"Mamma," said Norton softly, "isn't she a darling?"

"Hush!" said Mrs. Laval. "Don't wake her."

"She is perfectly fast asleep," said Norton. "She don't sham sleeping any more than awake. Mamma, how will grandmamma like her?"

"She cannot help it," said Mrs. Laval.

"Aunt Judy won't," said Norton. "But mamma, she is twenty times prettier than Judith Bartholomew."

"She is as delicate as a little wood flower," said Mrs. Laval.

"She has more stuff than _that_," said Norton; "she is stiff enough to hold her head up; but I'll tell you what she is like. She is like my Penelope hyacinth."

"Your Penelope hyacinth!" Mrs. Laval echoed.

"Yes; you do not know it, mamma. It is not a white hyacinth; just off that; the most delicate rose pearl colour. Now Judy is like a purple dahlia."

"Matilda is like nothing that is not sweet," said Mrs. Laval fondly, looking at the little head.

"Well, I am sure hyacinths are sweet," said Norton. "Mamma, will you let me teach her?"

"You will not have time."

"I will. I have plenty of time."

"What will you teach her?"

"Everything I learn myself--if you say so."

"Perhaps she would like better to go to school."

"She wouldn't," said Norton. "She likes everything that I say."

"Does she!" said his mother laughing. "That is dangerous flattery, Norton."

"Her cheeks are just the colour of the inside of a pink sh.e.l.l," said Norton. "Mamma, there is not a thing ungraceful about her."

"Not a thing," said Mrs. Laval. "Not a movement."

"And she is so dainty," said Norton. "She is just as particular as you are, mamma."

"Or as my boy is," said his mother, putting her other hand upon his bright locks. "You are my own boy for that."

"Mamma," Norton went on, "I want you to give Pink to me."

"Yes, I know what that means," said his mother. "That will do until you get to school and are going on skating parties every other day; then you will like me to take her off your hands."

Norton however did not defend himself. He kissed his mother, and then stooped down and kissed the sleeping little face on her lap.

"Mamma, she is so funny!" he said. "She actually puzzles her head with questions about rich and poor people, and the reforms there ought to be in the world; and she thinks she ought to begin the reforms, and I ought to carry them on. It's too jolly."

"It will be a pleasure to see her pleasure in New York."

"Yes, won't it! Mamma, n.o.body is to take her first to the Central Park but me."

The questions about rich and poor were likely to give Matilda a good deal to do. She had been too sleepy that night to think much of anything; but the next day, when she was putting her five dollars in her pocket-book, they weighed heavy.

"And this is only for November," she said to herself; "and December's five dollars will be here directly; and January will bring five more.

Fifteen. How many shoes and boots must I get for that time?"

Careful examination shewed that she had on hand one pair of boots well worn, another pair which had seen service as Sunday boots, but were quite neat yet, and one pair of nice slippers. The worn boots would not do to go out with Mrs. Laval, nor anywhere in company with Matilda's new pelisse. "They will only do to give away," she concluded. They would have seen a good deal of service in Shadywalk, if she had remained there with her aunt Candy; Mrs. Laval was another affair. One pair for every day and one pair for best, would do very well, Matilda thought. Then gloves? She must get some gloves. How many?

She went to Mr. Cope's that very afternoon, and considered all the styles of gloves he had in his shop. Fine kid gloves, she found, would eat up her money very fast. But she must have them; nothing else could be allowed to go to church or anywhere in company with Mrs. Laval, and even Norton wore nothing else when he was dressed. Matilda got two pair, dark brown and dark green; colours that she knew would wear well; though her eyes longed for a pair of beautiful tan colour. But besides these, Matilda laid in some warm worsted gloves, which she purposed to wear in ordinary or whenever she went out by herself. She had two dollars left, when this was done. The boots, Mrs. Laval had told her, she was to get in New York; she could wait till December for them.

And now everybody was in a hurry to get to New York. The house was left in charge of the Swiss servants. The grey ponies were sent down the river by the last boat from Rondout. Matilda went to see Mrs. Eldridge once, during these days of bustle and expectancy; and the visit refreshed all those questions in her mind about the use of money and the duties of rich people. So much work a little money here had done!

It was not like the same place. It was a humble place doubtless, and would always be that; but there was cozy warmth instead of desolation; and comfortable tidiness and neatness instead of the wretched condition of things which had made Matilda's heart sick once; and the poor woman herself was decently dressed, and her face had brightened up wonderfully. Matilda read to her, and came away glad and thoughtful.

The farewell visit was paid at the parsonage the last thing; and on the first of December the party set out to go to the new world of the great city. It was a keen, cold winter's day; the sky bleak with driving grey clouds; the river rolling and turbulent under the same wind that sped them. Sitting next the window in the car, where she liked to sit, Matilda watched it all with untiring interest; and while she watched it, she thought by turns of Mr. Richmond's words the evening before.

Matilda had asked him how she should be sure to know what was right to do always? Mr. Richmond advised her to take for her motto those words--"Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus;"--and to let every question be settled by them. He said they would settle every one, if she was willing they should. And now as Matilda sat musing, she believed they would; but a doubt came up,--if she lived by that rule, and all around her without exception went by another rule, how would they get along? She was obliged to leave it; she could not tell; only the doubt came up.

It seemed a long way to New York. After Poughkeepsie had been some time left behind, Matilda began to think it was time to hear about the end of the journey; but Norton told her they were only in the Highlands.

