"You see," said David, "the Lord reckons it his own affair. These are Messiah's poor people; we are his stewards."

"How much are you going to give them, on that principle?" his mother inquired.

"I don't know, mamma."

"But speak!" she said impatiently. "You _do_ know what you mean to do; you have it all mapped out already in your head, I know."

"I don't know how much I shall give, mamma. Whatever I think they want more than I do."

"You might wear homespun, and eat bread and water, at that rate."

"Mamma," said Judy, "we are very wicked to wear silk dresses. And just think of your lace shawl, mamma! And grandma's."

Matilda waited, and when n.o.body carried on the talk and the silence waited for her, she went on with Isaiah's beautiful words.

"'Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke? Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house?

when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?'"

"What is 'loosing the bands of wickedness'?" asked Mrs. Lloyd.

"Now-a-days, grandmamma, I should say it was breaking up the killing rents and starving wages, and the whole system of tenement houses; for one thing."

"Why what do you know about it, Davy, boy?"

"Not very much, ma'am; but I have seen a little, and the doctor I went for told me a good deal."

"Davy's growing elegant in his speech, as well as modest," said his sister. "He has 'heard a good deal,' but he 'don't know much.' O Davy, why don't you make better use of your opportunities!"

"Very unprofitable opportunities, I must say," remarked his mother. "I have no idea that such a boy has any business with them, or anything to do in such places. And what does he know about wages and systems of business?"

"Go on, Matilda," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I am afraid, my dear, David is right. I have heard the same things from others. Go on, Matilda."

"'Then said he also to him that bade him, When thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbours; lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind: and thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.'"

Matilda read these words, with a quick remembrance of the time when she had read them in the company of her two little schoolmates, and the discussion that had ensued thereupon; curious what their reception would be now. It was stormy.

"The idea!" said Mrs. Bartholomew.

"That would make a finish of society at once," said Mrs. Laval.

"But what do the words mean?" asked Mrs. Lloyd. "There they are. They must mean something."

"Something!" echoed Mrs. Bartholomew. "Just imagine, that we are to gather in a company of cripples round our dinner table! Send out and ask all the forlorn creatures we can find, and feed them on game and sweetbreads. It looks like it!"

"And give up entertaining our friends," added Mrs. Laval.

"What friends do we entertain, aunt Zara?" David asked. "You do not care much for most of them."

"You are a ridiculous, absurd, fanatical boy!" said Judy. "What nonsense you do talk!"

"Nonsense that would make an end of all civilization," said Mrs. Laval; not quite logically.

"But do you care much for these people you invite?" David persisted.

"Not singly," Mrs. Laval admitted; "but taken together, I care a great deal. At least they are people of our own rank and standing in society, and we can understand what they talk about."

"But what do the words mean?" Mrs. Lloyd asked.

"Why mother," said Mrs. Bartholomew, "you have read them a thousand times. They mean what they always did."

"I don't think I ever raised the question till this minute," said Mrs.

Lloyd. "In fact, I don't think I knew the words were there. And I should like to know now what they mean."

"Grandmother," said David, "isn't it safe to conclude they mean just what they say?"

"Then we should never ask anybody to dinner!" cried his mother.

"And we should never have a party again," said Judy.

"Society would be at an end," said Mrs. Laval.

"And we should fill our house with horrid wretches," cried Judy, "and have to take up our carpets and clean house every time."

David was silent while these various charges were eagerly poured out.

Norton looked at him a little scornfully; Matilda anxiously; but he was only sorrowfully quiet, till his grandmother turned to him with her question.

"What _would_ you do, Davy?"

"He'd do anything absurd and ridiculous," said Judy; "the more the better. He is just fit for it. What's the use of asking him, grandma?"

"I would like to hear, my dear, if you will let him speak. I would like to know what the words say to you, Davy."

"Grandmother," said David thoughtfully, "it seems to me the words forbid that we should ask people just that they may ask us;--or do anything of that sort."

"But society would fall to pieces," said Mrs. Bartholomew.

"I never heard of the strictest Christians refusing to do polite things in that way, when they can," added Mrs. Laval.

"But what do the words say?" David answered. "And then, I think, the Lord meant to forbid our making expensive entertainments for anybody, _except_ those who can't give us the same again."

"Then we may ask our friends," said Judy, "only we mustn't give them anything to eat. And of course no wine to drink. I wonder if we might light the gas? It is expensive, when you burn enough of it. Such meanness!" exclaimed Judy with concentrated scorn.

"You would put an end to society," repeated Mrs. Laval.

"What would be the use of having a fine house and large rooms and beautiful things," asked her sister, "if n.o.body was to see them?"

David cast his eyes round the room where they were, and smiled a little.