"I am only going to ask you, when you hear what I have to say next time, if you understand it, will you do what you think you ought to do?"
There fell a silence upon that. Mr. Richmond's firm step on the icy ground and Matilda's light footfall passed by house after house, and still the little one's tongue seemed to be tied. They turned the corner, and went their way along Matilda's own street, where the light of afternoon was now fading, and the western sky was throwing a reflection of its own. Past the butcher's shop, and the post-office, and house after house; and still Matilda was silent, and her conductor did not speak, until they stopped before the little gate leading to the house, which was placed somewhat back from the road. At the gate Mr. Richmond stood still.
"What about my question, Matilda?" he said, without loosing his hold of the little hand which had rested so willingly in his all the way.
"Aren't you coming in, Mr. Richmond?"
"Not to-night. What about my question?"
"Mr. Richmond," said the child, slowly,—"I do not always do the things I ought to do."
"No; I know you do not. But will you do that thing, which you will think you ought to do, when you have heard me, and understood what I say, the next time the Band has a meeting?"
Matilda stood silent, her hand still in Mr. Richmond's.
"What's the matter?"
"Perhaps I shall not want to do it," she said, looking up frankly.