It was a soft pleasant day late in March. The snow had all gone for the
present. Doubtless it might come back again; no one could tell; in
Shadywalk snow was not an unknown visitor even in April; but for the
present no such reminder of winter was anywhere to be seen. The air was
still and gentle; even the brown tree stems looked softer and less bare
than a few weeks ago, though no bursting buds yet were there to make
any real change. The note of a bird might be heard now and then;
Matilda had twice seen the glorious colour of a blue bird's wings as
they spread themselves in the light. It was quite refreshing to get out
of the house and the kitchen work, and smell the fresh, pure air, and
see the sky, and feel that all the world was not between four walls
anywhere. Matilda went softly along, enjoying. At the corner she
turned, and walked up Butternut street--so called, probably, in honour
of some former tree of that family, for not a shoot of one was known in
the street now. On and on she went till her church was passed, and then
turned down the little lane which led to the parsonage. The snow all
gone, it was looking pretty here. On one side the old church, the new
lecture-room on the other, and between them the avenue of elms, arching
their branches over the way and making a vista, at the end of which was
the brown door of the parsonage. Always that was a pleasant view to
Matilda, for she associated the brown door with a great many things;
however, this day she did not seek the old knocker which hung
temptingly overhead, but sheered off and went round to the back of the
house; and there entered at once, and without knocking, upon Miss
Redwood's premises. They were in order; nobody ever saw the parsonage
kitchen otherwise; and Miss Redwood was sitting in front of the stove,
knitting.
"Well, if there ain't Tilly Englefield!" was her salutation.
"May I come in, Miss Redwood?--if you are not busy."
"Suppos'n I _was_ busy, I guess you wouldn't do me no harm, child. Come
right in and sit down, and tell me how's all goin' on at your house.
How's your mother, fust thing?"
"Aunt Candy says she's not any better."
"What does your mother say herself?"
"I have not seen her to-day. Aunt Candy says she is nervous; and she
wants me not to go into her room."
"Who wants you not to go in? Not your mother?"
"No; Aunt Candy."
"I thought so. Well; how do you get along without your sisters, eh?
Have you got a girl, or are you goin' to do without?"
"We are going to do without."
"I don't see how you kin, with your mother sick and wantin' somebody to
tend her."
"Maria and I do what's to be done. Mamma doesn't want us to get a girl."
"Maria and you!" said Miss Redwood, straightening up. "I want to know!
You and Maria. Why, I didn't reckon Maria was a hand at them kind o'
things. What can she do, eh? I want to know! Things is curious in this
world."
"Maria can do a good deal," said Matilda.
"And you can, too, can't ye?" said Miss Redwood, with a benevolent
smile at her little visitor, which meant all love and no criticism.
"I wish I knew how to do more," said Matilda. "I _could_, if I knew
how. That's what I came to ask you, Miss Redwood; won't you tell me?"
"Tell you anything on arth," said the housekeeper. "What do you want to
know, child?"
"I don't know," said Matilda, knitting her brow. "I want to know how to
_manage_."
Miss Redwood's lips twitched, and her knitting needles flew.
"So there ain't no one but you to manage?" she said, at length.
"Aunt Candy tells what is to be for breakfast and dinner. But I want to
know how to _do_ things. What can one do with cold beefsteak, Miss
Redwood?"
"'Tain't good for much," said the housekeeper. "Have you got some on
hand?"
"No. We had, though."
"And what _did_ you do with it?"
"Maria and I put it in the oven to warm; and it spoiled the dish, and
the meat was all dried up; and then I thought I would come and ask you.
And we tried to fry some potatoes this morning, and we didn't know how,
I think. They were not good."
"And so your breakfast all fell through; and there was a muss, I
expect?"
"No; we had eggs; nobody knew anything about the beefsteak and the
dish. But I want to know how to do."
"What ailed your potatoes?"
"They were too hard and too brown."
"I shouldn't wonder! I declare, I 'most think I've got into the middle
of a fairy story somewhere. Did you ever hear about Cinderella, Tilly,
and her little glass slipper?"
"Oh yes."
"Some people's chariots and horses will find themselves turned into
pun'kins some day; that is what _I_ believe."
"But about the potatoes?" said Matilda, who could not catch the
connection of this speech.
