What She Could

by Susan Warner

CHAPTER IX.

Anne and Letitia were to leave home in the afternoon of Monday; and Maria and Matilda went to school that morning as usual. But when the noon hour came, Matilda called her sister into a corner of the emptied schoolroom, and sat down with a face of business.

"What is the matter?" said Maria. "We must go home to dinner."

"I should like to speak to you here first."

"About what? Say it and be quick; for I am ever so hungry. Aunt Candy cut my breakfast short this morning."

"I wanted to say to you that we had better take home our books."

"What for?" said Maria, with opening eyes.

"Because, Maria, mamma was talking to me last night about it. You know there will be no one at home now, after to-day, but you and me."

"Aunt Erminia and Clarissa?"

"Nobody to do anything, I mean."

"Can't they do anything? I don't know what you are talking of, Matilda; but I know I want my dinner."

"Who do you think will get dinner to-morrow?"

"Well—mother's sick of course; and Anne and Letty are going. I should think Aunt Candy might."

"No, she won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because mother said so. She won't do anything."

"Then she'll have to get a girl to do things, I suppose."

"But Maria, that is just what mother wants she shouldn't do; because she'd have to pay for it."

"Who would have to pay for it?"

"Mamma."

"Why would she?"

"She said so."

"I don't see why she would, I am sure. If Aunt Erminia hires a girl, she'll pay for her."

"But that will come out of what Aunt Erminia pays to mamma; and what Aunt Erminia pays to mamma is what we have got to live upon."

"Who said so?"

"Mamma said so." Matilda answered with her lip trembling; for the bringing facts all down to hard detail was difficult to bear.

"Well, I do think," exclaimed Maria, "if I had a sister sick and not able to help herself, I would not be so mean!"

Matilda sat still and cried and said nothing.

"Who is going to do all the work then, Tilly?"

There would have been something comical, if it had not been sad, in the way the little girl looked up and said, "You and I."

"I guess we will!" said Maria, with opening eyes. "You and I! Take care of the house, and wash the dishes, and cook the dinner, and everything! You know we couldn't, Matilda; and what's more, I know we won't."

"Yes, mamma wishes it. We must; and so we can, Maria."

"I can't," said Maria, taking down her school cloak.

"But, Maria! we must. Mamma will be more sick if we do not; you heard what Aunt Candy said at breakfast, that she is fearfully nervous; and if she hears that there is a hired girl in the house, it will worry her dreadfully."

"It will be Aunt Candy's fault then," said Maria, fastening her cloak. "I never heard of anybody so mean in all my life!—never."

"But that don't help anything, Maria. And you and I must do what mamma said. You know we shall have little enough to live on, as it is, and if you take the pay of a hired girl out of it, there will be so little left."

"I've got my twenty-five dollars, that I can get summer dresses with; I am glad I haven't spent it," said Maria. "Come, Tilly; I'm going home."

"But, Maria, you have not said what you ought to say yet."

"What ought I to say?"

"I will help and do my part. We can manage it. Come, Maria, say that you will."

"Your part," said Maria. "What do you suppose your part would come to? What can such a child as you do?"

"Maria, now is the time to show whether you are really one of the Band of workers."

"I am, of course. I joined it."

"That would not make you one of them, if you don't do what they promised to do."

"When did I ever promise to be Aunt Candy's servant girl?" said Maria, fiercely. "I should like to know."

"But 'we are the servants of Christ,'" said Matilda, softly, her eyes glistening through.

"What then?"

"We promised to try to do whatever would honour Him."

"I don't know what all this affair has to do with it," said Maria. "You say we promised;—you didn't?"

"Yes, I did."

"You didn't join the Band?"

"Yes, I did."

"When?"

"A few days after you did."

"Why didn't you tell me? Did you tell Mr. Richmond?"

"Yes."

"I think it is mean, that you did not tell me."

"I am telling you now. But now, Maria, you know what you promised."

"I did not promise this sort of thing at all, Tilly."

"Yes, don't you know? 'we stand ready to do His will.' That's in the covenant."

"But this is not His will," insisted Maria. "This is Aunt Erminia's meanness."

"But it certainly is His will that we should do what mamma says, and please her; and this is the work He has given us to do."

