Nor all the evening. Norton was eager with questions; and Judith was sharp with funny speeches, about Matilda's wonder and unusedness to everything. Matilda winced a little; however, Norton laughed it off, and the evening on the whole went pleasantly. He and she arranged schemes for to-morrow; and all the four got a little more acquainted with each other. But when Matilda went up to her room at night, she took out her Bible and opened it, resolving to find out what those things were she had to think of; she seemed to have switched off her old track and to have got a great way from Mr. Richmond and Shadywalk. She did not like this feeling. What did it mean?
She tried to think, but she could not think. Folds of glossy blue silk hung before her eyes; her new odd little cloak, with its rich buttons and tassels started up to her vision; Mme. Fournissons and her tape measure and her face and her words came putting themselves between her and the very words of the Bible. And this went on. What was she to do? Matilda sat back from the table and tried to call herself to order. This was not the way to do. And then her mind flew off to the Menagerie, and the roars of those wild beasts seemed to go up and down in her ears. Yet underneath all these things, there was a secret consciousness of something not right; was it there, or no? It was all a whirl of confusion. Matilda tried to recollect Mr. Richmond and some of his words.
"He said I was to go by that motto, 'Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all'—Well, but I am not doing anything, am I, just now? What have I been doing to-day? I will take a piece of paper and put the things down! and then my thoughts will not slip away so."
Matilda got the piece of paper and the pencil; but she did not immediately find out what she was to put down.
"The Menagerie?—I did not go there of my own head; Norton took me. Still, 'whatsoever ye do'—I was getting pleasure, that's all; it was nothing but pleasure. What has my motto to do with pleasure? Well, of course it would make it impossible for me to take wrong pleasure—I see that. I could not take pleasure that would be wrong in God's sight, nor that would make me do wrong to get it. Other pleasure, right pleasure, he likes me to have. Yes, and he gives it to me, really. I couldn't have it else. Then certainly my motto says that I must remember that, and thank Him first of all for everything I have that I like. Did I do so about the Menagerie? I don't think I thought about it at all; only I was very much obliged to Norton. I did not thank God. And yet it was such a very, very great pleasure! But I will now."
And so Matilda did. Before going any further in her inquiries, she kneeled down and gave thanks for the rare enjoyment of the morning. She rose up a little more sober-minded and able for the other work on hand.
"What next? Those little street sweepers. I did not have anything to do with them—I had no pennies in my pocket, and I could not wait. But I shall be seeing them every day; they are under foot everywhere, Norton says; how ought I to behave towards them? They are a great nuisance, Norton says; stopping one at every corner; and they ought not to be encouraged. If nobody gave them anything, of course they would not be encouraged; and they would not be there sweeping the crossings. But then, we should not have clean crossings. I wonder which is worst, having them swept or not having them swept? However, they will be on the streets, I suppose, those poor children, whatever I do. Now what ought I to do? I can't give pennies to them all; and if not, how shall I manage?"
Matilda put her head down to think. And then came floating into her thoughts the words of her motto,—"Do all in the name of the Lord Jesus."
"What would He say?" questioned Matilda with herself. "But I know what he did say! 'Give to him that asketh thee.'—Must I? But how can I, to all these children? I shall not have pennies. Well, of course! when I haven't pennies I cannot give them. But I cannot buy candy much, then, can I! because I shall want all my odd cents. After all, they are working hard to get a living; how terribly hard it must be, to live so dirty and so cold!—and I have cake and ice cream and plenty of everything I like. I suppose I can do without candy. I know what Jesus would do too, if he was here; he would give them kind looks and kind words, as well as pay. But can I? What could I say to them? I wonder if Mrs. Laval would like me to speak to them? Anyhow, I know Jesus would say kind words to them—because He would love them. If I loved them, I could speak, easy enough. And then—He would try to do them good, and make them good. I wonder if they go to Sunday school, any of them? But I don't go myself yet, here. I suppose I shall"—
Matilda's wits went off on a long chase here, about things that had nothing to do with her piece of paper. At last came back.