CHAPTER XI.

The acted proverbs that night went pretty well; so the boys said; and Matilda went to bed feeling that life was very delightful where such rare diversions were to be had, and such fine accomplishments acquired.

The next time, Judy said, they would dress for the acting; that needed practising too.

The day following, when she got up, Matilda was astonished to find the air thick with snow and her window sills quite filled up with it already. She had meant to take a walk down town to make a purchase she had determined on; and her first thought was, how bad the walking would be now, after the dry clean streets they had rejoiced in for a week or two past. The next thought was, that the street sweepers would be out.

For some time she had not seen them. They would be out in force to-day.

Matilda had pennies ready; she was quite determined on the propriety of that; and she thought besides that a kind word or two might be given where she had a chance. "I am sure Jesus would speak to them," she said to herself. "He would try to do them good. I wonder, can I? But I can _try_."

She had the opportunity even sooner than she expected; for while she was eating her breakfast the snow stopped and the sun came out. So about eleven o'clock she made ready and set forth. There was a very convenient little pocket on the outside of her grey pelisse, in which she could bestow her pennies. Matilda put eleven coppers there, all she had, and one silver dime. What she was to do with that she did not know; but she thought she would have it ready.

Clear, bright and beautiful, the day was; not cold; and the city all for the moment whitened by the new fall of snow. So she thought at first; but Matilda soon found there was no whitening New York. The roadway was cut up and dirty, of course; and the mult.i.tudes of feet abroad dragged the dirt upon the sidewalks. However, the sky was blue; and defilement could not reach the sunlight; so she went along happy.

But before she got to Fourteenth Street, nine of her eleven pennies were gone. Some timid words had gone with them too, sometimes; and Matilda had seen the look of dull asking change to surprise and take on a gleam of life in more than one instance; that was all that could be said. Two boys had a.s.sured her they went to Sunday school; one or two others of whom she had asked the question had not seemed to understand her. Had it done any good? She could not tell; how could she tell?

Perhaps her look and her words and her penny, all together, might have brought a bit of cheer into lives as much trampled into the dirt as the very snow they swept. Perhaps; and _that_ was worth working for; "anyhow, all I can do, is all I can do," thought Matilda. She mused too on the swift way money has of disappearing in New York. Norton's watchguard had cost twenty eight cents; the obelisk, two dollars; now the dress she was on her way to buy for Let.i.tia would take two dollars and a half more; there was already almost five gone of her twenty. And of even her pennies she had only two left, with the silver bit.

"However, they won't expect me to give them anything _again_ as I go back," she thought, referring to the street sweepers. "Once in one morning will do, I suppose."

Just as she said this to herself, she had come to another crossing, a very busy one, where carts and carriages were incessantly turning down or coming up; keeping the sweeper in work. It was a girl this time; as old or older than herself; a little tidy, with a grim old shawl tied round her waist and shoulders, but bare feet in the snow. Matilda might have crossed in the crowd without meeting her, but she waited to speak and give her penny. The girl's face encouraged her.

"Are you not very cold?" Matilda asked.

"No--I don't think of it." The answer seemed to come doubtfully.

"Do you go to Sunday school anywhere?"

The girl sprang from her at this minute to clear the way for some dainty steppers, where the muddy snow had been flung by the horses'

feet just a moment before; and to hold her hand for the penny, which was not given. Slowly she came back to Matilda.

"Do most of the people give you something?"

"No," said the girl. "Most of 'em don't."

"Do you go to Sunday school on Sundays?"

"O yes: I go to Mr. Rush's Sunday school, in Forty Second street."

"Why, _I_ go there," said Matilda. "Who's your teacher?"

The girl's face quite changed as she now looked at her; it grew into a sort of answering sympathy of humanity; there was almost a dawning smile.

"I remember you," she said; "I didn't at first, but I do now. You were in the cla.s.s last Sunday. I am in Mr. Wharncliffe's cla.s.s."

"Why so do I remember you!" cried Matilda. "You are Sarah?"