Maria's answer this time was to sit down and cry for her part. Matilda did not join her, but stood by, patiently waiting. Maria cried and sobbed for several minutes; then she started up and set off homewards at a furious rate. Matilda gathered together her books and followed her sister; trying to comfort herself with the thought that this was certainly the work given them to do, and that she would try and make the best of it.

The dinner was sorrowful enough. Maria, indeed, ate it as if remembering it was the last dinner for some time to come that she would find ready prepared for her. But Anne and Letty were broken down with grief; and Mrs. Candy's endeavours to comfort them were either not the right sort, or fell upon unready ears. Clarissa was composed as usual.

"You were late from school, Maria and Matilda," their aunt remarked, finding Anne and Letty unmanageable. "What was the reason?"

"Tilly was talking to me," Maria said.

"You could talk on the way home, I should think. I dislike to have dinner eaten by stages; first one set coming, and then another. I am going to ask you to be punctual for the future. Do not be in a hurry, Maria; there is time enough, now you are here, to eat moderately."

"I am hungry. I don't want to eat moderately, Aunt Erminia."

"As much as you wish; but you can be moderate in manner, cannot you, even if not in quantity?"

"Nobody ever told me I eat too much, before," said Maria.

"There are a great many things that you have never been told, I suppose?" said Clarissa, lifting her handsome eyes quietly.

"I don't care about your telling me either," said Maria.

"My dear, that is not polite," interposed her aunt. "I am sorry to hear you speak so. Would you not like to have Issa, or any one, tell you things that you would be the better for. You would not wish to remain just as you are, to the end of your days?"

"It don't hurt anybody but me," said Maria.

"I beg your pardon. Everything that is not graceful and well-mannered, on the part of people in whose company we are, hurts me and Clarissa. It hurts me to have you bolt down your food as you were doing just now—if I am sitting at the same table with you. And it hurts me to have you speak rudely. I hope you will mend in all these things."

"It will not hurt you to have us say good-bye," said Anne, rising. "I will do that now, if you please. Letty, I will leave you to take care of these things, and I will finish the packing. We must be quick, too."

The farewell greetings with her aunt and cousin were soon spoken; and Maria and Matilda tore up-stairs after their sister, to pour out tears and complaints together during the remaining moments of her being at home. Matilda's tears, however, were quiet and her words very few.

"Ain't she too bad!" exclaimed Maria.

"You must try and hold your own the best you can," said Anne, "until mamma gets up again. Poor children! I am afraid she will be too much for you."

"But, Anne, did you think Aunt Candy was like that?" said Maria. "She wasn't like that at first."

"I guess she was. All she wanted was a chance. Now she's got it. Try and bear it the best you can till mamma is well. She cannot be worried now."

"Is mamma very sick, Anne?" Matilda ventured.

"N-o," said Anne, "but she might be, Tilly, if she was worried. The doctor says she is very nervous, and must be kept quiet. She has been worrying so long, you see. So you must try and not do anything to fret her."

The prospect was sad. When the omnibus came to take Anne and Letty to the station, and when the last kisses and hugs were over, and the omnibus bounced away, carrying with it all they had at the moment, the two girls left at home felt forlorn enough. The only thing to be done was to rush up-stairs to their room and cry their hearts out. And that was done thoroughly.

But by and by, Matilda's thoughts, in their very extreme need of comfort, began to take up the words again which she had once found so good: "Cast thy burden upon the Lord; He shall sustain thee." She left her sobbing, dried her eyes, sat down by the window, and found the place in her Bible, that her eyes might have the comfort of seeing and reading the words there. The Lord's words: Tilly knew they were true. But Maria sobbed on. At last her little sister called her.

"What is it?" said she.

"Come here,—and I will show you something good."

"Good?—what?" said Maria, approaching the window. "Oh, words in the Bible!"

"Read, Maria."

"I have read them before," said the other, sullenly, after she had glanced at the place.

"But they are true, Maria."

"Well; they don't help me."

"But they help me," said Matilda. "It's Jesus' promise to help."

"I don't believe it is for such things as this."

"Why not?" said Matilda, a sudden chill coming over her heart. "It says just, 'Cast thy burden'—it might be any burden; it does not signify what it is, Maria."

"Yes, it does; it is not for such little things," said Maria. "It is for great religious people and their affairs. Oh dear! oh dear!"