"Well; she let 'em be in too long. That was the trouble. If you want to
have things right, you must take 'em out when they are done, honey."
"But how can we tell when they are done?"
"Why, you know by just lookin at 'em. There ain't no great trouble
about it; anyhow, there ain't about potatoes. You just put some fat in
a pan, and chop up your potatoes, and when the fat is hot clap 'em in,
and let 'em frizzle round a spell; and then when they're done you take
'em up. Did you sprinkle salt in?"
"No."
"You must mind and sprinkle salt in, while they're in the pan; without
that they'll taste kind o' flat."
"Aunt Erminia don't like them chopped up. She wants them cut in thin
slices and browned on both sides."
"Laws a massy! why don't she do 'em so, then? what hinders her?" said
the housekeeper, looking at Matilda. "I thought she was one o' them
kind o' folks as don't know nothing handy. Why don't she do her own
potatoes, and as brown as she likes, Tilly?"
"Mamma wants us to take care of things, Miss Redwood."
"Won't let your aunt learn you, nother?" said Miss Redwood, sticking
one end of her knitting-needle behind her ear, and slowly scratching
with it, while she looked at Matilda.
"Aunt Candy does not like to do anything in the kitchen; and I would
rather you would teach me, Miss Redwood--if you would."
"And can you learn Maria?"
"Oh yes."
"Well, come along; what do you want to know next?"
"I wish you'd teach me some time how to make gingerbread. And pies."
The housekeeper glanced at the clock, and then bade Matilda take oft'
her things.
"Now?" said Matilda, hesitating.
"You can't do nothing any time but now," said Miss Redwood, as she put
away her work in its basket. "You can _think_ of doing it; but if you
ever come to doing it, you will find it is _now_."
"But is it convenient?"
"La, child, I don't know what people mean by convenient. You look at it
one way, and there is nothing convenient; and you look at it another
way, and there is nothing but what is. Hang your things over that
chair; and I'll put an apron on you."
"But which way does it look this afternoon, Miss Redwood?"
The housekeeper laughed, and kissed Tilly, whom she was arraying in a
great check apron, big enough to cover her.
"It is just how you choose to take it," she said. "I declare I'm sorry
for the folks as is tied to convenience; they don't get the right good
of their life. Why, honey, what isn't my convenience is somebody else's
convenience, maybe. I want it to be sunshine very often, so as I kin
dry my clothes, when the farmers want it to be rain to make their corn
and cabbages grow. It is sure to be convenient for somebody."
"But I want it to be convenient for you, this afternoon," said Matilda,
wistfully.
"Well, 'tis," said the housekeeper. "There--wash your hands in that
bowl, dear; and here's a clean towel for you. A body as wants to have
things convenient, had better not be a minister's housekeeper. No, the
place is nice enough," she went on, as she saw Matilda's eye glance
around the kitchen; "'tain't that; but I always think convenient means
having your own way; and _that_ nobody need expect to do at the
parsonage. Just so sure as I make pot pie, Mr. Richmond'll hev to go to
a funeral, and it's spiled or lost, for he's no time to eat it; and I
never cleaned up that hall and steps yet, but an army of boots and
shoes came tramping over it out of the dirt; when if it _wants_
cleaning, it'll get leave to be without a foot crossing it all the
afternoon. And if it's bakin' day, I have visitors, and have to run
between them and the oven, till I don't know which end is the parlour;
and that's the way, Tilly; and I don't know no better way but to
conclude that somebody else's convenience is yourn--and then you'll
live in clover. The minister had to preach to me a good while before I
could see it, though. Now, honey, sift your flour;--here it is. Kin you
do it?"
Matilda essayed to do it, and the housekeeper looked on.
"The damper is turned," she said; "we'll have the oven hot by the time
the cake is ready. Now, dear, what's going into it?"
"Will that be enough?" said Matilda, lifting her floury hand out of the
pan.
"_I_ want a piece," said the housekeeper; "so there had better go
another bowlful. And the minister--_he_ likes a bite of hot
gingerbread, when he can get it. So shake it in, dear. That will do.
Now, what are you going to put in it, Tilly, besides flour?"
"Why, _I_ don't know," said Matilda.
"Well, guess. What do you think goes into gingerbread?"
"Molasses?"