The conversation was interrupted again, for the little street-sweeper was neglecting her duties, and she ran to attend to them. Out and in among the carriages and horses' feet. Matilda wondered why she did not get thrown down and trampled upon; but she was skilful and seemed to have eyes in the back of her head, for she constantly kept just out of danger. Matilda waited to say a little more to her, for the talk had become interesting; in vain, the little street-sweeper was too busy, and the morning was going; Matilda had to attend to her own business and be home by one o'clock. She had found, she thought, the place where her silver dime belonged; so she dropped it into Sarah's hand as she pa.s.sed, with a smile, and went on her way. This time she got an unmistakable smile in return, and it made her glad.

So she was in a cla.s.s with a street-sweeper! Matilda reflected as she went on down Broadway. Well, what of it? They would think it very odd at home! And somehow it seemed odd to Matilda herself. Had she got a little out of her place in going to Mr. Rush's Sunday school? Could it be best that such elegant robes, made by Mme. Fournissons, should sit in the same seat with a little street girl's brown rags? "She was not ragged on Sunday, though," thought Matilda; "poor enough; and some of those boys were street boys, I dare say. However, Mr. Wharncliffe is a gentleman; there is no doubt of that; and he likes his cla.s.s; some of them are good, I think. And if they are, Jesus loves them. He loves them whether or no. How odd it is that we don't!"--

Matilda went on trying to remember all that Sarah had said in the school; but the different speakers and words were all jumbled up in her mind, and she could not quite separate them. She forgot Sarah then in the delightful business of choosing a dress for Let.i.tia; a business so difficult withal that it was like to last a long time, if Matilda had not remembered one o'clock. She feared she would be late; yet a single minute more of talk with the street girl she must have; she walked up to Fourteenth street. Sarah was there yet, busy at her post. She had a smile again for Matilda.

"Are you not tired?" the rich child asked of the poor one.

"I don't think of being tired," was the answer.

"What time do you go home to dinner?"

"Dinner?" said Sarah; and she shook her head. "I don't go home till night. I can't."

"But how do you take your dinner?" Matilda asked.

The girl flushed a little, and hesitated. "I can take it here," she said.

"Standing? and in this crowd?"

"No.--I go and sit down somewheres. 'Tain't such a dinner as you have.

It's easy took."

"Sarah," said Matilda suddenly, "you love Jesus, don't you?"

"Who?" she said, for the noise and rush of horses and carriages in the streets was tremendous, and the children both sprang back to the sidewalk just then out of the way of something. "Jesus? Was it _that_ you asked?"

She stood leaning on her broom and looking at her questioner. Matilda could see better now how thin the face was, how marked with care; but at the same time a light came into it like a sunbeam on a winter landscape; the grey changed to golden somehow; and the set of the girl's lips, gentle and glad, was very sweet.

"Do I love him?" she repeated. "He is with me here all the day when I am sweeping the snow. Yes, I love him! and he loves me. That is how I live."

"That's how I want to live too," said Matilda; "but sometimes I forget."

"I shouldn't think _you'd_ forget," said Sarah. "It must be easy for you."

"What must be easy?"

"I should think it would be easy to be good," said the poor girl, her eye going unconsciously up and down over the tokens of Matilda's comfortable condition.

"I don't think having things helps one to be good," said Matilda. "It makes it hard, sometimes."

"I sometimes think _not_ having things makes it hard," said the other, a little wistfully. "But Jesus is good, anyhow!" she added with a content of face which was unshadowed.

"Good bye," said Matilda. "I shall see you again." And she ran off to get into a horse car. The little street-sweeper stood and looked after her. There was not a thing that the one had but the other had it not.

She looked, and turned to her sweeping again.

Matilda on her part hurried along, with a heart quite full, but remembering at the same time that she would be late at lunch. At the corner where she stopped to wait for a car there was a fruit stall, stocked with oranges, apples, candies and gingerbread. It brought back a thought which had filled her head a few minutes ago; but she was afraid she would be late. She glanced down the line of rails to the car seen coming in the distance, balanced probabilities a moment, then turned to the fruit woman. She bought a cake of gingerbread and an orange and an apple; had to wait what seemed a long time to receive her change; then rushed across the block to where she had left Sarah, stopped only to put the things in her hands, and rushed back again; not in time to catch her car, which was going on merrily out of her hail.

But the next one was not far behind; and Matilda enjoyed Sarah's lunch all the way to her own.

"But this is only for one day. And there are so many days, and so many people that want things. I must save every bit of money I can."

She was late; but she was so happy and hungry, that her elders looked on her very indulgently, it being, as in truth she was, a pleasant sight.