Sorely troubled now at having her supports knocked away from under her, Matilda eagerly sought further, if perchance she might find something that Maria could not question. Her Bible had a few references in the margin; consulting these, she presently found what she had need of; but a feeling of want of sympathy between them forbade her to show the new words to her sister. Matilda pored over them with great rest of heart; gave thanks for them; and might have used with truth David's language—"Thy words were found, and I did eat them." The words were these:—

"Be careful for nothing; but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God that passeth understanding shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus."

Matilda's eyes were dry and her voice was clear, when she reminded her sister that it was time to get tea. Maria was accustomed to do this frequently, and made no objection now. So the two went down together. Passing the parlour door, however, it opened, and Mrs. Candy called Matilda in.

"I want to speak a word to you, Tilly," she said. "Did you go out last evening?"

"Yes; I did, aunt Erminia."

"You went to church?"

Matilda assented; but though she had bowed her head, it seemed to be more erect than before.

"And I had told you not to go, had I not? You understood that?"

A silent assent was again all that the child gave.

"I am accustomed to be obeyed," said Mrs. Candy. "That is my way. It may not be your mother's way; but all the same, I am mistress here while she is sick; mistress over you as well as the rest. You must obey me like all the rest. Will you?"

What was meant by "all the rest" Matilda marvelled, seeing that nobody else but Maria and her own daughter were left in the house. This time she gave no sign of answering; she only stood and listened.

"Will you obey me, Tilly?"

Matilda was not sure whether she would. In her mind it depended on circumstances. She would obey, conditionally. But she would not compromise her dignity by words about it. She was silent.

"I must be obeyed," Mrs. Candy went on, with mild tones, although a displeased face. "If not willingly, then unwillingly. I shall punish you, Matilda, if you disobey me; and so severely that you will find it best not to do it again. But I should be very sorry to have you drive me to such disagreeable doings. We should both be sorry together. It is much best not to let things come to such extremity."

Matilda coloured high, but except that and the slight gesture of her head, she yet gave no reply.

"That is enough upon that subject," the lady went on. "Only, I should be glad to have you tell me that you will try to please me."

"I wish to please everybody—as far as I can," Matilda said at last.

"Then you will please me?"

"I hope so."

"She hopes so, Issa," said Mrs. Candy, turning her head round towards where her daughter sat.

"American children, mamma," was Clarissa's comment.

"There is another thing, Matilda," Mrs. Candy resumed after a slight pause. "Your mother has told me that Maria is competent to do the work of the house until she gets well. Is she? and will Maria, do you think, try to please me as much as you do?"

"Yes, ma'am. I think she can—she and I. We will do it," Matilda answered more readily.

"She and you! What can you do?"

"I can help a little."

"Well then, that is settled; and I need not look out for a girl?"

"Oh no, aunt Candy. She and I can do it."

"But mind, I must have things in order, and well done. It is my sister's choice, that Maria should do it. But it is not mine unless I can have everything in good order. You may tell Maria so, and let her understand what it is she is undertaking. I am to have no dusty stairs, and no half-set tables. If she wants instruction in anything, I am willing to give it; but I cannot have disorder. Now you may go and tell her; and tell her to have tea ready in half an hour."

"What did she want of you?" Maria asked, when Matilda rejoined her down-stairs.

"She wanted to talk to me about my going out last evening."

"Oh! was she in a great fuss about it?"

"And Maria, she wants tea to be ready in half an hour."

"I'll have it ready sooner than that," said Maria, bustling about.

"But you must not. She wants it in half an hour; you must not have it ready before."

"Why not?" said Maria, stopping short.

"Why, she wants it then. She has a right to have tea when she likes."

But Matilda sighed as she spoke, for her aunt's likings were becoming a heavy burden to her, in the present and in the future. The two girls went gently round, setting the table, cutting the bread, putting out the sweetmeat, getting the teapot ready for the tea; then they stood together over the stove, waiting for the time to make it.

"There's one comfort," Matilda said with another sigh;—"we can do it all for Christ."

"What?" said Maria, starting.

"It is work He has given us to do, you know, Maria; and we have promised to do everything we can to please Him. So we can do this to please Him."

"I don't see how," said Maria. "This isn't Band work;—do you think it is?"

"It isn't Sunday-School work; but, Maria, you know, 'we are the servants of Christ.' Now He has given us this work to do."

