It was needful for Norton and Matilda, or they thought so, to take the
early train which left the station at half past seven o'clock. The next
train would not be till near eleven; and that, it was decided, would
not do at all for their purposes. Taking the early train, they would
have to go without breakfast; but that was no matter; they would get
breakfast at Poughkeepsie, and have so much the more fun. The omnibus
came for them a little after half past six, and they were ready;
Matilda with an important basket on her arm, which Norton gallantly
took charge of.
It was a delightful experience altogether. The omnibus did not
immediately take the road to the station; there were several other
passengers to gather up, and they drove round corners and stopped at
houses in different streets of the village. First they took in old Mr.
Kurtz; he was going to New York for his business, Norton whispered to
Matilda; he had a large basket and an old lady with him. Then the
omnibus went round into the street behind the parsonage and received
Mr. Schonfloecken, the Lutheran minister, and from another house another
old lady with another basket. Two men got in from the corner. Lastly
the omnibus stopped before a house near the baker's; and here they
waited. The people were not ready. There were two children missing from
the travelling party, it seemed. Inquiries and exclamations were
bandied about; the stage driver knocked impatiently and cried out to
hurry; Matilda was very much afraid they might miss the train. "Never
mind; he knows his business," Norton remarked coolly. At last a man who
had been in quest, brought back the stray children from an opposite
lumber yard, calling out that they were found; then there were kisses
and leave takings, and "Good bye, grandma!" and "Come back again!"--and
finally the mother put her children into the omnibus, the first, the
second, the third, and the fourth; then got in herself, and the vehicle
lumbered on. The omnibus was crowded now; and the new comers had been
eating a breakfast of fried cakes and fish, pretty near the stove where
it was cooked; for the smoke of the fry had filled their clothes. Of
course it filled the omnibus also. This could be borne only a few
minutes.
"Dear Norton," Matilda whispered, "can't you open this window for me? I
cannot breathe."
"You'll catch cold," said Norton.
"No I won't. Please do! it is choking me."
Norton laughed, and opened the window, and Matilda putting her face
close to the opening was able to get a breath of fresh air. Then she
enjoyed herself again. The grey dawn was brightening over the fields;
the morning air was brisk and frosty; and as soon as Matilda's lungs
could play freely again, so could her imagination. How pretty the dusky
clumps of trees were against the brightening sky; how lovely that
growing light in the east, which every moment rose stronger and
revealed more. The farm houses they passed looked as if they had not
waked up yet; barns and farmyards were waiting for the day's work to
begin; a waggoner or two, going slowly to the station, were all the
moving things they saw. The omnibus passed them, and lumbered on.
"Norton," said Matilda suddenly, bringing her face round from the
window, "it's delicious to be up so early."
"Unless you are obliged to take other people's breakfast before you get
your own," said Norton. He looked disgusted, and Matilda could not help
laughing in her turn.
"Put your nose to my window,--you can," she said. "The air is as sweet
as can be."
"Outside"--grumbled Norton.
"Well, that is what I am getting," said Matilda. "Can't you get some of
it?--poor Norton!"
"What I don't understand," said Norton, "is how people live."
At this point, the old woman with the basket got out, where a cross
road branched off. Matilda was obliged to move up into the vacated
place, to make more room for the others; and she lost her open window.
However, the river came in sight now; the end of the ride was near; and
soon she and Norton stood on the steps of the station house.
"I don't believe my coat will get over it all day," said the latter.
"There ought to be two omnibuses."
"The poor people cannot help it, Norton; they are not to blame."
"Yes, they are," said Norton. "They might open their windows and air
their houses. They are not fit to be in a carriage with clean people."
"I guess they don't know any better," said Matilda; "and they were
rather poor people, Norton."
"Well?" said Norton. "That is what I say. There ought to be a coach for
them specially."
He went in to buy the tickets, and Matilda remained on the steps,
wondering a little why there should be poor people in the world. Why
could not all have open windows and free air and sweet dresses? Being
poor, she knew, was somehow at the bottom of it; and why should there
be such differences? And then, what was the duty of those better off?
"Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you,"--that opened a wide
field. Too big to be gone over just now. Matilda was sure that she was
in the right way so far, in going to give pleasure to Maria; and by the
way she would take all the pleasure she could herself. How sweet it was
now! The sun was up, and shining with bright yellow light upon the
hills of Rosendale and the opposite shore. The river was all in lively
motion under the breeze; the ferry boat just coming in from Rondout;
the sky overhead clearing itself of some racks of grey vapour and
getting all blue. Could anything be more delicious? Now the passengers
came trooping over from the "Lark," to get their tickets; and presently
came the rumble of the train. She and Norton jumped into one of the
cars, and then they were off.
"I'm hungry," was Norton's first confidence in the cars.
"So am I, very," said Matilda. "It will not take more than an hour,
will it, to go to Poughkeepsie?"
"Not that," said Norton. Then the very first thing will be, to go up to
Smith's and get our breakfast."
"That's that restaurant?"
"Yes. A good one too."
"I never was in a restaurant in my life," said Matilda.
"We'll see how you like it, Pink; it's delightful that you have never
seen anything."
"Why?"
"You have got so much to see. And I want to know what you will think of
it all."
Matilda was almost too happy. So happy, that not a sunbeam, nor a
ripple on the water, nor a cloud in the sky, but seemed to bring her
more to be glad of. It was only that her joy met these things and
glanced back. So Norton said. But Matilda thought it was something
beside.
"Why Norton, I am glad of those things _themselves_," she insisted.
"Of the waves on the river?" said Norton.
"Yes, to be sure I am."
"Nonsense, Pink! What for?"
"I don't know what for," said Matilda. "They are so pretty. And they
are so lively. And there is another thing, Norton," she said with a
change of voice. "God made them."
"Do you like everything he has made?" said Norton.
"I think I do."
"Then you must like those poor people in the omnibus, and poor people
everywhere. Do _they_ give you pleasure?"
Matilda could not say that they did. She wished with all her heart
there were no such thing as poverty in the world. She could not answer
immediately. And before she could answer the whistle blew.
"Is this Poughkeepsie?"
"Yes, this is Poughkeepsie. Now we'll have breakfast! Look sharp,
Pink"--
In another minute, the two were standing on the platform of the station.
"Is _this_ the place?" Matilda inquired a little ruefully. She saw,
inside the glass door, a large room with what seemed like a shop
counter running down the length of it; and on this counter certainly
eatables were set out; she could see cups of tea or coffee, and
biscuits, and pieces of pie. People were crowding to this counter, and
plates and cups seemed to have a busy time.
"This is Poughkeepsie," said Norton. "You have been here before. This
our restaurant? I should think not! Not precisely. We have got to take
a walk before we get to it. Smith's is at the top of the street."
"I am glad; I am ready to walk," said Matilda joyously; and they set
off at a pace which shewed what sort of time their spirits were
keeping. Nevertheless, all the way, between other things, Matilda was
studying the problem of poverty which Norton had presented to her. The
walk was quite a walk, and the footsteps were a little slower before
the "top of the street" was reached. Why Norton called it so, Matilda
did not see. The street went on, far beyond; but they turned aside
round a corner, and presently were at the place they wanted.
They entered a nice quiet room, somewhat large, to be sure, and with a
number of little tables set out; but nobody at any of them. Matilda and
Norton went towards the back of the room, where it took an angle, and
they could be a little more private. Here they took possession of one
of the tables. Norton set down his basket, and Matilda took off her
hat. Nothing, she thought, could possibly be any pleasanter than this
expedition in which they were engaged. This was a rare experience;
unparalleled.
"Now what shall we have?" said Norton.
"What _can_ we have?" said Matilda.
"Everything. That is, any common thing. You couldn't get dishes of
French make-ups, I suppose; and we don't want them. I am just as hungry
as a bear."
"And I am as hungry as a bear_ess_."
Norton went off into a great laugh. "You look so like it!" he said.
"But you might be as hungry as a bear; that don't say anything against
your ladylike character. Though I always heard that she bears were
fiercer than the others, when once they got their spirits up. Oh, Pink,
Pink!"--
He was interrupted by the waiter.
"Now Pink, we've got to be civilized, and say what we'll have. You may
have a cup of coffee."
"Yes, I would like it, Norton."