"Yes; but that goes one of the last things. Ain't you going to put no
shortening in?"
"Shortening? what is that?" said Matilda.
"Well, it's whatever you've got. Butter'll do, if it's nice and
sweet--like this is--or sweet drippings'll do, or a little sweet lard,
maybe. We'll take the butter to-day, for this is going to do you and me
credit. Now think--what else? Put the butter right there, in the
middle, and rub it into the flour with the flat of your hand, so. Rub
hard, dear; get the butter all in the flour, so you can't see it. What
is to go in next?"
"Spice? I think mamma puts spice."
"If you like it. What spice will you choose?"
"I don't know, Miss Redwood."
"Well, it'd be queer gingerbread without ginger, wouldn't it?"
"Oh yes. I forgot the ginger, to be sure. How much?"
"That's 'cordin' as you like it. _That_ won't hardly taste, dear;
'tain't just like red pepper; take a good cupful. Now just a little bit
of cloves!"
"And cinnamon?"
"It'll be spice gingerbread, sure enough," said the housekeeper. "And
salt, Tilly."
"Salt? Must salt go in?" said Matilda, who had got very eager now in
her work.
"Salt's univarsal," said Miss Redwood. "'Cept sweetmeats, it goes into
everything. That's what makes all the rest good. I never could see what
was the use o' salt, till one day the minister, he preached a sermon on
'Ye are the salt of the earth,' and ever since that it seems to kind o'
put me in mind. And then I asked Mr. Richmond if _everything_ meant
something."
"But what does that mean, that you said?" said Matilda. "Good people
don't make the rest of the world good."
"They give all the taste there is to it, though," said the housekeeper.
"And I asked that very question myself of the minister; and what do you
think he told me."
"What?"
"He said it was because the salt warn't of as good quality as it had
ought to be. And _that_ makes me think, too. But la! look at your
gingerbread standing still. Now see, dear here's a bowl o' buttermilk
for you; it's as rich as cream, a'most; and I take and put in a
spoonful of--you know what this is?"
"Salaeratus?"
"That's it."
"We use soda at our house."
"Salaeratus is good enough for me," said Miss Redwood; "and I know what
it'll do; so I'm never put out in my calculations. Now when it foams
up--see,--now mix your cake, dear, as quick as you like.
Stop--wait--let's get the molasses in. Now, go on. I declare, having
two pair o' hands kind o' puts one out. Stir it up; don't be afraid."
Matilda was not afraid, and was very much in earnest. The gingerbread
was quickly mixed, and for a few minutes there was busy work, buttering
the pans and putting the mixture in them, and setting the pans in the
oven. Then Matilda washed her hands; the housekeeper put the flour and
spices away; and the two sat down to watch the baking.
"It'll be good," said the housekeeper.
"I hope it will," said Matilda.
"I know 'twill," said Miss Redwood. "You do your part right; and these
sort o' things--flour, and butter, and meat, and potatoes, and
that--don't never disapint you. That's one thing that is satisfactory
in this world."
"But mamma has her cake spoiled in the oven sometimes."
"'Twarn't the oven's fault," said Miss Redwood. "Did ye think it was?
Ovens don't do that for me, never."
"But sometimes the oven was too hot," said Matilda; "and other times
she said it was not hot enough."
"Of course!" said the housekeeper; "and then again other times she
forgot to look at it, maybe, and left her cake in too long. The cake
couldn't knock at the door of the oven to be let out; that'd be too
much to ask. Now look at yourn, dear."
Matilda opened the oven door and shut it again.
"What's the appearance of it?"
"It is coming up beautifully. But it isn't up in the middle yet."
"The fire's just right," said the housekeeper.
"But how can you _tell_, Miss Redwood?" said Matilda, standing by the
stove with a most careful set of wrinkles on her little brow.
"Tell?" said the housekeeper; "just as you tell anything else; after
you've seen it fifty times, you know."
Matilda began a painful calculation of how often she could make
something to bake, and how long it would be till fifty times had made
her wise in the matter; when an inner door opened, and the minister
himself came upon the scene. Matilda coloured, and looked a little
abashed; the housekeeper smiled.
"I am very glad to see you here, Tilly," Mr. Richmond said, heartily.
"What are you and Miss Redwood doing here?"
"We are getting ready for the business of life," said the housekeeper.
