girl of about Judy's age, whom he thus brought face to face with Matilda. She was sweet-faced and very handsomely dressed, and she had no sort of shyness about her. She took Matilda's hand and looked at her with a steady look. "Take care of her, will you?" Norton went on. "I have got to go and arrange things with Davie; and Judy has her head full. Tell Matilda who's who; she does not know the people yet." The two girls stood a minute or two silently together; Esther giving however a side glance now and then at her companion. "You have not been long in town?" she said then, by way of beginning. "Only three weeks." "Of course then you are quite a stranger. It is very disagreeable, isn't it, to be among a whole set of people that you don't know?" Esther said it with a little turn of her pretty head, that was—Matilda could not tell just what it was. It shewed the young lady very much at her ease in society, and it was not quite natural; that was all she could make out. Matilda answered, that she did not find anything disagreeable. Esther opened her eyes a little wider. "Do you know all about the arrangements to-night?" she whispered. "I suppose I do." "Will there be dancing?" "I have heard nothing about dancing," said Matilda. "I don't think there'll be much time for it. I don't see how there can be." "Are you very fond of dancing?" Esther asked, with her eyes at the further end of the next room. Matilda was conscious of feeling ashamed of her answer. Nevertheless she answered. "I do not know how to dance." "Not dance!" said Esther, with a new glance at her. "Did you never dance? O there's nothing I care for at parties but to dance. And there are just enough here to night; not a crowd. Aunt Zara will send you to dancing-school, I suppose. But it isn't so pleasant to begin to learn when you are so old." "Aunt Zara!" said Matilda. "Norton did not say you were his cousin." "Norton's head was too full," said Esther with another movement of her head that struck Matilda very much; it was quite like a grown-up young lady; and gave Matilda the notion that she thought a good deal of Norton. "Yes; we are cousins; that is why he told me to take care of you." Matilda was tempted to say that Norton would save her that trouble as soon as he was at leisure to take it upon himself; but she did not. Instead, she asked Esther how old she had been when she began to take dancing lessons? "I don't know; three and a half, I believe." The deficiency of Matilda's own education pressed upon her heavily. She was a little afraid to go on, for fear of laying bare some other want. "Yes," said Esther after another interval of being absorbed in what was going on in the next room;—"yes; of course, you know I began to learn to dance as soon as I began to wear—stays," she uttered in a whisper, and went on aloud. "The two things together. O yes; I was almost four years old." Here she broke off to speak to some one passing, and Matilda was lost in wonderment again. A little uneasy too; for though the young lady kept her post at the side of the charge Norton had given her, and evidently meant to keep it, Matilda thought she had an air of finding her office rather a bore. A young lady who had danced and worn stays from the time she was four years old, must necessarily know so much of life and the world that a little ignoramus of a country girl would be a bore. "What are they going to do then to-night, if we are not to dance?" resumed Esther when her friend had passed on. "Just have the Christmas tree and nothing else?" Nothing else but a Christmas tree! Here was an experience! "Norton and David are going to make a play," said Matilda; "acting a proverb." "Oh!" said Esther. "A proverb! David is a good player, and Norton too; excellent; that will be very good. I thought I heard something about a witch; what is that?" "What is what?" said Judy, who found herself near. "About the witch?" said Esther. "It'—mystery." "Then is there to be a witch?" "Certainly." "Who will it be?" "Part of the mystery," said Judy. "Upon my word I don't know. I couldn't find out. And I tried, too." "What is she going to do?" "That's the rest of the mystery. Without being a witch myself, how am I going to tell?" "I have heard sometimes that you were," said Esther. "Ah! But there are witches and witches," said Judy; "black and white, you know, and good and bad. I'm a black witch, when I'm any. It's not my business to get people out of trouble." "I shall never ask you," said Esther shaking her head. "But where is the witch to be? and when will she appear?" "She won't appear. She will be in her den. All who want to see her will go to her den. So much I can tell you." And Judy ran off before another question could be asked. The elder ladies