"And beefsteak? or cold chicken? We'll have chicken. I know you like it
best."
It was nice of Norton; for he didn't.
"Buckwheats, Pink?"
"Yes. I like them," said Matilda.
"So do I, when they are good. And rolls, in case they shouldn't be. And
good syrup--Silver Drip, mind."
Norton gave his order, and the two sat waiting. Matilda examined the
place and its appointments. It was neat, if it was very plain.
"It's a good place enough," said Norton. "The country people come here
in the middle of the day when they have driven in to Poughkeepsie to
market and do shopping. Then the place is busy and all alive; now, you
see, we have got it to ourselves. But anyhow, they have always good
plain things here."
So the breakfast proved when it came. Matilda was very much amused with
the little coffee pot, holding just enough for two, and the cream
pitcher to match. But there was hot milk in plenty; and the cakes were
feathery light; and the cold fowl very good; and the rolls excellent.
And the two, Norton and Matilda, were very hungry. So much exercise and
so much business and pleasure together made them sharp. Eating stopped
talking a little. But the very goodness of the breakfast made Matilda
think only the more, in the intervals, of that question Norton had
given her; why were there poor people, who could have nothing like this?
"Shall we go to Blodgett's next? or will you see Maria first?" Norton
asked.
"O, Maria first, Norton; and then we need not be hurried about the
plants."
"The roots," said Norton. "Well, I'll see you there, and then I have
some other business to attend to. I'll come for you about dinner time;
then we can go to Blodgett's after dinner. You'll want a good deal of
time with Maria, I suppose."
So after breakfast the two went down the town again and turned into the
cross street where Maria lived. At the door of the humble-looking
house, Norton left Matilda and went off again. Yes, it was a plain,
small brick house, with wooden steps and little windows. Matilda had
the door opened to her by Maria herself. She could not understand,
though she surely saw, the cloud which instantly covered a flash of
pleasure in Maria's face. The two went in, went up the stairs to a
little back room, which was Maria's own. A chill came over Matilda
here. It was so different from her room. A little close stove warmed
it; the bed was covered with a gay patchwork quilt which had seen its
best days; the chairs were but two, and those rush-bottomed. A painted
wooden chest of drawers stood under the tiny bit of looking glass; the
wash stand in the corner had but one towel thrown over it, and that not
clean; one or two of Maria's dresses hung up against the wall. But a
skirt of rich blue silk lay across the bed, for contrast; and yards of
blue satin ribband lay partly quilled on the skirt, partly heaped on
the patchwork quilt, and part had fallen on the floor. So one life
touched another life.
"Well!" said Maria, for Matilda did not immediately begin what she had
to say,--"how came you to be here so early?"
"We came down in the early train. I wanted to have a good long time to
talk to you; and the next train is so late."
"Who came with you?"
"O, Norton. Norton Laval."
"Norton Laval! He came with you before. How came aunt Candy to let you
come?"
"She could not help it."
"No," said Maria scornfully; "anything that Mrs. Laval wanted, she
would say nothing against. She would go down on her knees, if she could
get into Mrs. Laval's house. Did Mrs. Laval ask her to get you those
new things?"
"No. Mrs. Laval"--
"How came she to do it, then?" interrupted Maria. "They are just as
handsome as they can be; and in the fashion too. But she always liked
you. I knew it. She never gave me anything, but a faded silk
neckerchief. She is too mean"--
"O don't, Maria!" Matilda interrupted in her turn. "Aunt Candy had
nothing to do with these things; she never gave me much either; she did
not get these for me."
"Who did, then?" said Maria opening her eyes.
"Mrs. Laval."
"Mrs. Laval! How came _she_ to do it?"
"Yes, Maria, because--Maria, I have gone away from aunt Candy's."
"For a visit. I know. It has been a tremendously long visit, I think."
"Not for a visit now. Maria, I am not to go back there at all any more;
I mean, I am not going back to aunt Candy. Mrs. Laval has taken me to
keep--to be her own child. I am there now, for always."
"What?" Maria exclaimed.
"Mrs. Laval has taken me for her own,--for her own child."
"She hasn't!" said Maria; and if the wish did not point the expression,
it was hard to tell what did. Matilda made no answer.
