The teacher's eyes were looking at Norton, and he was constrained to answer no.
"What did he gain?"
Norton was still the one looked at, and he fidgeted. Mr. Wharncliffe waited.
"I suppose, God gave him learning and wisdom."
"In consequence of his learning and wisdom, which were very remarkable, what then?"
"The king's favour," said Norton.
"Just what the friends of the young Jews had been afraid they would lose. They 'stood before the king;' that means they were appointed to be king's officers; they served him, not any meaner man. Now how does this all come home to us? How are we tempted, as Daniel and his fellows were tempted?"
Norton, at whom Mr. Wharncliffe glanced, replied that he did not know. Matilda also was silent, though longing to utter her confession. The questioning eyes passed on.
"The fellows think you must do as they does," said a lad who sat next Matilda.
"In what?"
That boy hesitated; the next spoke up, and said, "Lying, and lifting."
"And swearing," added a third.
"How if you do not follow their ways?"
"Some thinks you won't never get along, nohow."
"What is your opinion, Lawrence?"
The boy shifted his position a little uneasily. "They say you won't, teacher."
"So Daniel's friend was afraid he would not get along, if he did not eat the king's meat. Girls, does the temptation come to you?"
There was a general chorus of "Yes, sir," and "Yes, sir."
"Have you tried following the Lord's word against people's opinion?"
Again "Yes, sir" – came modestly from several lips.
"Do you find any ill come from it?"
"Yes, sir, a little," said a girl who might have been two or three years older than Matilda. "You get made game of, and scolded, sometimes. And they say you are lofty, or mean. Sometimes they say one to me, and sometimes the other."
"And they plague a feller," said a boy; "the worst kind."
"Is it hard to bear?"
"I think it is," said the girl; and one or two of the boys said again, "Yes, sir."
"Reckon you'd think so, if you tried, teacher," another put in. "They rolled Sam in the mud, the other day. There was six of 'em, you see, and he hadn't no chance."
"Sam, how did it feel? And how did you feel?"
"Teacher, 'twarn't easy to feel right."
"Could you manage it?"
"I guess not, at first. But afterwards I remembered."
"What did you remember?"
"I remembered they didn't know no better, sir."
"I think you are mistaken. They knew they were doing wrong; how wrong, I suppose they did not know. Well, Sam – 'if any man suffer as a Christian, let him not be ashamed, but let him glorify God on this behalf.' Were you ashamed?"
"No, sir."
"God says, 'Them that honour me, I will honour;' and, – 'Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.' The honour that he gives will be real honour. It is worth while waiting for it. Now our time will be up in two minutes – Peter, what lesson do you get from all this? for yourself?"
"To be more careful, sir."
"Of what, my boy?"
"Careful not to have anything to do with bad ways."
"Can't be too careful; the temptation comes strong. Ellen, what is your lesson?"
"I never saw before how much a good example is."
"Ay. God often is pleased to make it very much. Well, Dick."
"Teacher, I don't think New York is like that 'ere place."
"Don't you? Why not?"
"Folks can't get along that way in our streets."
"How do you find it, Sam? and what is your conclusion from the lesson."
"I wish I was more like Dan'l, teacher."
"So I wish. You and I are agreed, Sam. And Daniel's God is ours, remember. Heath?"
"They was rum fellers, teacher, them 'ere."
"That is your conclusion. Well! so some people thought then. But Daniel and his fellows came to glory. What have you to say, Joanna?"
"I think I hain't been keerful enough, teacher."
"Robert?"
"I think it is best to let go everything else and trust God."
"You'll make no mistake so, my boy. Sarah, what is the lesson to you?"
The girl, a very poorly dressed one, hesitated, and then said a little falteringly, —
"It's nice to be clean inside, teacher."
The teacher paused a moment also before his eye came to Matilda, and then it was very soft.
"What does my new scholar say?"
Matilda struggled with herself, looked down and looked up, and met the kind eyes again.
"One must be willing to be unlike the world," she said.
"Is it easy?"
"I think it is very hard, sir."
"Do you find it so, my friend?" he asked, his eye going on to Norton. But the bell rang just then; and in the bustle of rising and finding the hymn Norton contrived to escape the answering and yet without being rude.
As they were turning away, after the services were ended, Matilda felt a light touch on her shoulder and her teacher said quietly, "Wait." She stood still, while he went up to speak to somebody. All the other children passed out, and she was quite alone when Mr. Wharncliffe came back to her.
"Which way are you going?"
"Down the avenue, sir."
"What avenue?"
"Blessington avenue. But only to 40th street."
"Let us go together."