"That's just talking nonsense," said Maria. "There is no religion in pots and kettles."

Matilda had to think her way out of that statement.

"Maria, in the covenant, you know, we say 'we stand ready to do His will;' and you know it is His will that we should have these things to do."

"I don't!" said Maria; "that's a fact."

"Then how comes it that we have them?"

"Just because mamma is sick, and Aunt Erminia is too mean to live!"

"You should not speak so," said Matilda. "How comes mamma to be sick? and how comes it that we have got no money to hire a girl?"

"Because that man in New York was wicked, and ran away with mamma's money."

"Maria," said Matilda, solemnly, "I don't see what you meant by joining the Band."

"I meant more than you did!" said Maria, flaming out. "Such children as you are too young to join it."

"We are not too young to be Christians."

"You are too young to join the Church and be baptized."

"Why?" said Matilda.

"Oh, you are too young to understand. Anybody that knows will tell you so. And if you are not fit to be baptized and join the Church, you are not fit to join the Band. Now I can make the tea."

Matilda looked hard at the teapot, as it stood on the stove while the tea was brewing; but she let her sister alone after that. When the meal was over, and the dishes washed and everything done, she and Maria went up to their own room, and Maria at once went to bed. Her little sister opened her Bible, and read, over and over, the words that had comforted her. They were words from God; promises and commands straight from heaven. Matilda took them so, and studied earnestly how she might do what they bade her. "Cast her burden on the Lord"—how was she to do that? Clearly, she was not to keep it on her own heart, she thought; she must trust that the Lord would take care of anything put into His hands. The words were very good. And the other words? "Be careful for nothing"—that was the same thing differently expressed; and Matilda felt very glad it had been written for her in both places and in both ways; and that she was ordered "in everything" to "make her requests known to God." She might not have dared, perhaps, in some little troubles that only concerned a child and were not important to anybody else; but now there could be no doubt—she might, and she must. She was very glad. But, "with thanksgiving?"—how could that be always? Now, for instance? Things were more disagreeable and sorrowful than in all her life she had ever known them; "give thanks"? must she? now? And how could she? Matilda studied over it a good while. Finally took to praying over it. Asked to be taught how she could give thanks when she was sorry. And getting quite tired, at last went to bed, where Maria was already fast asleep.

There is no denying that Matilda was sorry to wake up the next morning. But awake she found herself, and broad awake too; and the light outside the window admonished her she had no time then to lie and think. She roused Maria immediately, and herself began dressing without a moment's delay.

"Oh, what's the hurry!" said Maria, yawning and stretching herself. "I'm sleepy."

"But it isn't early, Maria."

"Well; I don't want it to be early."

"Yes, you do, Maria; you forget. We have a great deal on our hands. Make haste, please, and get up. Do, Maria!"

"What have we got to do so much?" said Maria, with yawn the second.

"Everything. You are so sleepy, you have forgotten."

"Yes. I have forgotten," said Maria, closing her eyes.

"O Maria, please do get up! I'm almost dressed; and I can't do the whole, you know. Won't you get up?"

"What's the matter, Tilly?" said her sister, rolling over, and opening her eyes quietly at Matilda.

"I am going down, Maria, in two minutes; and I cannot do everything, you know."

"Clarissa'll help."

"If you expect that, Maria, you will be disappointed. I wish you would come right down and make the fire."

Maria lay still. Matilda finished her dressing, and then knelt down by the window.

The burden upon her seemed rather heavy, and she went to her only source of help. Maria lay and looked at the little kneeling figure, so still there by the window; glanced at the growing light outside the window, then at her scattered articles of clothing, lying where she had thrown them or dropped them last night; and at last rolled herself out of bed and was dressing in earnest when Matilda rose up to go down-stairs.

"Oh now, you'll soon be ready!" she exclaimed. "Make haste, Maria; and come down to the kitchen. The fire is the first thing."

