Trading. Warner Susan

– 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.