"Mrs. Laval has taken you? _for her own child?_" repeated Maria. "Do
you mean that? To be with her, just like her own daughter? always?"
Matilda bowed her head, and her eyes filled. She was so disappointed.
"You aren't ever going to call her mamma? Don't you do it, Matilda! See
you don't. If you do, I'll not be your sister any more. She shall not
have that!"
Matilda was silent still, utterly dismayed.
"Why don't you speak? What made her do that, anyhow?"
"I don't know," said Matilda in a trembling voice. "She had a little
daughter once, and she took me"--Matilda's eyes were glittering. She
nearly broke down, but would not, and in the resistance she made to the
temptation, her head took its peculiar airy turn upon her neck. Maria
ought to have known her well enough to understand it.
"Everything comes to you!" she exclaimed. "I wonder why nothing comes
to me! There are you, set up now, you think, above all your relations;
you will not want to look at us by and by; I dare say you feel so now.
And you are dressed, and have dresses made for you, and you ride in a
carriage, and you have everything you want; and I here make dresses for
other people, and live anyhow I can; sew and sew, from morning till
night, and begin again as soon as morning comes; and never a bit of
pleasure or rest or hope of it; and can't dress myself decently, except
by the hardest! I don't know what I have done to deserve it!" said
Maria furiously. "It has always been so. Mamma loved you best, and aunt
Candy treated you best,--she didn't love anybody;--and now strangers
have taken you up; and nobody cares for me at all."
Here Maria completed her part of the harmony by bursting into tears.
And being tears of extreme mortification and envy, they were hard to
stop. The fountain was large. Matilda sat still, with her eyes
glittering, and her head in the position that with her was apt to mean
disapproval, and meant it now. But what could she say.
"It's very hard!"--Maria sobbed at last. "It's very hard!"
"Maria," said her little sister, "does it make it any harder for you,
because I am taken such good care of?"
"Yes!" said Maria. "Why should good care be taken of you any more than
of me? Of course it makes it harder."
There was nothing that it seemed wise to say; and Matilda, sometimes a
wise little child in her way, waited in silence, though very much
grieved. She began to think it was hard for Maria, though the whole
thing had got into a puzzle with her. And she thought it was a little
bit hard for herself, that she should have taken such pains to prepare
a present for her sister, and meet such a reception when she came to
offer it.
"Just look what a place I live in!" sobbed Maria. "Not a nice thing
about it. And here I sit and sew and sew, to make other people's
things, from morning till night; and longer. I had to sit up till ten
o'clock last night, puckering on that ribband; and I shall have to do
it again to-night; till twelve, very likely; because I have spent time
talking to you. All that somebody else may be dressed and have a good
time."
"But Maria, what would you do if you _hadn't_ this to do?" suggested
Matilda.
"I don't know, and I don't care! I'd as lieve die as do this. I should
like to put those pieces of blue ribband in the stove, and never see
them again!"
"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."
"I think it is time. You haven't been here for weeks, and months, for
aught I know."
"Because I wrote you why, Maria. There was sickness at Briery Bank, and
Norton and I were at the parsonage ever so long. I couldn't come to see
you then."
"What have you got in that basket? your dinner?"
"O no; something that I wanted to shew to you. I wanted to bring you
something, Maria; and I did not know what you would like; and I thought
about it and thought about it all yesterday, and I didn't know. I
wanted to bring you something pretty; but I remembered when I was here
before you said you wanted gloves and handkerchiefs so much; and so, I
thought it was better to bring you those."
While Matilda was making this speech, she was slowly taking out of her
basket and unfolding her various bundles; she had half a hope, and no
more now, that Maria would be pleased. Maria snatched the bundles,
examined the handkerchiefs and counted them; then compared the gloves
with her hand and laid them over it. Finally she put both gloves and
handkerchiefs on the bed beside her, and went on sewing. She had not
said one word about them.
"Are they right, Maria?" said her little sister. "They are the right
number, I know; do you like the colours I have chosen?"
"They are well enough," Maria answered.
"Green and chocolate, I thought you liked," Matilda went on; "and the
dark brown _I_ liked. So I chose those. Do you like the handkerchiefs,
Maria?"