They had the walk to themselves; for though Norton had waited for Matilda till she came out, he sheered off when he saw what company she was in, and contented himself with keeping her in sight. Just then Norton did not care to come to closer quarters with Mr. Wharncliffe. This gentleman talked pleasantly with Matilda; asked how she happened to come to the school, how long she had been in the city, and something about her life at Shadywalk. At last he came back to the subject of the afternoon's lesson.
"You think it is difficult to be as loyal as Daniel was?"
"What is 'loyal,' sir?"
"It is being a true subject, in heart; – faithful to the honour and will of one's king."
"I think it is difficult" – Matilda said in a subdued tone.
"How come you to find it so?"
"Mr. Wharncliffe," said Matilda suddenly making up her mind, "it is very hard not to want to be fashionable."
"I don't know that there is any harm in being fashionable," said her teacher quietly. But though his face was quiet, it was so strong and good that Matilda felt great reliance on all it said.
"Isn't there?" she asked quite eagerly.
"Why should there be?"
"But – it costs so much!" Matilda could not help confessing it.
"To be fashionable?"
"Yes, sir."
"You do not dress yourself, I suppose. The money is not your money, is it?"
"Yes, sir, some of it is my money; because I have an allowance, and get my own shoes and gloves."
"And you find it costs a great deal to be fashionable?"
"Yes, sir; a great deal."
"What would you like to do with your money?"
"There is a great deal to do," said Matilda soberly. "A great many people want help, don't they?"
"More than you think. I could tell you of several in the class you have just been with."
"Then, sir, what ought I to do?" – and Matilda lifted two earnest, troubled eyes to the face of her teacher.
"I think you ought to look carefully to see what the Lord has given you to do, and ask him to shew you."
"But about spending my money?"
"Then you will better be able to tell. When you see clearly what you can do with a dollar, it will not be very hard to find out whether Jesus means you should do that with it, or buy a pair of gloves, for instance. We will talk more about this and I will help you. Here is your house. Good bye."
"But Mr. Wharncliffe," said Matilda, eagerly, as she met the clasp of his hand, – "one thing; I want to stay in your class. May I?"
"I shall be very glad to have you. Good bye."
He went off down the avenue, and Matilda stood looking after him. He was a young man; he was hardly what people call a handsome man; his figure had nothing imposing; but the child's heart went after him down the avenue. His face had so much of the strength and the sweetness and the beauty of goodness, that it attracted inevitably those who saw it; there was a look of self-poise and calm which as surely invited trust; truth and power were in the face, to such a degree that it is not wonderful a child's heart, or an older person's, for that matter, should be won and his confidence given even on a very short acquaintance. Matilda stood still in the street, following the teacher's receding figure with her eye.
"What are you looking at?" said Norton, now coming up.
"O Norton! didn't you like the school very much?"
"They're a queer set," said Norton. "They're a poor set, Pink! a miserable poor set."
"Well, what then? Don't you like the teacher?"
"He's well enough; but I don't like the company."
"They were very well behaved, Norton; quite as well as the children at Shadywalk."
"Shadywalk was Shadywalk," said Norton, "but here it is another thing. It won't do. Why Pink, I shouldn't wonder if some of them were street boys."
"I think some of those in the class were good, Norton; boys and girls too."
"Maybe so," said Norton; "but their clothes weren't. Faugh!"
Matilda went into the house, wondering at her old problem, but soon forgetting wonder in mixed sorrow and joy. All the beauty of being a true child of God rose up fresh before her eyes; some of the honour and dignity of it; nothing in all the world, Matilda was sure, could be so lovely or so happy. But she had not honoured her King like Daniel; and that grieved her. She was very sure now what she wanted to be.
The next morning she took up the matter of her Christmas gifts in a new spirit. What was she meant to do with her twenty dollars? Before she could decide that, she must know a little better what it was possible to do; and for that Mr. Wharncliffe had promised his help. She must wait. In the meanwhile she studied carefully the question, what it was best for her to give to her sisters and the members of her immediate family circle; and very grave became Matilda's consideration of the shops. Her little face was almost comical now and then in its absorbed pondering of articles and prices and calculation of sums. An incredible number and variety of the latter, both in addition and subtraction, were done in her head those days, resolving twenty dollars into an unheard of number of parts and forming an unknown number of combinations with them. She bought the bronze obelisk for Mrs. Laval; partly that she might have some pennies on hand for the street sweepers; but then came a time of fair weather days, and the street sweepers were not at the crossings. Matilda purchased furthermore some dark brown silk braid for Norton's watchguard, and was happy making it, whenever she could be shut up in her room. She dared not trust Judy's eyes or tongue.
