"How did you know it?"

"Not this about your being baptized, you know, but about _you_."

"What about me?"

"I say, Matilda, when will you come and play croquet again?"

"I don't know. But, O Norton, I must go now. I forgot all about it. And there was something else I wanted to say. I wish you would be a servant of Jesus too?"

Matilda gave this utterance a little timidly. But Norton only looked at her and smiled, and finally closed the question by taking her in his arms and giving her two kisses this time. It was done without a bit of shamefacedness on his part, and with the energy and the tenderness too of affection. Matilda was extremely astonished and somewhat discomposed; but the evident kindness excused the freedom, and on the whole she found nothing to object. Norton opened the iron gate for her, and she hurried off homewards without another word.

In a dream of pleasure she hurried along, feeling that Norton Laval was a great gain to her, and that croquet was the most delightful of amus.e.m.e.nts, and that all the weariness of the day's work was taken out of her heart. She only regretted, as she went, that those poor people in Lilac Lane had heard no reading; but she resolved she would go to them to-morrow.

There is one time, however, for doing everything that ought to be done; and if that time is lost, no human calculation can make sure a second opportunity. Matilda was to find this in the case of Lilac Lane. The next day weather kept her at home. The second day she was too busy to go on such an expedition. The third was Sunday. And when Monday came, all thoughts of what she had intended to do were put out of her head by her mother's condition. Mrs. Englefield was declared to be seriously ill.

The doctor was summoned. Her fever had taken a bad turn, he said. It was a very bad turn; for after a few days it was found to be carrying her swiftly to death's door. She was unable to see her children, or at least unable to recognise and speak to them, until the very last day; and then too feeble. And the Sunday when Matilda had expected to be baptized, saw her mother's funeral instead.

Anne and Let.i.tia came up from New York, but were obliged to return thither immediately after the funeral; and the two younger girls were left to their grief. It was well for them now that they, had plenty of business, plenty of active work on hand. It was a help to Maria; after a little it diverted her thoughts and took her out of the strain of sorrow. And it was a help to Matilda, but in a more negative way. It kept the child from grieving herself ill, or doing herself a mischief with violent sorrow; it was no relief. In every unoccupied moment, whenever the demands of household business left her free to do what she would, the little girl bent beneath her burden of sorrow. Kneeling before her open Bible, her tears flowed incessantly every moment when the luxury of indulgence could be allowed them. Mrs. Candy did not see the whole of this; she was rarely in the girls' room; yet she saw enough to become uneasy, and tried all that she knew to remedy it.

Clarissa was kind, to her utmost power of kindness. Even Maria was stirred to try some soothing for her little sister. But Matilda could not be soothed. Maria's instances and persuasions did, however, at last urge her to the point of showing a part of her thoughts and disclosing the thorn that pressed sharpest on her mind. It was, that she had not pleased her mother by doing her best in the studies she had pursued at school. Matilda had always been a little self-indulgent; did not trouble herself with study; made no effort to reach or keep a good place in her cla.s.ses. Mrs. Englefield had urged and commanded her in vain. Not obstinately, but with a sort of gay carelessness, Matilda had let these exhortations slip; had studied when she was interested, and lagged behind her companions in the pursuits she found dry. And now, she could not forgive herself nor cease her sorrowing on account of this failure.

Maria in despair at last took Mrs. Candy into her confidence, and besought her to comfort Matilda, which Mrs. Candy tried her best to do.

She represented that Matilda had always been a good child; had loved and honoured her mother, and constantly enjoyed her favour. Matilda heard, but answered with sobs.

"I am sure, my dear," her aunt said, "you have nothing to reproach yourself with. We are none of us perfect."

"I didn't do what I could, aunt Candy!" was Matilda's answer.

"My dear, hardly anybody--the best of us--does all he might do."

"I will," said Matilda.

CHAPTER XII.

This could not last always, and the days as they pa.s.sed, after a while, brought their usual soothing.

The quiet routine of the early spring began to come in again. Mrs.

Candy was looking for a girl, she said, but had not found one yet; Maria and Matilda were not ready to go to school; they were better getting the breakfast and washing up the dishes than doing nothing. No doubt that was true.

"Tilly," said Maria, one of these days, when the coffee cups were getting put in order, going out of Maria's tub of hot water into Matilda's hands and napkin,--"Tilly! you know next Sunday there is to be a baptism in the church?"

"Yes," said Matilda.

It was weeks after that other Sunday, when the rite had not been administered. Spring had come forward rapidly since then. Trees were in full leaf; dandelions in the gra.s.s; flowers were in the woods, though the two sisters had not gone to see them this year; the apple orchards around Shadywalk were in a cloud of pink blossoms; and the sun was warm upon flower and leaf everywhere.

"Who is going to be baptized?" Maria went on.

"I don't know. At least, I don't know all."

"Ailie Swan is," remarked Maria.

"Yes, I know Ailie Swan is."

"And Frances Barth."

Matilda was silent.

"And Esther Trembleton, and George Rice, and Mary and Willie Edwards."

"I suppose so," said Matilda.

"You are not, are you?"

"You know I _was_ going to be," said Matilda. "I am now."

"Tilly, it would be no harm if you waited till another time."

"Why should I wait?"

"_I_ am going to wait," said Maria.

"Why?"

"Why, because I don't feel like it. Not now."

"I do not want to wait," said Matilda. And probably she was going to say more, but her lip trembled and she stopped.

"It would be no harm, Tilly, if you waited. n.o.body would expect it of us now. _n.o.body_ would expect it, Tilly."

"I think One would," said Matilda.

"Who?"

"Jesus."

"But, Tilly," said Maria, uneasily, "I don't think so. It could not be pleasant for you and me, you know, to go forward and be baptized _now_.

We might wait till another time; and then it would be more easy, wouldn't it?"

"It is not hard now," said Matilda. "It is pleasant now. I do not wish to put it off."

"Pleasant?" repeated Maria.

"Yes," said her little sister, quietly, lifting her eyes to Maria's face so steadily and gravely that the other changed her ground.

"But at least it is not duty, Matilda."