"Isn't it pleasant work, Maria? I think it is pretty nice work. It isn't hard."
"Isn't it!" said Maria. "How would you like to try it? How would you like to exchange your room at Mrs. Laval's for this one? Haven't you got a nice room there?"
Matilda answered yes.
"How would you like to exchange it for this one, and to sit here making somebody's dress for a party, instead of riding about on the cars and going where you like and seeing everything and doing what you've a mind to? Nice exchange, wouldn't it be? Don't you think you'd like to try it? And I would come and see you and tell you how pleasant it is."
Matilda had nothing to say. Her eye glanced round again at the items of Maria's surroundings: the worn ingrain carpet; the rusty, dusty little stove; the patch-work counterpane, which the bright silk made to look so very coarse; and she could not but confess to herself that it would be a sore change to leave her pleasant home and easy life and come here. But what then?
"Maria, it isn't my fault," she said at last. "It is not my doing at all. And I think this is a great deal better than living with aunt Candy; and I would a great deal rather do it."
"I wouldn't," said Maria.
Matilda sat still and waited; her gayety pretty well taken down. She was very sorry for her sister, though she could not approve her views of things. Neither did she know well what to say to them. So she kept silence; until Maria stopped sobbing, dried her eyes, washed her hands, and began to quill her blue trimming again.
"What did you come to Poughkeepsie for, to-day?"
"To see you; nothing else."