Then the little feet went with a light tread down the stairs, that she might disturb nobody, and paused in the hall. The light struggling in through the fanlights over the door; the air close; a smell of kerosene in the parlour; chairs and table in a state of disarrangement; the litter of Clarissa's work on the carpet; the parlour stove cold. Little Matilda wished to herself that some other hands were there, not hers, to do all that must be done. But clearly Maria would never get through with it. She stood looking a minute; then plunged into the work. She opened the shutters and the curtains, and threw up the windows. Then picked up the litter. Then she saw that the services of a broom were needed; and Matilda fetched the broom, and brushed out the parlour and the hall. It tired her arms; she was not used to it. Dusting the furniture was more in her line; and then Matilda came to the conclusion that if a fire was to be kindled in time this morning, it must be done by herself; Maria would be fully occupied in the kitchen. So down-stairs she went for billets of wood for kindling. There was Maria, in trouble.

"This stove won't draw, Tilly."

"What is the matter?"

"Why that. It won't draw. It just smokes."

"It always does draw, Maria."

"Well, it won't to-day."

"Did you put kindling enough in?"

"There's nothing but kindling!—and smoke."

"Why, you've got the damper turned," said Matilda, coming up to look; "see, that's the matter. It won't light with the damper turned."

"Stupid!" Maria muttered; and Matilda went off to make her own fire. Happily that did not smoke. The parlour and hall were all in nice order; the books put in place, and everything ready for the comfort of people when they should come to enjoy it; and Matilda went to join her sister in the kitchen. The fire was going there too, and the kitchen warm, and Maria stood with her hands folded, in front of the stove.

"I don't know what to get for breakfast," she said.

"Is the other room ready?"

"I set the table," said Maria; "but what is to go on it, I don't know."

Matilda went in to look at the state of things; presently called her sister.

"Maria, you didn't sweep the carpet."

"No. Of course I didn't. Rooms don't want to be swept every day."

"This one does. Look at the muss under the table."

"Only some crumbs," said Maria.

"And a bone. Letty was in a hurry yesterday, I guess. Aunt Candy won't like it, Maria; it won't do."

"I don't care whether she likes it."

"But don't you care whether she scolds? because I do. And the room is not nice, Maria. Mother wouldn't have it so."

"Well, you may sweep it if you like."

"I cannot. I am tired. You must make it nice, Maria, won't you? and I'll see about the breakfast."

"The table's all set!" Maria remonstrated.

"It won't take long to do it over, Maria. But what have we got for breakfast?"

"Nothing—that I know."

"Did you look in the cellar?"

"No."

"Why, where did you look?" said Matilda, laughing. "Come; let us go down and see what is there."

In the large, clean, light cellar there were hanging shelves which served the purposes of a larder. The girls peered into the various stores collected on them.

"Here's a dish of cold potatoes," said Maria.

"That will do for one thing," said Matilda.

"Cold?"

"Why, no! fried, Maria."

"I can't fry potatoes."

"Why, yes, you can, Maria; you have seen mamma do it hundreds of times."

"Here's the cold beefsteak that was left yesterday."

"Cold beefsteak isn't good," said Matilda.

"Can't we warm it?"

"How?"

"I don't know; might put it in the oven; it would get hot there. There's a good oven."

"I don't think mamma ever warms cold beefsteak," said Matilda, looking puzzled.

"What does she do with it? she don't throw it away. How do you know she doesn't warm it? you wouldn't know, when you saw it on the table, whether it was just fresh cooked, or only warmed up. How could you tell?"

"Well," said Matilda, dubiously, "you can try. I wish I could ask somebody."

"I shall not ask anybody up-stairs," said Maria. "Come—you take the potatoes and I will carry the beefsteak. Then we will make 'the coffee and have breakfast. I'm as hungry as I can be."

"So am I," said Matilda. And she sighed a little, for she was tired as well as hungry. Maria set the dish of beefsteak in the oven to get hot, and Matilda made the coffee. She knew quite well how to do that. Then she came to the table where Maria was preparing the potatoes to fry. Maria's knife was going chop, chop, very fast.

"O Maria! you should have peeled them," Matilda exclaimed, in dismay.

"Peeled!" said Maria, stopping short.

"Certainly. Why, you knew that, Maria. Potatoe parings are not good to eat."

"It takes ages to peel such little potatoes," said Maria.

"But you cannot eat them without being peeled," said Matilda.

"Yes, you can; it won't make any difference. I will fry them so brown, nobody will know whether they have skins on or not."