"The minister knows there are different ways of doin' that."
"Just what way are you taking now?" said Mr. Richmond, laughing. "It
seems to me, you think the business of life is eating--if I may judge
by the smell of the preparation."
"It is time you looked at your cake, Tilly," said Miss Redwood; and she
did not offer to help her; so, blushing more and more, Matilda was
obliged to open the oven door again, and show that she was acting
baker. The eyes of the two older persons met in a way that was pleasant
to see.
"What's here, Tilly?" said the minister, coming nearer and stooping to
look in himself.
"Miss Redwood has been teaching me how to make gingerbread. O Miss
Redwood, it is beginning to get brown at the end."
"Turn the pans round then. It ain't done yet."
"No, it isn't done, for it is not quite up in the middle. There is a
sort of hollow place."
"Shut up your oven, child, and it will be all right in a few minutes."
"Then I think this is the night when you are going to stay and take tea
with me," said Mr. Richmond. "I promised you a roast apple, I remember.
Are there any more apples that will do for roasting, Miss Redwood?"
"O Mr. Richmond, I do not care for the apple!" Matilda cried.
"But if I don't have it, you will stay and take tea with me?"
Matilda looked wistful, and hesitated. Her mother would not miss her;
but could Maria get the tea without her?--
"And I dare say you want to talk to me about something; isn't it so?"
the minister continued.
"Yes, Mr. Richmond; I do."
"That settles it. She will stay, Miss Redwood. I shall have some
gingerbread, I hope. And when you are ready, Tilly, you can come to me
in my room."
The minister quitted the kitchen in good time, for now the cakes were
almost done and needed care. A little watchful waiting, and then the
plumped up, brown, glossy loaves of gingerbread said to even an
inexperienced eye that it was time for them to come out of the oven.
Miss Redwood showed Matilda how to arrange them on a sieve, where they
would not get steamy and moist; and Matilda's eye surveyed them there
with very great satisfaction.
"That's as nice as if I had made it myself," said the housekeeper. "Now
don't you want to get the minister's tea?"
"What shall I do, Miss Redwood?"
"I thought maybe you'd like to learn how to manage something else. He's
had no dinner to-day--to speak of; and if eatin' ain't the business of
life--which it ain't, I guess, with him--yet stoppin' eatin' would stop
business, he'd find; and I'm goin' to frizzle some beef for his supper,
and put an egg in. Now I'll cut the beef, and you can stir it, if you
like."
Matilda liked very much. She watched the careful shaving of the beef in
paper-like fragments; then at the housekeeper's direction she put some
butter in a pan on the fire, and when it was hot threw the beef in and
stirred it back and forward with a knife, so as not to let it burn, and
so as to bring all the shavings of beef in contact with the hot pan
bottom, and into the influence of the boiling butter. At the moment of
its being done, the housekeeper broke an egg or two into the pan; and
then in another moment bade Matilda take it from the fire and turn it
out. Meanwhile Miss Redwood had cut bread and made the tea.
"Now you can go and call the minister," she said.
Matilda thought she was having the rarest of pleasant times, as she
crossed the little dining-room and the square yard of hall that came
next, and went into the study. Fire Was burning in the wide chimney
there as usual; the room was very sweet and still; Mr Richmond sat
before the fire with a book.
"I thought you were coming to talk to me, Tilly?" he said, stretching
out his hand to draw her up to him.
"Miss Redwood was showing me how to do things, Mr. Richmond."
"Then you _do_ want to talk to me?"
"Oh yes, sir. But, Mr. Richmond, tea is ready."
"We'll eat first then, and talk afterward. What is the talk to be
about, Tilly? just to give me an idea."
"It is about--I do not know what is right about something, Mr.
Richmond. I do not know what I ought to do."
"Have you looked in the Bible to find out?"
"No, sir. I didn't know where to look, Mr. Richmond."
"Have you prayed about it?"
Matilda hesitated, but finally said again, "No."
"That is another thing you can always do. The Lord understands your
difficulties better than any one else can, and knows just what answer
to give you."
"But--an answer? will He give it always?"
"Always provided you are perfectly willing to take it, whatever it may
be; and provided you do your part."
"What is my part?"
"If I sent you to find your way along a road you did not know, where
there were guide posts set up; what would be your part to do?"
