"Why?" said he, growing grave.
But a little to his surprise the little girl hurried up the steps without making him any answer.
In the house, she hurried in like manner up the first flight of stairs and up the second flight. Then, reaching her own floor, where nobody was apt to be at that time of Sunday afternoons, the child stopped and stood still.
She did not even wait to open her own door; but clasping the rail of the balusters she bent down her little head there and burst into a passion of weeping. Was there such utter misery in the world, and near her, and she could not relieve it? Was it possible that another child, like herself, could be so unlike herself in all the comforts and helps and hopes of life, and no remedy? Matilda could not accept the truth which her eyes had seen. She recalled Sarah's gentle, grave face, and sober looks, as she had seen her on her crossing, along with the gleam of a smile that had come over them two or three times; and her heart almost broke. She stood still, sobbing, thinking herself quite safe and alone; so that she started fearfully when she suddenly heard a voice close by her. It was David Bartholomew, come out of his room.
"What in the world's to pay?" said he. "What is the matter? You needn't start as if I were a grisly bear! But what is the matter, Tilly?"
Matilda was less afraid of him lately; and she would have answered, but there was too much to say. The burden of her heart could not be put into words at first. She only cried aloud,—
"Oh David!—Oh David!"
"What then?" said David. "What has Judy been doing?"
"Judy! O nothing. I don't mind Judy."
"Very wise of you, I'm sure, and I am very glad to hear it. What has troubled you? something bad, I should judge."