Matilda doubted very much the feasibility of this plan; but she left Maria and went off to make sure that the fires in the other rooms were burning right and everything in proper trim. Then she sat down in a rocking-chair in the eating-room to rest; wishing very earnestly that there was somebody to help who knew more about business than either she or Maria. How were they to get along? And she had promised her mother. And yet more, Matilda felt sure that just this work had been given to her and Maria to do by the Lord himself. Therefore they could do it for Him. Therefore, all the more, Matilda wanted to do it in the very nicest and best way possible. She wished she had attended when she had seen her mother cooking different things; now she might have known exactly how to manage. And that reminded her, Maria's beef and potatoes must be done. She ran into the kitchen.

"There!" said Maria. "Can you see the skins now?"

"They are brown enough," said Matilda. "But, Maria, they'll be very hard!"

"Never you mind!" said Maria, complacently.

"Have you looked at your beefsteak?"

"No; but it must be hot before now."

Maria opened the oven door; and then, with an exclamation, seized a cloth and drew out the dish of meat. The dish took their attention first. It was as brown as Maria's potatoes. It had gone into the oven white.

"It is spoiled," said Matilda.

"Who would have thought the oven was so hot!" said Maria. "Won't it come all right with washing?"

"You might as well wash your beefsteak," said Matilda, turning away.

If the dish had gone in white, the meat had also gone in juicy; and if the one was brown the other was a chip.

"This will not do for breakfast," said Maria, lugubriously.

"It is like your potatoes," said Matilda, with the ineffable little turn of her head.

"Don't, Matilda! What shall we do? the coffee is ready."

"We shall have a brown breakfast," said Matilda. "The coffee will be the lightest coloured thing on the table." And the two girls relieved themselves with laughing.

"But, Matilda! what shall we do? We must have something to eat."

"We can boil some eggs," said Matilda. "Aunt Erminia likes eggs; and the coffee will be good, and the bread. And the potatoes will do to look at."

So it was arranged; and the bell was rung for breakfast only five minutes after the time. And all was in order.

Even Mrs. Candy's good eyes found no fault. And breakfast went forward better than Matilda had dared to hope.

"You have done your potatoes too much, Maria," Mrs. Candy remarked.

"Yes, ma'am," Maria said, meekly.

"They want no more but a light colouring. And they should be cut thinner. These are so hard you can't eat them. And, Maria, in future I will tell you what to get for breakfast. I did not know when you went to bed last night, or I should have told you then. You are not old enough to arrange things. Now there was some beef left from dinner yesterday, that would have made a nice hash."

Maria ate bread and butter, and spoke not.

"It will keep very well, and you can make it into hash for to-morrow morning. Chop it as fine as you can, and twice as much potato; and warm it with a little butter and milk and pepper and salt, till it is nice and hot; and poach a few eggs, to lay round it. Can you poach eggs, Maria?"

"Yes, ma'am. But there is no beef, Aunt Erminia."

"No beef? You are mistaken. There was a large piece that we did not eat yesterday."

"There is none now," said Maria.

"It must be down-stairs in the cellar."

"I am sure it is not, aunt Erminia. I have been poking into every corner there; and there is no beef, I know."

"Maria, that is a very inelegant way of speaking. Where did you get it?"

"I don't know, ma'am, I'm sure. Out of the truth, I suppose. That's what I did."

"It is a very inelegant way of doing, as well as of speaking. Poking into every thing! What did you poke? your finger? or your hand?"

"My nose, I suppose," said Maria, hardily.

"I think I need not tell you that that is a very vulgar expression," said Mrs. Candy, with a lofty air; while Clarissa's shoulders gave a little shrug, as much as to say her mother was wasting time. "Don't you know any better, Maria?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then I hope you will speak properly next time."

"One gets so tired of speaking properly!" said Maria.

"You?" said Clarissa, with a gentle intonation.

"I don't care!" said Maria, desperately. "People are as they are brought up. My mother don't care for such fidgety notions. I speak to please her, and that is enough."

"No, Maria, it is not enough," resumed Mrs. Candy. "Your mother loves you, and so she is willing to overlook little things in you that she can overlook because you are her child; but when you are grown up, you would wish to be liked by other nice people, wouldn't you? people of education, and taste, and elegant habits; and they do not like to have anything to do with people who 'poke their noses' into things, or who say that they do."

"I'll keep in the kitchen then," said Maria, hastily.