One day she was busy at this, her fingers flying over the braid and her thoughts as busy, when somebody tried to open her door, and then tapped at it. Matilda hid her work and opened, to let in Judy. She was a good deal surprised, for she had not been so honoured before. Judith and her brother were very cool and distant since the purchase of the liqueur stand.
"What do you keep your door locked for?" was the young lady's salutation now, while her eyes roved over all the furniture and filling of Matilda's apartment.
"I was busy."
"Didn't you want anybody to come in?"
"Not without my knowing it."
"What were you doing then?"
"If I had wanted everybody to know, I should not have shut myself up."
"No, I suppose not. I suppose you want me out of the way, too. Well, I am not going."
"I do not want you to go, Judy, if you like to stay. That is, if you will be good."
"Good?" said the other, her eyes snapping. "What do you call good?"
"Everybody knows what good means, don't they?" said Matilda.
"I don't," said Judy. "I have my way of being good – that's all. Everybody has his own way. What is yours?"
"But there is only one real way."
"Ain't there, though!" exclaimed Judy. "I'll shew you a dozen."
"They can't be all good, Judy."
"Who's to say they are not?"
"Why, the Bible." The minute she had said it the colour flushed to Matilda's face. But Judy went on with the greatest coolness.
"Your Bible, or my Bible?"
"There isn't but one Bible, Judy, that I know."
"Yes, there is!" said the young lady fiercely. "There's our Bible, that's the true. There's yours, that's nothing, that you dare bind up with it."
"They both say the same thing," said Matilda.
"They DON'T!" said the girl, sitting upright, and her eyes darted fire. "They don't say a word alike; don't you dare say it."
"Why Judy, what the one says is good, the other says is good; there is no difference in that. Did you ever read the New Testament?"
"No! and I don't want to; nor the other either. But I didn't come to talk about that."
"What do you call goodness, then?"
"Goodness?" said Judy, relapsing into comparatively harmless mischief; "goodness? It's a sweet apple – and I hate sweet apples."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that. Goody folks are stupid. Aren't they, though!"
"But then, what is your notion of real goodness?"
"I don't believe there is such a thing. Come! you don't either."
"I don't believe in goodness?"
"Goodness!" repeated Judy impatiently, "you needn't stare. I don't choose to be stared at. You know it as well as I. When you are what you call good, you just want the name of it. So do I sometimes; and then I get it. That's cheap work."
"Want the name of what?"
"Why, of being good."
"Then goodness is something. You wouldn't want the name of nothing."
Judy laughed. "I haven't come here to be good to-day," she said; "nor to talk nonsense. I want to tell you about something. We are going to have a party."
"A party! when?"
"Christmas eve. Now it is our party, you understand; mine and Norton's and David's; mamma has nothing to do with it, nor grandmamma, except to prepare everything. That she'll do; but we have got to prepare the entertainment; and we are going to play games and act proverbs; and I have come to see how much you know, and whether you can help."
"What do you want me to know?" said Matilda. "I'll help all I can."
"How much do you know about games? Can you play 'What's my thought like?' or 'Consequences?' or anything?"
"I never played games much," said Matilda, with a sudden feeling of inferiority. "I never had much chance."
"I dare say!" said Judy. "I knew that before I came. Well of course you can't act proverbs. You don't know anything."
"What is it?" said Matilda. "Tell me. Perhaps I can learn."
"You can't learn in a minute," said Judy with a slight toss of her head, which indeed was much given to wagging in various directions.
"But tell me, please."
"Well, there's no harm in that. We choose a proverb, of course, first; for instance the boys are going to play 'It's ill talking between a full man and a fasting.' This is how they are going to do it. Nobody knows, you understand, what the proverb is, but they must guess it. Norton will be a rich man who wants to buy a piece of land; and David is the man who owns the land and has come to see him; but he has come a good way, and he is without his dinner, and he feels as cross as can be, and no terms will suit him. So they talk and talk, and disagree and quarrel and are ridiculous; till at last Norton finds out that Davy hasn't dined; and then he orders up everything in the house he can think of, that is good, and makes him eat; and when he has eaten everything and drunk wine and they are cracking nuts, then Norton begins again about the piece of land; and the poor man is so comfortable now he is willing to sell anything he has got; and Norton gets it for his own price. Won't it be good?"
"I should think it would be very interesting," said Matilda; whom indeed the description interested mightily. "But how could I help? I don't see."
"O not in that you couldn't, of course; Davy and Norton don't want any help, I guess, from anybody; they know all about it. But I want you to help me. I wonder if you can. I don't believe you can, either. I shall have to get somebody else."