came in now, and there was a fresh stir. Mrs. Laval introduced Matilda to several boys and girls in the company before many minutes had gone; but there was time for little else beside an introduction, for the boys were ready to play; and all the guests were assembled in one room to leave the other free for their operations and give a good view of them. In that room the lights were lowered too, to make the scene of the play more brilliant by comparison. The play was a great success. Matilda laughed for very delight, as well as at the fun of the thing. David, who personated the poor man who had come to sell a piece of ground, talked so admirably like a countryman, and was so oddly crochety and cross and gruff and impossible to make terms with; and then Norton, who was the rich man he had come to see and who wanted the land, coaxed him so skilfully, and ordered all sorts of good things to be brought to him, when he found he had come a good way and was hungry; and the imaginary banquet was very funny, David making inquiries and comments over the dishes he did not know and Norton supplying him with others, till he was satisfied. Then, in soothed good humour, David was easy to deal with, and let his land go a bargain. The acting was really extremely good; both the boys being clever and without any sort of embarrassment or any even shy affectation. The proverb which Matilda and Judy were to have played was given up for want of time. The boys' proverb was guessed by one of the elder ladies—"It is ill talking between a full man and a fasting." Matilda was very glad, for her part, that she and Judy were let off. A hush of expectancy fell now upon the little company. It was time for the tree to be displayed. Even talking hushed, while all eyes were upon the folding doors leading to the last drawing-room to be thrown open. Matilda was at the back of the crowd, but even there she could see the blaze of light beyond as soon as this was done; and the whole company pressed forward and peeped in. Such a beautiful sight then, her eyes had never beheld. The tree was a generous, large, tall young fir, set in a huge green tub; but whereas in the wood where it grew it had green branches, with fringy, stiff, prickly leaves, now its branches were of every colour and as it were fringed with light. From the lowest bough to the topmost shoot it was a cone of brilliancy and a pyramid of riches. Lights glittered from every twig, and among the lights, below them and above them, near the stem and out at the tips of the bending boughs and covering the moss which covered the tub, were trinkets or toys or articles of wear or packages done up in white or coloured paper and made gay with coloured ribbands. So bountiful a tree, so elegant a tree, one so rich in its resources of pleasure, perhaps no eyes there had ever seen; for when Mrs. Lloyd did anything she was accustomed to do it thoroughly; and she had on this occasion two backers. One burst of admiration from the whole little crowd was followed by accents of delight and murmurs of expectation. The tree stood in the middle of the large drawing-room, and the bright crowd which formed round it was surely a pretty sight. A sight for the elders alone; no child had eyes for anything but the tree. Eager eyes; glad eyes; sparkling and glowing with delight and expectation; a little, soft, rustling, hustling crowd, swaying gently, agitated, moved here and there, to and fro, but all fastened to that brilliant centre of a Christmas tree, as much as ever the planets to their centre. At the very back of the crowd, as she was, Matilda stepped on an ottoman to see better; and for her even expectation was almost lost in bewildered fascination. In truth the Christmas tree was a beautiful spectacle. The fairy-like beauty was what Matilda thought of at first; then she began gradually to notice how its branches were laden with other things besides lights, and how the little company was all on tiptoe with eagerness. With a certain faint flutter at her own heart, Matilda stood on her perch and watched. Presently a tall young fellow, one of the oldest among the boys, took his stand by the tree with a long gilt rod in his hand. The crowd fell back a bit, and hushed its murmur and rustle. No danger of anybody seeing Matilda; not an eye turned her way. The lad with the gilt rod, who also was decorated with a favour of red and white ribbands, now lifted down from the tree one of its many packages, looked close at it, and called aloud the name written thereon. A name Matilda did not know. The crowd stirred in out place and a little figure came forward and took the package. Matilda wanted to know what it was, very much; but the little girl herself made no haste to discover. A slight private examination she gave, and with a smile and a blush clasped her little hand upon the package and looked to see what would be next. The play went on after this fashion; the presiding gilt rod was quick in its operations, as indeed it had need to be; names were called out in rapid succession; and presently the whole circle was astir, with coming and going, explanations and questions and whispers of delight, now and then a spring or a dance of exultation; and still the gilt rod went on hooking down things from the tree and signalling the owners to come and take possession. "Mrs. Laval!