And a gentle answer came; not like Judy's proclaiming of herself, yet clear and frank too.

"Matilda Laval, what would you like of all things, if you could have it?"

Matilda hesitated. "There are so many things"--she began,--"it isn't very easy"--

"So many things you would like?"

"Yes, ma'am. Not for _myself_," she added, in a kind of horror at being supposed to entertain such wishes under the flood of good things that had come upon her that evening.

"Well, go on. It is for yourself in one way. Say what, of all you can think of, would give you most pleasure."

Matilda's hands came together with a certain pang of hope, as she answered.

"If I could make somebody comfortable that I know of;--a poor, _good_ girl, who is not comfortable at all."

"One of your sisters?"

"O no, ma'am; no relation."

"What is the matter with her, and how could you make her comfortable?"

"She is a very poor girl," said Matilda, so eager that she did not know what to bring out first;--"she lives in a cellar room with a wet mud floor, and no bed to sleep on that is like a bed; of course she cannot be very clean, nor have any comfort at all; and I should like to make them comfortable."

"Who is she?"

"A very poor girl, that goes to Sunday school. But she is very good."

"Does she live there alone?"

"O there are three of them; her mother and little brother."

"Then why does not the mother earn money and live better?"

"She works for it; she sews; but the people give her almost nothing for her work; and Sarah sweeps a crossing."

"How did you come to know all this?"

"I saw Sarah in Sunday school; and I heard about her from my teacher, and he shewed me the place where she lives. He knows she is good."

"And what do you want to do for her?"

"I want to get her out of that place, and into a decent room, and give her a comfortable bed."

"What is her name?"

"Sarah Staples."

"How long would she keep decent, do you think?"

"Always," said Matilda confidently. "I am sure she would be just as nice as she possibly could. Where she is, she has no chance."

"Well, go; the witch will look into it."

Matilda went out, hardly knowing what to think, or whether she might hope anything from this very doubtful interview. Just as she reached the door, she was called back.

"Have you no wishes for yourself, little girl?"

"No, ma'am; thank you."

"Is there nothing in the world you would like?"

"I suppose, a great many things," said Matilda; "but I have got so many now, I am afraid to wish."

"Why?"

"I don't think I _ought_ to wish for anything more, for myself."

"You are the first person I ever saw, young or old, who put an 'ought'

before his wishes. Most people put it after them. Well, as a reward, tell the one more thing, for yourself, that you would wish for if you could have it."

Matilda thought, and hesitated. She did not at all like to tell her thought. At last the witch urged her to speak out and be quick.

"If I were to choose--and wish for anything more," Matilda said slowly,--"which I don't; but if I _did_ wish for anything more, it would be for a beautiful picture I have seen."

"Aha!" said the witch. "Where did you see it?"

"At Goupil's."

"And what picture was it?"

"It was the picture of the woman searching for the lost piece of money."

"Well. You are an odd child. You may go; and if there is anybody else to come, let them make haste. I am as tired as if I were not a witch."

A minute after David entered the den.

"I know who you are," said the witch. "Speak your heart's desire; and in one word, if you can."

"In one word, Hebrew."

"What of Hebrew?"

"To learn it."

"Learning is a thing I cannot do for you."

"No, but the means."

"What means?"