"To mind the guide posts?"
"Yes, and go on as they bade you. That is not to prevent your asking
somebody you meet on the road, if you are going right? Now Miss Redwood
has rung her bell, and you and I must obey it."
"But, what are the guide posts, Mr. Richmond?"
"We will see about that after tea. Come."
Matilda gave one wondering thought to the question how Maria and tea
would get along without her at home; and then she let all that go, and
resolved to enjoy the present while she had it. Certainly it was very
pleasant to take tea with Mr. Richmond. He was so very kind, and
attentive to her wants; and so amusing in his talk; and the new
gingerbread looked so very handsome, piled up in the cake basket; and
Miss Redwood was such a variety after Mrs. Candy. Matilda let care go.
And when it came to eating the gingerbread, it was found to be
excellent. Mr. Richmond said he wished she would come often and make
some for him.
"Do you know there is a meeting of the Band this evening?"
"I had forgotten about it, Mr. Richmond; I have been so busy."
"It is lucky you came to take tea with me, then," said he. "Perhaps you
would have forgotten it altogether. What is Maria doing?"
"She is busy at home, Mr. Richmond."
"I am sorry for that. To-night is the night for questions; I am
prepared to receive questions from everybody. Have you got yours ready?"
"About Band work, Mr. Richmond?"
"Yes, about Band work. Though you know that is only another name for
the Lord's work, whatever it may be that He gives us to do. Now we will
go to my study and attend to the business we were talking about."
So they left Miss Redwood to her tea-table; and the minister and his
little guest found themselves alone again.
"Now, Tilly, what is it?" he said, as he shut the door.
"Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, anxiously, "I want to know if I must mind
what Aunt Erminia says?"
"Mrs. Candy?" said Mr. Richmond, looking surprised.
"Yes, sir."
"The question is, whether you must obey her?"
"Yes, sir."
"I should say, if you doubt about any of her commands, you had better
ask your mother, Tilly."
"But I cannot see my mother, Mr. Richmond; that is one of the things.
Mamma is sick, and aunt Candy has forbidden me to go into her room.
Must I stay out?"
"Is your mother so ill?"
"No, sir, I do not think she is; I don't know; but Aunt Candy says she
is nervous; and I must not go in there without leave." And Matilda
raised appealing eyes to the minister.
"That is hard, Tilly. I am very sorry to hear it. But I am of opinion
that the authority of nurses must not be disputed. I think if Mrs.
Candy says stay out, you had better stay out."
"And everything else?" said Matilda. "Must I mind what she says in
everything else?"
"Are you under her orders, Matilda?"
"That is what I want to know, Mr. Richmond. She says so. She told me
not to go out to church last Sunday night; and all the others were
going, and I went too; and she scolded about it and said I must mind
her. Must I? in everything? I can't ask mamma."
Mr. Richmond turned a paper-weight over and over two or three times
without speaking.
"You know what the fifth commandment is, Tilly."
"Yes, Mr. Richmond. But she is not my mother."
"Don't you think she is in your mother's place just now? Would not your
mother wish that your obedience should be given to your aunt for the
present?"
Matilda looked grave, not to say gloomy.
"I can tell you what will make it easy," said Mr. Richmond. "Do it for
the sake of the Lord Jesus. He set us an example of obedience to all
lawful authorities; He has commanded us to live in peace with everybody
as far as we possibly can; and to submit ourselves to one another in
the fear of God. Besides that, I must think, Tilly, the command to obey
our parents means also that we should obey whoever happens to stand in
our parents' place to us. Will it not make it easy to obey your aunt,
if you think that you are doing it to please God?"
"Yes, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, thoughtfully.
"I always feel that God's command sweetens anything," the minister went
on. "Do you feel so?"
"I think I do," the little girl answered.
"So if you stay at home for Mrs. Candy's command, you may reflect that
it is for Jesus' sake; and that will please Him a great deal better
than your going to church to please yourself."
"Yes, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, cheerfully.
"Was that all you had to talk to me about?"
"Yes, sir; all except about Band work."
"We will talk about that in the meeting. If you have a question to ask,
write it here; and I will take it in and answer it."
He gave Matilda paper and pen, and himself put on his overcoat. Then
taking her little slip of a question, the two went together into the
lecture-room.