Matilda watched the changing sh.o.r.es, brown and cold-looking, till the hills were left behind, and the river took a look she was more accustomed to. Still Norton only laughed at her, when she appealed to him; they were not _near_ New York, he said; it was Haverstraw bay. It seemed to take a great while to pa.s.s that bay and Tappan Sea. Then Norton pointed out to her the high straight line of sh.o.r.e on the opposite side of the river. "Those are the Palisades, Pink," he said; "and when you see the Palisades come to an end, _then_ New York is not far off."

But it seemed as if the Palisades would never come to an end, in Matilda's tired fancy. She was weary of the cars by this time, and eager for the sight of the new strange place where her life was to be for so long. And the cars sped on swiftly, and still the straight line of the Palisades stretched on too. At last, at last, that straight line shewed signs of breaking down.

"Yes," said Norton, to whom Matilda pointed this out,--"we'll soon be in now, Pink."

Matilda roused up, to use her eyes with fresh vigilance. She noticed one or two places where carts and men were busy, seemingly, with the endeavour to fill up the North river; at least they were carrying out loads of earth and dumping it into the water. She was tired of talking by this time, and waited to ask an explanation till the roar of the car-wheels should be out of her ears. They came to scattered buildings; then the buildings seemed less scattered; then the train slackened its wild rate of rushing on, and Matilda could better see what she was pa.s.sing. They were in a broad street at last, broader than any street in Shadywalk. But it was dismal! Was this New York? Matilda had never seen such forlorn women and children on the sidewalks at home. Nor ever so much business going on there. Everybody was busy, except one or two women lounging in a doorway. Carts, and builders, and hurried pa.s.sers by; and shops and markets and grocery stores in amazing numbers and succession. But with a sort of forlornness about them. Matilda thought she would not like to have to eat the vegetables or the meat she saw displayed there.

Then came the slow stopping of the cars; and the pa.s.sengers turned out into the long shed of the station house. Here Norton left them, to go and find the carriage; while Matilda lost herself in wonder at the scene. So many people hurrying off, meeting their friends, hastening by in groups and pairs, and getting packed into little crowds; such numbers of coachmen striving for customers at the doors, with their calls of "Carriage, sir?" "Carriage, ma'am?" pattering like hail. It was wonderful, and very amusing. If this was only the station house of the railway, and the coming in of one train, Matilda thought New York must be a very large place indeed. Presently Norton came back and beckoned them out, through one of those cl.u.s.ters of clamorous hackney coachmen, and Matilda found herself bestowed in the most luxurious equipage she had ever seen in her life. Surely it was like nothing but the appointments of fairy land, this carriage. Matilda sunk in among the springs as if they had been an arrangement of feathers; and the covering of the soft cushions was nothing worse than satin, of dark crimson hue. Nothing but very handsome dresses could go in such a carriage, she reflected; she would have to buy an extremely neat pair of boots to go with the dresses or the carriage either. It was Mrs Lloyd's carriage; and Mrs. Lloyd was Mrs. Laval's mother.

The carriage was the first thing that took Matilda's attention; but after that she fell to an eager inspection of the houses and streets they were pa.s.sing through. These changed rapidly, she found. The streets grew broad, the houses grew high; groceries and shops were seldomer to be seen, and were of much better air; markets disappeared; carmen and carts grew less frequent; until at last all these objectionable things seemed to be left behind, and the carriage drew up before a door which looked upon nothing that was not stately. Up and down, as far as Matilda could see, the street was clean and splendid.

She could see this in one glance, almost without looking, as she got out of the carriage, before Norton hurried her in.

She felt strange, and curious; not afraid; she knew the sheltering arms of her friends would protect her. It was a doubtful feeling, though, with which she stepped on the marble floor of the hall and saw the group which were gathered round Mrs. Laval. What struck Matilda at first was the beautiful hall, or room she would have called it, though the stairs went up from one side; its soft warm atmosphere; the rustle of silks and gleam of colours, and the gentle bubbling up of voices all around her. But she stood on the edge of the group. Soon she could make more detailed observations.

That stately lady in black silk and lace shawl, she was Mrs. Laval's mother; she heard Mrs. Laval call her so. Very stately, in figure and movement too; a person accustomed to command and have her own way, Matilda instinctively felt. Now she had her arms round Norton; she was certainly very fond of him. The lady with lace in her gleaming hair, and jewels at her breast, and the dress of crimson satin falling in rich folds all about her, sweeping the marble, that must be Mrs.

Laval's sister. She looked like a person who did not do anything and had not anything she need do, like Mrs. Laval. Then this girl of about her own age, with a very bright mischievous face and a dress of sky blue, Matilda knew who she must be; would they like each other, she questioned? And then she had no more time for silent observations; Norton called upon her, and pulled her forward into the group.

"Grandmamma, you have not seen her," he cried; "you have not seen one of us. This is mamma's pet, and my--darling." It was evident the boy's thought was of "daughter" and "sister," but that a tender feeling stopped his tongue. Mrs. Lloyd looked at Matilda.

"I have heard of her," she said.

"Yes, but you must kiss her. She is one of us."

"She is _mine_," said Mrs. Laval meaningly, putting both arms around Matilda and drawing her to her mother.

The stately lady stooped and kissed the child, evidently because she was thus asked.