Matilda was silent still, utterly dismayed.

"Why don't you speak? What made her do that, anyhow?"

"I don't know," said Matilda in a trembling voice. "She had a little daughter once, and she took me"--Matilda's eyes were glittering. She nearly broke down, but would not, and in the resistance she made to the temptation, her head took its peculiar airy turn upon her neck. Maria ought to have known her well enough to understand it.

"Everything comes to you!" she exclaimed. "I wonder why nothing comes to me! There are you, set up now, you think, above all your relations; you will not want to look at us by and by; I dare say you feel so now.

And you are dressed, and have dresses made for you, and you ride in a carriage, and you have everything you want; and I here make dresses for other people, and live anyhow I can; sew and sew, from morning till night, and begin again as soon as morning comes; and never a bit of pleasure or rest or hope of it; and can't dress myself decently, except by the hardest! I don't know what I have done to deserve it!" said Maria furiously. "It has always been so. Mamma loved you best, and aunt Candy treated you best,--she didn't love anybody;--and now strangers have taken you up; and n.o.body cares for me at all."

Here Maria completed her part of the harmony by bursting into tears.

And being tears of extreme mortification and envy, they were hard to stop. The fountain was large. Matilda sat still, with her eyes glittering, and her head in the position that with her was apt to mean disapproval, and meant it now. But what could she say.

"It's very hard!"--Maria sobbed at last. "It's very hard!"

"Maria," said her little sister, "does it make it any harder for you, because I am taken such good care of?"

"Yes!" said Maria. "Why should good care be taken of you any more than of me? Of course it makes it harder."

There was nothing that it seemed wise to say; and Matilda, sometimes a wise little child in her way, waited in silence, though very much grieved. She began to think it was hard for Maria, though the whole thing had got into a puzzle with her. And she thought it was a little bit hard for herself, that she should have taken such pains to prepare a present for her sister, and meet such a reception when she came to offer it.

"Just look what a place I live in!" sobbed Maria. "Not a nice thing about it. And here I sit and sew and sew, to make other people's things, from morning till night; and longer. I had to sit up till ten o'clock last night, puckering on that ribband; and I shall have to do it again to-night; till twelve, very likely; because I have spent time talking to you. All that somebody else may be dressed and have a good time."

"But Maria, what would you do if you _hadn't_ this to do?" suggested Matilda.

"I don't know, and I don't care! I'd as lieve die as do this. I should like to put those pieces of blue ribband in the stove, and never see them again!"

"Isn't it pleasant work, Maria? I think it is pretty nice work. It isn't hard."

"Isn't it!" said Maria. "How would you like to try it? How would _you_ like to exchange your room at Mrs. Laval's for this one? Haven't you got a nice room there?"

Matilda answered yes.

"How would you like to exchange it for this one, and to sit here making somebody's dress for a party, instead of riding about on the cars and going where you like and seeing everything and doing what you've a mind to? Nice exchange, wouldn't it be? Don't you think you'd like to try it? And I would come and see you and tell you how pleasant it is."

Matilda had nothing to say. Her eye glanced round again at the items of Maria's surroundings: the worn ingrain carpet; the rusty, dusty little stove; the patch-work counterpane, which the bright silk made to look so very coa.r.s.e; and she could not but confess to herself that it would be a sore change to leave her pleasant home and easy life and come here. But what then?

"Maria, it isn't my fault," she said at last. "It is not my doing at all. And I think this is a _great_ deal better than living with aunt Candy; and I would a great deal rather do it."

"I wouldn't," said Maria.

Matilda sat still and waited; her gayety pretty well taken down. She was very sorry for her sister, though she could not approve her views of things. Neither did she know well what to say to them. So she kept silence; until Maria stopped sobbing, dried her eyes, washed her hands, and began to quill her blue tr.i.m.m.i.n.g again.

"What did you come to Poughkeepsie for, to-day?"

"To see you; nothing else."

"I think it is time. You haven't been here for weeks, and months, for aught I know."

"Because I wrote you why, Maria. There was sickness at Briery Bank, and Norton and I were at the parsonage ever so long. I couldn't come to see you then."

"What have you got in that basket? your dinner?"

"O no; something that I wanted to shew to you. I wanted to bring you something, Maria; and I did not know what you would like; and I thought about it and thought about it all yesterday, and I didn't know. I wanted to bring you something pretty; but I remembered when I was here before you said you wanted gloves and handkerchiefs so much; and so, I thought it was better to bring you those."

While Matilda was making this speech, she was slowly taking out of her basket and unfolding her various bundles; she had half a hope, and no more now, that Maria would be pleased. Maria s.n.a.t.c.hed the bundles, examined the handkerchiefs and counted them; then compared the gloves with her hand and laid them over it. Finally she put both gloves and handkerchiefs on the bed beside her, and went on sewing. She had not said one word about them.

"Are they right, Maria?" said her little sister. "They are the right number, I know; do you like the colours I have chosen?"

"They are well enough," Maria answered.

"Green and chocolate, I thought you liked," Matilda went on; "and the dark brown _I_ liked. So I chose those. Do you like the handkerchiefs, Maria?"

"I want them badly enough," said Maria. "Did you get them at Cope's?"

"Yes, and I thought they were very nice. Are they?"

"A child like you doesn't know much about buying such things," said Maria, quilling and turning her blue ribband with great energy. "Yes, they'll do pretty well. What sort of handkerchiefs have _you_ got?"

"Just my old ones. I haven't got any new ones."

"I should like to see those, when you get them. I suppose they'll be worked, and have lace round the borders."

"I shouldn't like it, if they had," said Matilda.

"We'll see, when you get them. I wonder how many things Anne and Let.i.tia want? and can't get."

"I shall see them soon," said Matilda. "We are going to New York for the winter."

"You are!" exclaimed Maria, again ruefully. Matilda could not understand why. "But you won't see much of Anne and Letty, I don't believe."

"Perhaps I shall be going to school, and so not have much chance. Where do they live, Maria? I have forgotten."

"You will forget again," said Maria.

"But tell me, please. I will put it down."

"Number 316 Bolivar street. Now how much wiser are you?"

"Just so much," said Matilda, marking the number on a bit of paper. "I must know the name before I can find the place."

"You won't go there much," said Maria again. "Might just as well let it alone."

"Are the people here pleasant, Maria? are they good to live with?"

"They are not what you would call good."

"Are they pleasant?"

"No," said Maria. "They are not at all pleasant. I don't care who hears me say it. All the woman cares for, is to get as much work out of me as she can. That is how I live."