"What do you want me to do?" said Matilda, feeling socially very small indeed.
"I am going to play 'Riches bring care.' I am a rich old woman, like grandmamma, only not like her, for she is never worried about anything; but I am worried to death for fear this or that will come to harm. And I want you to be my maid. I must have somebody, you know, to talk to and worry with."
"If that is all," said Matilda, "I should think I could be talked to."
"But it isn't all, stupid!" said Judy. "You must know how to answer back, and try to make me believe things are going right, and so worry me more and more."
"Suppose we try," said Matilda. "I don't know how I could do, but maybe I might learn."
"I'd rather have it all in the house," said Judy, "if I can. Two proverbs will be enough; for they take a good while – dressing and all, you know."
"Dressing for the proverbs?"
"Of course! Dressing, indeed! Do I look like an old woman without dressing? Not just yet. We must be dressed up to the work. But we can practise without being dressed. When the boys come home to-night, we'll come up here to the lobby and practise. But I don't believe you'll do."
"Will it be a large party, Judy?"
"Hm – I don't know. I guess not. Grandmamma doesn't like large parties. I dare say she won't have more than fifty."
Fifty seemed a very large party to Matilda; but she would not expose her ignorance, and so held her peace. Judy pottered about the room for a while longer, looking at everything in it, and out of it, Matilda thought; for she lounged at the windows with her arms on the sill, gazing up and down at all that was going on in the street. Finally said they would try a practice in the evening, and she departed.
CHAPTER XI
The acted proverbs that night went pretty well; so the boys said; and Matilda went to bed feeling that life was very delightful where such rare diversions were to be had, and such fine accomplishments acquired. The next time, Judy said, they would dress for the acting; that needed practising too.
The day following, when she got up, Matilda was astonished to find the air thick with snow and her window sills quite filled up with it already. She had meant to take a walk down town to make a purchase she had determined on; and her first thought was, how bad the walking would be now, after the dry clean streets they had rejoiced in for a week or two past. The next thought was, that the street sweepers would be out. For some time she had not seen them. They would be out in force to-day. Matilda had pennies ready; she was quite determined on the propriety of that; and she thought besides that a kind word or two might be given where she had a chance. "I am sure Jesus would speak to them," she said to herself. "He would try to do them good. I wonder, can I? But I can try."
She had the opportunity even sooner than she expected; for while she was eating her breakfast the snow stopped and the sun came out. So about eleven o'clock she made ready and set forth. There was a very convenient little pocket on the outside of her grey pelisse, in which she could bestow her pennies. Matilda put eleven coppers there, all she had, and one silver dime. What she was to do with that she did not know; but she thought she would have it ready.
Clear, bright and beautiful, the day was; not cold; and the city all for the moment whitened by the new fall of snow. So she thought at first; but Matilda soon found there was no whitening New York. The roadway was cut up and dirty, of course; and the multitudes of feet abroad dragged the dirt upon the sidewalks. However, the sky was blue; and defilement could not reach the sunlight; so she went along happy. But before she got to Fourteenth Street, nine of her eleven pennies were gone. Some timid words had gone with them too, sometimes; and Matilda had seen the look of dull asking change to surprise and take on a gleam of life in more than one instance; that was all that could be said. Two boys had assured her they went to Sunday school; one or two others of whom she had asked the question had not seemed to understand her. Had it done any good? She could not tell; how could she tell? Perhaps her look and her words and her penny, all together, might have brought a bit of cheer into lives as much trampled into the dirt as the very snow they swept. Perhaps; and that was worth working for; "anyhow, all I can do, is all I can do," thought Matilda. She mused too on the swift way money has of disappearing in New York. Norton's watchguard had cost twenty eight cents; the obelisk, two dollars; now the dress she was on her way to buy for Letitia would take two dollars and a half more; there was already almost five gone of her twenty. And of even her pennies she had only two left, with the silver bit. "However, they won't expect me to give them anything again as I go back," she thought, referring to the street sweepers. "Once in one morning will do, I suppose."
Just as she said this to herself, she had come to another crossing, a very busy one, where carts and carriages were incessantly turning down or coming up; keeping the sweeper in work. It was a girl this time; as old or older than herself; a little tidy, with a grim old shawl tied round her waist and shoulders, but bare feet in the snow. Matilda might have crossed in the crowd without meeting her, but she waited to speak and give her penny. The girl's face encouraged her.
"Are you not very cold?" Matilda asked.
"No – I don't think of it." The answer seemed to come doubtfully.
"Do you go to Sunday school anywhere?"