—from Matilda. I suppose Mrs. Laval knows who Matilda is?"—said the master of ceremonies. A new thrill went all through the distant possessor of that name. "That's my obelisk!" she thought. "I wonder if she will like it? Yes, she knows Matilda, a little." "Norton Laval!—from his sister. I didn't know that Norton had a sister." "The things you don't know are always more than the things you do know, Edward Foster," said Norton coming forward to receive his watch-guard. "'You' meaning—whom?" said gilt rod, hooking down another ribband-looped parcel. "By virtue of my office I know so many things just now, that I grow conceited, and am surprised to find myself ignorant any where. Matilda Laval!—from her mother." With a great leap of her heart, Matilda jumped down from her ottoman and made her way as she could through the throng. The tall boy with the gilt rod presented to her a small square packet, sealed and tied. Matilda's fingers clasped upon it as she stepped back; and then for the first time that evening she found Judy at her side. Perhaps Judy would have spoken, if the next call had not been, "Matilda Laval!—from Mrs. Bartholomew." Flushing and trembling, Matilda stepped forward again and received a second little packet, much like the former. Then Judy herself was called; everybody by this time was getting his hands full; and still the Christmas tree blazed on as brightly as ever. Presently Matilda got a third present; this was from David; much larger. She was very much astonished; for without opening she could guess that it was something valuable; it was hard and square and heavy. Of all there, not a child was in such private ecstasies as she. Her flushed cheeks told it; otherwise she was quite undemonstrative. Though I say wrong; for eyes and lips were abundantly expressive of tremulous joy. "Is that my present?" said Judy, by her side again. "No, it is David's. Do you know what it is?" "No," Matilda whispered. "I don't either. Why don't you look?" "I will look by and by." "Nonsense!" said Judy; but Matilda was called off again to take what Judy had prepared for her. "That isn't much," said that young lady, when Matilda fell back to her former place; "it's only bonbons. What has aunt Zara given you?" "I don't know yet, Judy." "O look. And mamma. Mamma wouldn't tell me. Those are their gifts in your hand there, aren't they? Look, and see. I can guess," said Judy peering round Matilda to see the packets. "No, you can't," said Norton at the other side. He was fastening his guard-chain in its place. "You don't know, and she don't know. I like people who can keep cool, and not dash their heads under water the first thing." "Stuff!" said Judy. "I want her to get her head above water; she don't see anything now, nor know anything." "Her head's all right," said Norton composedly. "Knowledge'll come in time. I guess there's a good deal of it to come, too." "What has David got, Norton?" "Loads of books," said Norton. "And a rifle." "A rifle!" screamed Judy. "And a dressing-case. And a dressing-gown. And a riding-whip. And a watch-chain." "And what have you got, Norton?" Matilda asked. "Just what I wanted," said Norton, with a smile of confidence and secret good fellowship which was most pleasant to Matilda; it made her feel not quite so much alone in that crowd. "You shall see," he went on. "Hallo! you're called. Give me some of your traps to hold for you, Pink; you have not got a hand to take anything more." So Matilda gave him her bonbons and box, if it were a box, to hold, while she went for ward again. This present was from Norton, and of itself filled her arms. Wrapped up in papers as it was, she could not know more of it than that. She came back to Norton with high-coloured cheeks and eyes very bright indeed. "What's that?" said Judy. "What has Norton given you? it's big enough. Pshaw! I know; it's a desk." "A desk!" exclaimed Matilda in tones of delight. "Keep your own counsel, Judy," said Norton coolly. "You have no idea of keeping other people's." "Norton," said Esther coming up to them, "who is the witch?" "Can't tell, even if I know," said Norton. "I keep other people's