"I suppose it's no use to ask you to come and see us," said Letty.

"I can't come often," Matilda answered, "because, you know, I cannot walk there; and I cannot have the carriage except now and then."

"How do you suppose we get along without a carriage?" said Letty.

"You are older. Oh Anne and Letty!" cried their little sister, "I don't know why I have so much and you have so little; but it isn't my fault."

Tears were in her eyes; but her sisters shewed no melting on their part. They answered, that n.o.body supposed it was her fault. The energy of Matilda's hugs and kisses seemed to impress them, at last.

"Tell me!" said Anne, holding her off to look at her,--"are you happy here? Do they treat you really as their own child? Would you like to come back to us? Because if you would--"

"O no, no, Anne! yes, they do. Yes, I am very happy. I don't want anything but what I have got."

"Well, then you are to be envied," said Anne, relapsing into her former tone; and the two went away. Matilda saw them out of the front door, and then went back to her room and stood at the window a long time, looking down the street by which they had gone. Why did they treat her so? Why was she such a trouble to them? They were much older than she, and her home sympathies had always been more particularly with Maria and her mother in the old days; yet the family had been affectionate and harmonious. The strange barrier which her prosperity had built up between her and them was quite inexplicable to Matilda. At the same time she was filled with sorrow for the contrast which she knew they felt between her circ.u.mstances and their own. She mused, how she could give them comfort or do them good in any way; but could not find it.

She was a weak little child. And the help she was giving to the poor street sweeper and her mother was more needed and better bestowed there than in any other direction. What would her small means avail towards the wants of Anne and Let.i.tia? But Matilda cried about it some sore tears, as she stood by her window in the growing dusk. Then she went back to the joy of what was coming to Sarah and her mother through her instrumentality.

That joy grew sweeter and sweeter every day. The sheets and pillowcases were finished. The furniture and the stove were moved in. The straw beds Mr. Wharncliffe's care had provided were in readiness. David and Matilda went again to look at the room; and cold and dull though it was with no fire in the stove, there was great promise of comfort.

"Now, David," said Matilda, after she had turned round and round, surveying every side and corner of the room again and again,--"_don't_ you think we might put a little comfort inside that cupboard?"

"Of what sort?" said David smiling.

"It's bare," said Matilda.

"Of everything."

"Yes. Well, of course it wouldn't do to put any eatable things here, till just the day they are coming. David!--a thought has just struck me."

"Go on," said David, smiling again. "The thoughts that strike you are generally very good thoughts."

"Perhaps you will laugh at me. But I will tell you what I was thinking.

Mr. Wharncliffe says we must not do too much at once; but I _should_ like, David, to have a nice little supper ready for them the day they move in. I don't suppose they have had one nice supper this winter."

"Broiled oysters and salad?" said David.

"No indeed; you know what sort of a supper I mean."

"What would you get? for instance?"

"Let me see," said Matilda, speaking slowly and considering the matter intently. "Some tea there should be, of course; and sugar. And milk.

Then, some bread and b.u.t.ter--and herring--and perhaps, a loaf of gingerbread."

"What made you think of herring?" said David, looking very much amused and curious.

"O, I know such people like them very much, and they cost almost nothing."

"If we are giving them a supper, I should say, give them something that costs a little more--something they could not get for themselves."

"O these people don't get even herring, David."

"What do you suppose they live upon?"

"Bread,--and--I really don't know, David! In the country, they would have cheese, and sometimes fish, I suppose; but these people are too poor even for that."

"That's being poorer than anybody ought to be," said David. "I go in for the supper. It's fun. I tell you what, Tilly,--I'll stand a beefsteak."

"O thank you, David! But--there are so many more that want it," said Matilda, looking sober and prudent in odd contrast with her years.

"We can't help them too," said David.

"Better keep the beefsteak, I guess," said Matilda. "O David, I know!

Potatoes!"

"What of potatoes?"

"Just what they want. _Sure_ to want them, you know; and exactly the thing. Let us have a good sack of potatoes."

David seemed to be so much amused that he could hardly keep to the practical soberness of the thing. However he agreed to the potatoes.

And he and Matilda, moved by one impulse, set off for a hardware store down in one of the avenues, not far to seek; and there spent a most delicious half hour. They chose some common cups and saucers and plates; a yellow pitcher, a sugar bowl and one or two dishes; half a dozen knives and forks and spoons. It was difficult to stop in their purchases, for the poor friends they were thinking of had nothing. So a tin tea-pot was added to the list.

"O David!" Matilda exclaimed again--"we ought to have some soap."

"I dare say," said David dryly. "But we do not get that here."

"No; but seeing that toilet soap put me in mind of it. We get that at the grocer's."

"It won't do for us to send in our grocer's stores just yet. When do your people come to take possession?"

"Next week, I think. O no; not till the very day, David. Now is there anything else we ought to get here?"

"I don't know!" said David. "I could think of a great many things; but as you say, we must not do too much."

"What did you think of?"

"Nearly everything you see here," said David. "It seems to me they must want everything. A coffee pot, for instance; and lamps, and cooking utensils, and brooms and brushes and tubs and coal scuttles."

"O David, stop! They can make coffee in the tea-pot."

"Bad for the coffee I should say!" David responded, shrugging his shoulders.

"And lamps? They cannot buy oil. I guess they go to bed when it grows dark."

"Do they! Great loss of time, for people who live by their labour."

"And a tea-kettle, and a frying pan, and a water pot, came with the stove, you know."

"What can they cook in a frying pan--besides fish?"

"O a great many things. But they can't _get_ the things, David; they don't want ways to cook them."