The breakfast may be said to have ended here; for though a few more mouthfuls were eaten, no more words were said. Mrs. Candy and her daughter left the room and went up-stairs. Maria and Matilda began the work of clearing the table.

"Ain't she too much!" Maria exclaimed.

"But, Maria," said her little sister, "I wish you wouldn't say such things."

"If I am going to be a kitchen maid," said Maria, "I may as well talk kitchen maid."

"Oh, I don't think so, Maria!"

"I don't care!" said Maria. "I would rather vex aunt Candy than not; and she was vexed this morning. She kept it in pretty well; but she was vexed."

"But, Maria, that isn't right, is it?"

"Nothing is right," said Maria; "and nothing is going to be, I guess, while they are here."

"Then think, what would mamma do if they went away?"

"I wish I could go away, then!" said Maria, beginning to cry. "I can't bear to live so! 'Why do you do so,' and 'why do you do so;' and Clarissa sitting by with that little smile on her mouth, and lifting up her eyes to look at you—it just makes me mad. There! It is a pity Aunt Candy wasn't here to be shocked at American children."

"But, Maria," said Matilda with her eyes swimming too, "you know the Lord Jesus has given us this work."

"No, I don't!" said Maria; "and what if He did?"

"Why, then, it would please Him—you know, Maria, it would please Him—to have us do it just nicely and beautifully, and not like kitchen maids, but like His children. You know we said we were ready to do any work that he would give us."

"I didn't," said Maria, half crying, half pouting. "I didn't promise to do this sort of thing."

"But we mustn't choose," said Matilda.

"But we did choose," said Maria. "I said what I would do, and other people said what they would do; and nobody said anything about washing dishes and peeling potatoes. We were not talking of that."

"The covenant says, 'we stand ready to do His will.' Don't you know?"

"I believe you know that covenant by heart," said Maria. "I don't. And I don't care. Matilda, I wish you would run down cellar with the butter, and the cream, and the bread—will you?"

Matilda did not run, but she made journey after journey down the cellar stairs, with feet that grew weary; and then she dried the china while her sister washed it. Then they brushed up the kitchen and made up the fires. Then Maria seated herself on the kitchen table and looked at Matilda.

"I'm tired now, Tilly."

"So am I."

"Is there anything else to be done?"

"Why, there is the dinner, Maria."

"It isn't near dinner time. It is only ten o'clock."

"How long will it take the potatoes to boil?"

"Oh, not long. It is not time to put them on for a great while."

"But they are not ready, are they?"

"No."

"And what else, Maria?"

Here came a call from the stair head. Maria went to the foot of the stairs to hear what the business was, and came back with her mood nowise sweetened; to judge by the way she went about; filled an iron pot with water and set it on the stove, and dashed things round generally. Matilda looked on without saying a word.

"I've got my day's work cut out for me now," said Maria at last. "There's that leg of mutton to boil, and turnips to be mashed; besides the potatoes. And the turnips have got to be peeled. Come and help me, Tilly, or I shall never get through. Won't you?"

Now Matilda had her own notions about things she liked and things she did not like to do; and one of the things she did not like to do was to roughen or soil her hands. To put her little hands into the pan of water, and handle and pare the coarse roots with the soil hanging to them, was very distasteful to her nicety. She looked a little dismayed. But there were the roots all to be pared and washed, and Maria would have her hands full; and was not this also work given to Matilda to do? At any rate, she felt that she could not refuse without losing influence over Maria, and that she could not afford. So Matilda's hands and her knife went into the pan. She thought it was very disagreeable, but she did it. After the potatoes and turnips were ready for the pot, Maria demanded her help about other things; she must clean the knives, and set the table, and prepare the celery and rub the apples; while Maria kept up the fire, and attended to the cookery. Matilda did one thing after another; her weary little feet travelled out and in, from one room to the other room, and got things in order for dinner in both places.

It was a pretty satisfactory dinner, on the whole. The mutton was well cooked and the vegetables were not bad, Mrs. Candy said; but Matilda thought with dismay of the after dinner dishes. However, dinner gives courage sometimes; and both she and Maria were stronger-hearted when they rose from table than when they had sat down. Dishes, and pots, and kettles, and knives, and endless details beside, were in course of time got rid of; and then Matilda put on her hat and cloak, and set forth on an errand she had been meditating.