Matilda dropped her lace for the minute, and told her walk and visit of Sunday afternoon. As she told it, the tears gathered; and at the end she dropped her face upon her knees and sobbed. Norton did not know what to do.
"There's lots of such places," he said at last. "You needn't fret so. This isn't the only one."
"O Norton, that makes it worse. One is enough; and I cannot help that; and I must."
"Must what?" said Norton. "Help them? You cannot, Pink. It is no use for you to try to lift all New York on your shoulders. It's no use to think about it."
"I am not going to try to lift all New York," said the little girl, making an effort to dry her eyes.
"And it is no good crying about it, you know."
"No, no good," said Matilda. "But I don't know, Norton; perhaps it is. If other people cried about it, the thing would get mended."
"Not so easy as lace work," said Norton, looking at the cobweb tracery tissue before him.
"But it must be mended, Norton?" said Matilda inquiringly, and almost imploringly.
"Well, Pink, anybody that tries it will get mired. That's all I have to say. There's no end to New York mud."