counsel." "But where are we to see her?" "In her den, of course." "Where's that?" "You will know when the time comes." "Then she won't come in here among us all?" "I reckon not," said Norton. "She'll see only one at a time, I hear." "What for?" said Esther. "Ah, what for!" echoed Norton. "I don't know, I can tell you. And what's more, I don't know yet whose notion it is. Now, Pink, I propose we go upstairs and put these things away. Supper will be in a few minutes, and then what will you do with your hands full? Come!" And away he and Matilda went, slipping out of the room as quietly as they could, and then running upstairs, till they found a quiet corner and breathing place in Matilda's room. "Now, Pink, don't you want to look?" said Norton turning up the gas. He had his own curiosity too, it seems. But he did not interfere with her; he looked on, smiling and superior, while Matilda's trembling fingers pulled off the papers, from his package-first. Judy had spoken truly; it was an elegant little desk, all fitted and filled. Matilda's heart, Norton could see, was quite full with that. "Come!" said he gayly, "let us see David's choice. I don't know what it is, David don't tell all his mind." And he stopped, for Matilda uttered a little scream of pleasure. David's choice had been a work-box. It was of pretty fancy wood, charmingly lined and fitted up. "Pretty well for David!" said Norton "He thinks you know what to do with a work box, and reason too. Good for him. But now, Pink, guess what this is!" And Norton possessed himself of the little parcel which bore his mother's handwriting and held it up before Matilda. "I can't guess." "Try. What would you like, Pink? What would you like better than anything else? Think." "Oh Norton!" said Matilda with changing colour, "I don't know; I am afraid to guess. It's something small; could it be a locket with her hair?" Norton with a delighted face put his hand with the parcel close to Matilda's ear, with the other hand forbidding her to touch it. "Listen!" he said. Matilda listened, and absolutely grew pale with intensity of excitement. "I hear something, Norton!" she said seizing the package. "Ah, you do!" said Norton. "Now you know? Yes, just look at it. Isn't it a beauty? I was with mamma when she got it. There's no mistake in that, Pink; it's a splendid watch, Bars and Bullion said;—I mean, the man at Bars and Bullion's, and I believe it was Bullion himself. Do you like it? Now Pink, we must not stay a minute longer; supper will be on hand, and you want some, don't you. Come! Put these away, and come." Matilda could do it, even without looking at her bonbons or Mrs. Bartholomew's present, and with only a glance at her watch. She locked up her treasures and went down with Norton; a happy child, if there was one in the city that night. CHAPTER II. Supper was just served when they got downstairs. It was another variety of this wonderful evening. The dining- room long table was so beautiful with lights, fruits, greens, and confections, with setting of plate and glass, that to Matilda it was almost as much of a sight as the Christmas tree had been. But the others were accustomed to this sort of thing, and fell to tasting, with very little rapture about the seeing. What a buzz the room was in, to be sure! Tongues were fairly unloosed over oysters and sandwiches; and all the glory of the Christmas tree was to talk about, with comparisons of presents, plans, and prospects. Matilda looked on, half bewildered, but so very happy that it hardly occurred to her to remember that she might like something to eat too. Everybody was attending upon the wants of the guests, though certainly Matilda did notice that Judy had a plateful of something, and was eating as busily as she was talking. Doing neither, for she knew nobody to talk to, Matilda waited, and thought of her watch, in a trance of rapture. "Why, my dear, is nobody attending to you?" she heard the voice of Mrs. Lloyd say at last. "Have you had nothing all this while?" "No, ma'am—they are all so busy." But David came up at the minute, and Matilda had no longer anything to complain of. He served her very kindly, and Matilda found that she was very hungry. She got a chance, however, to thank David for her work-box. "I am sure you deserve it," he said. "What did Judy give you?" He looked very little pleased, Matilda thought, when she told him. But he only helped her carefully to everything she would have, and said no more about it. A third wonder to Matilda that evening was the style and amount of eating that went on. The ices were in beautiful fruit forms; and she thought when she had demolished one of them she had done enough, especially as caramel, and candied fruits, and other confections