"I want them badly enough," said Maria. "Did you get them at Cope's?"
"Yes, and I thought they were very nice. Are they?"
"A child like you doesn't know much about buying such things," said
Maria, quilling and turning her blue ribband with great energy. "Yes,
they'll do pretty well. What sort of handkerchiefs have _you_ got?"
"Just my old ones. I haven't got any new ones."
"I should like to see those, when you get them. I suppose they'll be
worked, and have lace round the borders."
"I shouldn't like it, if they had," said Matilda.
"We'll see, when you get them. I wonder how many things Anne and
Letitia want? and can't get."
"I shall see them soon," said Matilda. "We are going to New York for
the winter."
"You are!" exclaimed Maria, again ruefully. Matilda could not
understand why. "But you won't see much of Anne and Letty, I don't
believe."
"Perhaps I shall be going to school, and so not have much chance. Where
do they live, Maria? I have forgotten."
"You will forget again," said Maria.
"But tell me, please. I will put it down."
"Number 316 Bolivar street. Now how much wiser are you?"
"Just so much," said Matilda, marking the number on a bit of paper. "I
must know the name before I can find the place."
"You won't go there much," said Maria again. "Might just as well let it
alone."
"Are the people here pleasant, Maria? are they good to live with?"
"They are not what you would call good."
"Are they pleasant?"
"No," said Maria. "They are not at all pleasant. I don't care who hears
me say it. All the woman cares for, is to get as much work out of me as
she can. That is how I live."
There was no getting to a smooth track for conversation with Maria.
Begin where she would, Matilda found herself directly plunged into
something disagreeable. She gave it up and sat still, watching the blue
ribband curling and twisting in Maria's fingers, and wondering sadly
anew why some people should be rich and others poor.
"Aren't you going to take off your things and have dinner with me?"
said Maria, glancing up from her trimming.
"I cannot do that very well; Norton is coming for me; and I do not know
how soon."
"I don't suppose I could give you anything you would like to eat. Where
will you get your dinner then?"
"Somewhere with Norton."
"Then you didn't bring it with you?"
"No."
Matilda did not feel that it would do to-day, to invite Maria to go
with them to the restaurant. Norton had said nothing about it; and in
Maria's peculiar mood Matilda could not tell how she might behave
herself or what she would say. Perhaps Maria expected it, but she could
not help that. The time was a silent one between the sisters, until the
expected knock at the house door came. It was welcome, as well as
expected. Matilda got up, feeling relieved if she felt also sorry; and
after kissing Maria, she ran down-stairs and found herself in the fresh
open air, taking long breaths, like a person that had been shut up in a
close little stove-heated room. Which she had. And Norton's cheery
voice was a delightful contrast to Maria's dismal tones. With busy
steps, the two went up the street again to the restaurant. It was
pretty full of people now; but Norton and Matilda found an unoccupied
table in a corner. There a good dinner was brought them; and the two
were soon equally happy in eating it and in discussing their garden
arrangements. After they had dined, Norton ordered ice cream.
Matilda was as fond of ice cream as most children are who have very
seldom seen it; but while she sat enjoying it she began to think again,
why she should have it and Maria not have it? The question brought up
the whole previous question that had been troubling her, about the rich
and the poor, and quite gave a peculiar flavour to what she was
tasting. She lost some of Norton's talk about bulbs.
"Norton," she exclaimed at last suddenly, "I have found it!"
"Found what?" said Norton. "Not a blue tulip?"
"No, not a blue tulip. I have found the answer to that question you
asked me,--you know,--in the cars."
"I asked you five hundred and fifty questions in the cars," said
Norton. "Which one?"
"Just before we got to Poughkeepsie, don't you remember?"
"No," said Norton laughing. "I don't, of course. What was it, Pink? The
idea of remembering a question!"
"Don't you remember, you asked me if I didn't like poverty and poor
people, for the same reason I liked other things?"
But here Norton's amusement became quite unmanageable.
"How _should_ you like poverty and poor people for the same reason you
like other things, you delicious Pink?" he said. "How should you like
those smoky coats in the omnibus, for the same reason that you like a
white hyacinth or a red tulip?"
