Matilda sat while he was gone, looking at the golden mist on the mountains and dreaming.
"Now," said Norton, throwing himself on the turf beside her, with his piece of paper, and thrusting his hand deep down in his pocket to get at his pencil, "Now, let us see what we will do."
"Norton," said Matilda, joyously, "this is better than croquet."
Norton looked up with those bright eyes of his, but his reply was to proceed to business.
"Now for it, Pink. What shall we do for the old lady? What does she want? Pooh! she wants everything; but what to begin with?"
"Strawberries, you said."
"Strawberries! Not at all. That's the last thing. I mean we'll fix her up, Pink. Now what does she want to be comfortable. It is only one old woman; but we shall feel better if she is comfortable. Or you will."
"But what do you mean, Norton? how much can we do?"
"Just as much as we've a mind to. I've got money, I tell you. Come; begin. What goes down first?"
"Why, Norton," said Matilda, in an ecstasy, "it is like a fairy story."