were awaiting her attention. But the circulation of these little ices went on at a rate that proved Matilda's moderation to be shared by few, and she heard one little lady say to another, herself with a plateful, "Is that your third or your fourth?" Slowly munching candied grapes, Matilda looked on and marvelled. Presently Norton came to see if she wanted anything, and then Esther joined them, and the talk was of the witch again. "We are going to see her now," said Norton. "Just as soon as we have done with the table." "What's it all for?" inquired Esther. "I don't know," said Norton, shaking his head. "Some crotchet of somebody's. I don't know anything about it. Only everybody is invited to go and see the witch; and the witch's den is in the little reception room on the other side of the hall; and we must go in one by one; and we must answer every question we are asked, or we shall get no good of our interview. So much I am informed of." "What good shall we get if we do answer all the questions?" Esther asked. "If I was a wizard, maybe I could tell you, Esther. You should ask David. There used to be witches and wizards, too, among his people." "They were forbidden," said David gravely. "But they were there, all the same," said Norton. "Not all the same," said David; "for it was death by the law; and no good ever came of them, and nobody good ever went to them." "O David," said Matilda timidly, but the occasion was too tempting to be lost,—"do you know what they did? Did they only play tricks? or was there anything real about it?" Perhaps David took a different view of the occasion; for after one earnest look into Matilda's face, as if he would answer her, he turned it off with lightly saying that the witches were real, for Saul had them all put to death that he could find; and then saying that he would go and look after this particular witch. And presently he came back and proclaimed that she was ready to receive visitors. "Who are to go, Davie? Who are to go to see her?" were the inquiries huddled one upon another. "Everybody," said David. "One at a time." "What are we to do? What are we to say?" "Answer questions." "The witch's questions?" "Certainly." "Why must we answer her questions? and what will she ask us about?" "Really you must judge for yourselves, about the one thing; and find out for yourselves, about the other. I cannot tell you." "Will you answer her questions?" "Perhaps." "O come along!" was the cry then; "you can't get anything out of him. Who will go first?" Caramel and ices had done their utmost, and now the witch became the absorbing interest. And as those who came back from the witch s den, it was found, would tell nothing of what had transpired there, the interest was kept up at white heat. First one went, and then another. Of course the young people of the household were the last. The witch's den, when Norton entered it, was a place he did not recognize; though in reality it was manufactured out of the little corner reception room. Dark drapery enclosed and mystified the space into which he was admitted; the light came from he could not see where, and was dim enough too; and the witch was not to be seen. Nor, distinctly, anything else. Norton took his stand as he had been directed in front of a dark curtain and waited. The first question demanded his name, and when that had been answered the voice went on,— "What do you want of the witch?" "That depends on what she can do," said Norton. "Power unlimited." "Then I wish she would cast a spell upon Mrs. Lloyd." "To what effect?" "That she would let me have the little corner attic room for a greenhouse." "How would you warm it?" "It wouldn't want much more warming than it has now. A gas stove would do, I think." "You may go. You shall hear from me in the course of the week." Norton went out in high glee. "She's a brick, that witch!" he exclaimed. "Go along, Judy—and make haste; people are taking leave now. I don't know whose the voice is, though," he went on; "I couldn't make it out. I guess"—But Norton stopped; and Judy went in. "Are you in want of anything, Judy Bartholomew?" the unseen witch asked. "I haven't got all I want," said Judy; "if you mean that." "State what is needed." "There are a great many things," said Judy unblushingly; "but the two things I wish for most particularly are—to give a ball, for one; and to have a diamond ring, for the other." "Short of these two things, all your wishes are satisfied then?" "No," said Judy hesitatingly,—"I didn't say that. I want lots of things besides; but those two most." "You may go. The witch always wants time. Have you any debts to pay? of money? of any other sort?" "No indeed," said Judy decidedly. "Is there anybody to whom you would like to do a