"That is what I was puzzling about, Norton; you don't recollect; and I
could not make it out; because I knew I _didn't_ enjoy poverty and poor
things, and you said I ought."
"Excuse me," said Norton. "I never said you ought, in the whole course
of my rational existence since I have known you."
"No, no, Norton; but don't you know, I said I liked everything, waves
of the river and all, because God made them? and you thought I ought to
like poor people and things for the same reason."
"O, that!" said Norton. "Well, why don't you?"
"That is what I could not tell, Norton, and I was puzzling to find out;
and now I know."
"Well, why?"
"Because, God did _not_ make them, Norton."
"Yes, he did. Doesn't he make everything?"
"In one way he does, to be sure; but then, Norton, if everybody did
just right, there would be no poor people in the world; so it is not
something that God has made, but something that comes because people
won't do right."
"How?" said Norton.
"Why Norton, you know yourself. If everybody was good and loved
everybody else as well as himself, the people who have more than enough
would give to the people who are in want, and there would not be
uncomfortable poor people anywhere. And that is what the Bible says.
'He that hath two coats,'--don't you remember?"
"No, I don't," said Norton. "Most people have two coats, that can
afford it. What ought they to do?"
"The Bible says, 'let him impart to him that hath none.'"
"But suppose I cannot get another," said Norton; "and I want two for
myself?"
"But somebody else has not _one?_ suppose."
"I can very easily suppose it," said Norton. "As soon as we get out of
the cars in New York I'll shew you a case."
"Well, Norton, that is what I said. If everybody loved those poor
people, don't you see, they would have coats, and whatever they need.
It is because you and I and other people _don't_ love them enough."
"I don't love another boy well enough to give him my overcoat," said
Norton. "But coats wouldn't make a great many poor people respectable.
Those children in the omnibus this morning had coats on, comfortable
enough; the trouble was, they were full of buckwheat cake smoke."
"Well if people are not clean, that's their own fault," said Matilda.
"But those people this morning hadn't perhaps any place to be in _but_
their kitchen. They might not be able to help it, for want of another
room and another fire."
Matilda was eager, but Norton was very much amused. He ordered some
more ice cream and a charlotte. Matilda eat what he gave her, but
silently carried on her thoughts; _these_ she would have given to
Maria, if she could; she was having more than enough.
Moralizing was at an end when she got to the gardener's shop. The
consultations and discussions which went on then, drove everything else
out of her head. The matter in hand was a winter garden, for their home
in New York.
"I'll have some auriculas this year," said Norton. "You wouldn't know
how to manage them, Pink. You must have tulips and snowdrops; O yes,
and crocuses. You can get good crocuses here. And polyanthus narcissus
you can have. You will like that."
"But what will you have, Norton?"
"Auriculas. That's one thing. And then, I think I'll have some
Amaryllis roots--but I won't get those here. I'll get tulips and
hyacinths, Pink."
"Shall we have room for so many?"
"Lots of room. There's my room has two south windows--that's the good
of being on a corner; and I don't know exactly what your room will be,
but I'll get grandmother to let us live on that side of the house
anyhow. Nobody else in the family cares about a south window, only you
and I. Put up a dozen Van Tols, and a dozen of the hyacinths, and three
polyanthus narcissus, and a dozen crocuses;--and a half dozen
snowdrops."
"Will you plant them while we are in Shadywalk?"
"Of course," said Norton; "or else they'll be blossoming too late,
don't you see? Unless we go to town very soon; and in that case we'll
wait and keep them."
The roots were paid for and ordered to be sent by express; and at last
Norton and Matilda took their journey to the station house to wait for
the train. It was all a world of delight to Matilda. She watched
eagerly the gathering people, the busy porters and idle hack drivers;
the expectant table and waiters in the station restaurant; every detail
and almost every person she saw had the charm of novelty or an interest
of some sort for her unwonted eyes. And then came the rumble of the
train, the snort and the whistle; and she was seated beside Norton in
the car, with a place by the window where she could still watch
everything. The daylight was dying along the western shore before they
reached the Shadywalk station; the hills and the river seemed to
Matilda like a piece of a beautiful vision; and all the day had been
like a dream.