“And was poor Susan always blind?” Leila inquired.
“No, my young lady; your own eyes were not brighter than hers were for the first seven years of her life; but she took the small-pox—for, alas! I had neglected to have her vaccinated—indeed I had a prejudice against it, and many and many a bitter thought that prejudice has cost me.”
The tears were running down poor Susan’s face, as her mother gave this recital. They all looked at her with much interest; suddenly their attention was arrested by one of the little boys sliding down from his stool, and exclaiming, as he ran round the table and took the hand of each of them in succession, “Thank you, good ladies, for our nice breakfast;”—but as he approached Matilda, she pushed him from her—“O no, no,” she said, “do not thank me; I can bear it no longer!”—and she ran out of the room. Selina followed her.
In a few minutes they both returned, Matilda looking quite composed, though sorrowful: she went up to the blind girl, and, in a low voice, tried to enter into conversation with her; but it was the greatest possible relief to Matilda, when, soon after, Nurse said it was time to return home; assuring the poor woman, at the same time, she would speak to her master about her, and she was sure he would give her some assistance.
On entering the house, on their return, Matilda followed Leila to her room. “Leila,” she said, “you must keep this work-box for me, and put it out of my sight, for I cannot bear to look at it. This has been a sad day for me; I don’t think I ever was so unhappy before, as when I saw that blind girl knitting so fast with her poor thin fingers, and looking so starved: and when I thought I had given all my money for this work-box, and bought it though Selina so often told me not to do it, and that I would repent—O I am a monster!—don’t you think so, Leila?”
“No, Matilda; don’t say so; a monster is a wild beast—you are not the least like one—and you are repenting; you cannot do more now than that, and you should be thankful you are not a wild beast, for then you could not repent.”
“And then to eat that bunn in such good spirits, what do you say to that?”
“But you did not eat in very good spirits; you were sorrowful before the end, and gave half away.”
“Yes, half; but what is that, and a whole houseful of people starving—six children and a mother, you know. O don’t try to comfort me, it makes me much worse: I would rather you had said I had been as bad as possible.”
“No, Matilda, I cannot say that, though you have been very wrong; but how can I blame you even for that, when I was as bad? You are forgetting about my buying this basket,” and she pointed to a small table on which the basket was placed; “a little girl might have come with a cat to sell, and then it would have been just the same thing.”