kindness?" "Not that I know of." "You may go. Your wants shall be considered." Judy came out triumphant. She would have had her brother go next, but he insisted that Matilda should precede him. So Matilda went into the darkened, mysterious boudoir of the receptions. "Who 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 servant—and adornment—thenceforward. Matilda lay still for very happiness. Turning her head a little towards the window the next time she opened her eyes, it seemed to her that she saw a picture standing there against the wall. Matilda shut her eyes and told herself that she was not dreaming and had no business to see visions in broad daylight. "I have been thinking so much about that picture I suppose, and talking about it to the witch, that is the reason I thought I saw it. But what did I see, that looked like a picture?" She opened her eyes now and raised herself on her elbow to look, for this was curious. More curious still! there, against the wall, in plain view, in the broad light, stood the beautiful engraving that had so captivated her. "It's there!" was Matilda's thought. "The very thing! But what is it there for?" A half-formed suspicion made her jump out of bed very spryly and run to the picture. There was a little ticket stuck in between the glass and the frame. "For Matilda Laval—with Mrs. Lloyd's thanks and approbation." Matilda looked, rushed back into bed, and arranged herself so that she could comfortably see the picture, while she thought about it. "Mrs. Lloyd's thanks"—thanks for what? She must know, she must know, about the shawl. Yes, she must; I guess mamma told her. And it is mine! it is mine! There she is, that beautiful thing, the woman hunting for her lost money; the odd little lamp, and all. It is mine to keep. Certainly I ought not to wish for another thing for a whole year to come; I have got so much. This and my watch. O delightful!—I ought to be good! How lovely the light from that little old lamp is. And that is the way Jesus looks for us—for people who are lost; lost in the dark. So he looked for me, and found me. And there are such a great many more lost, that are not found yet. Lost in the dark!—And if He cares for them so, he must wish his servants to care too, and to look for them, and save all they can. Then that woman with her pretty lamp just shews me what I ought to do and how I ought to feel.— Musing on in this way, very happy, leaning on her elbow to look at the picture, too warm in the soft air of her room to be disturbed by the necessity of getting dressed, Matilda noticed at last that the bells had stopped ringing. It was eight o' clock past, she thought, and time to get up; but she would look at her watch to see how eight o' clock looked on its pretty white face. Lo, it was nine! Sunday schools already beginning their services, while she stood there in her night-gown; dressing and breakfast yet to be gone through. But the afternoon was the time for school in the place where Matilda went; so all was not lost. And so ended the doings of that Christmas night. CHAPTER III. The experience of the morning certainly was rather scattering in its tendency, as far as any sober thought or work was concerned. The young people were brimful of life and fun and excitement; and it was not possible for Matilda to escape the infection. Nevertheless after lunch she had firmness enough left to put on her coat and hat and trudge off to Sunday school by herself. Norton said he had not "slept out," and would not go. Matilda went, with her little watch safe in her breast. Getting out into the cold air and setting her feet upon the snowy streets, had somewhat the effect of breaking a spell. For a while, that seemed now a very long while, Matilda had been in a whirl of expectation and pleasure and in a kind of dream of enchantment; nothing but soft luxury and visions of delight and one thing after another to make the child think she had got into very fairyland. But the streets outside were not fairyland; and the sharp air pinched her cheek with a grip which was not tender or flattering at all. The sense began to come back to Matilda that everybody was not having such rose-coloured dreams as she, nor living in summer-heated rooms. Nay, she saw children that were ill dressed, on their way like her; some who were insufficiently dressed; a multitude who were not nicely dressed; the contrast was very unpleasant, and a certain feeling of uneasiness and of responsibility and of desire to make other people comfortable crept over her anew. Then she remembered that she could not reach many, she could not do much; and she came into school and took her seat at last with a concentrated desire to do at least something effectual towards rescuing Sarah Staples from her miserable circumstances. After the lesson was done and the scholars were dismissed, Matilda asked Mr. Wharncliffe if she could speak to him? "Is it a minute's work? or several minutes?" he inquired. "I don't know, sir; I think, several minutes." "Then wait a minute, and we will walk home together." Matilda liked that, and presently in the clear late light of the waning winter afternoon, she and her teacher sallied forth into the street hand in hand. "Now what is it?" he asked. "About Sarah, Mr. Wharncliffe." "Well? What about her?" "I have been thinking a great deal, Mr. Wharncliffe, how to manage it; because I had not a great deal of money myself, and I did not know whether I could get help or no; but now I think I shall have some help; and I wanted to consult you to know what I had best do." "What do you want to do?" "First, I want to get her out of that dreadful place into a comfortable room somewhere." "Suppose you do it, how is she going to stay in it?" "What do you mean, sir?" "The rent of such a room as you speak of would be, say seventy-five cents or a dollar a week. How are Sarah and her mother to pay that?" "O I should have to pay it for them. I could do that, I think." "For how long?" Matilda looked at her teacher and did not immediately answer. She had not looked ahead so far as that. "It is necessary to take all things into consideration," he said, answering her look. "You would not wish to put Sarah and her mother into a place of comfort for a little while, merely to let them fall out of it again?" "O no, sir!" "How are they to be maintained in it?" Matilda pondered. "I could take care of the rent, I think, I mean we could, for a while; for a year, perhaps; by that time couldn't they pay it, don't you think?" "How?" "By their work; by their earnings." "But now, and for a long time past, their work has not enabled them to pay for anything better than they have got." "Couldn't they do something better, Mr. Wharncliffe? something else? that would give them more money?" "What work could you help them to, that would pay better?" "I don't know, sir," said Matilda, looking up wistfully in her teacher's face. "I don't know anything about such things. Can you tell me? What work is there that they could get. What the other poor people do?" "There are other things," said Mr. Wharncliffe thoughtfully. "There are better and better paying sorts of sewing; what Mrs. Staples does is very coarse, and she gets very little for it. But machine work now-a-days puts hand work at a disadvantage." "What is machine work, sir?" "Work done on a sewing machine. With a machine a woman can do I suppose, ten times as much in a day, and with more ease to herself." "Well, wouldn't Mrs. Staples work on a machine?" "I do not know. I think she used to take in washing once. She could do that again, if she had a better room and conveniences." "And does that pay better?" "I believe so. Indeed I am sure." "Then she might do washing," said Matilda; "and Sarah might sew on a machine, Mr. Wharncliffe." "She has not got one, you know." "If we could get her one? Wouldn't that be nice, Mr. Wharncliffe?" "My dear child, a good sewing machine costs a good deal of money." "But if we could, Mr. Wharncliffe? I said if." "Nothing could be better. Perhaps, by and by, it might be managed. In the mean time, Sarah might learn, and possibly get work; or get a machine and pay for it gradually by doing work for the makers. Such arrangements are made." "How much does a sewing machine cost?" "From forty five to sixty dollars." "Forty five," repeated Matilda gravely. "But, Mr. Wharncliffe, in the first place the thing to do is to get them out of that place into a new room. Might we not do that? and don't you think the rest can be managed, somehow?" "If we do that, the rest must be managed, if possible. It is always greater kindness and a far greater benefit, Matilda, to help poor people to take care of themselves, than to save them that care." "Why, sir?" "People are better and happier and stronger, working for their living and earning it, and keeping the sense of independence, than they are when living on the money of other people and losing their own self-respect. That is very ruinous to character. Avoid it always, in all your efforts to help people." "Yes, I see," said Matilda thoughtfully. "But, Mr. Wharncliffe, Sarah and her mother cannot do anything to get in a better way while they live in that cellar. They want some help just at first. Don't they?" "Certainly; and I think we have struck the right line of action to pursue for them. Help to put them in the way of being comfortably independent, is just what they want." "Then the first thing is a lodging," said Matilda, with a relieve...