The girl sprang from her at this minute to clear the way for some dainty steppers, where the muddy snow had been flung by the horses' feet just a moment before; and to hold her hand for the penny, which was not given. Slowly she came back to Matilda.
"Do most of the people give you something?"
"No," said the girl. "Most of 'em don't."
"Do you go to Sunday school on Sundays?"
"O yes: I go to Mr. Rush's Sunday school, in Forty Second street."
"Why, I go there," said Matilda. "Who's your teacher?"
The girl's face quite changed as she now looked at her; it grew into a sort of answering sympathy of humanity; there was almost a dawning smile.
"I remember you," she said; "I didn't at first, but I do now. You were in the class last Sunday. I am in Mr. Wharncliffe's class."
"Why so do I remember you!" cried Matilda. "You are Sarah?"
The conversation was interrupted again, for the little street-sweeper was neglecting her duties, and she ran to attend to them. Out and in among the carriages and horses' feet. Matilda wondered why she did not get thrown down and trampled upon; but she was skilful and seemed to have eyes in the back of her head, for she constantly kept just out of danger. Matilda waited to say a little more to her, for the talk had become interesting; in vain, the little street-sweeper was too busy, and the morning was going; Matilda had to attend to her own business and be home by one o'clock. She had found, she thought, the place where her silver dime belonged; so she dropped it into Sarah's hand as she passed, with a smile, and went on her way. This time she got an unmistakable smile in return, and it made her glad.
So she was in a class with a street-sweeper! Matilda reflected as she went on down Broadway. Well, what of it? They would think it very odd at home! And somehow it seemed odd to Matilda herself. Had she got a little out of her place in going to Mr. Rush's Sunday school? Could it be best that such elegant robes, made by Mme. Fournissons, should sit in the same seat with a little street girl's brown rags? "She was not ragged on Sunday, though," thought Matilda; "poor enough; and some of those boys were street boys, I dare say. However, Mr. Wharncliffe is a gentleman; there is no doubt of that; and he likes his class; some of them are good, I think. And if they are, Jesus loves them. He loves them whether or no. How odd it is that we don't!" —
Matilda went on trying to remember all that Sarah had said in the school; but the different speakers and words were all jumbled up in her mind, and she could not quite separate them. She forgot Sarah then in the delightful business of choosing a dress for Letitia; a business so difficult withal that it was like to last a long time, if Matilda had not remembered one o'clock. She feared she would be late; yet a single minute more of talk with the street girl she must have; she walked up to Fourteenth street. Sarah was there yet, busy at her post. She had a smile again for Matilda.
"Are you not tired?" the rich child asked of the poor one.
"I don't think of being tired," was the answer.
"What time do you go home to dinner?"
"Dinner?" said Sarah; and she shook her head. "I don't go home till night. I can't."
"But how do you take your dinner?" Matilda asked.
The girl flushed a little, and hesitated. "I can take it here," she said.
"Standing? and in this crowd?"
"No. – I go and sit down somewheres. 'Tain't such a dinner as you have. It's easy took."
"Sarah," said Matilda suddenly, "you love Jesus, don't you?"
"Who?" she said, for the noise and rush of horses and carriages in the streets was tremendous, and the children both sprang back to the sidewalk just then out of the way of something. "Jesus? Was it that you asked?"
She stood leaning on her broom and looking at her questioner. Matilda could see better now how thin the face was, how marked with care; but at the same time a light came into it like a sunbeam on a winter landscape; the grey changed to golden somehow; and the set of the girl's lips, gentle and glad, was very sweet.
"Do I love him?" she repeated. "He is with me here all the day when I am sweeping the snow. Yes, I love him! and he loves me. That is how I live."
"That's how I want to live too," said Matilda; "but sometimes I forget."
"I shouldn't think you'd forget," said Sarah. "It must be easy for you."
"What must be easy?"
"I should think it would be easy to be good," said the poor girl, her eye going unconsciously up and down over the tokens of Matilda's comfortable condition.
"I don't think having things helps one to be good," said Matilda. "It makes it hard, sometimes."
"I sometimes think not having things makes it hard," said the other, a little wistfully. "But Jesus is good, anyhow!" she added with a content of face which was unshadowed.
"Good bye," said Matilda. "I shall see you again." And she ran off to get into a horse car. The little street-sweeper stood and looked after her. There was not a thing that the one had but the other had it not. She looked, and turned to her sweeping again.
Matilda on her part hurried along, with a heart quite full, but remembering at the same time that she would be late at lunch. At the corner where she stopped to wait for a car there was a fruit stall, stocked with oranges, apples, candies and gingerbread. It brought back a thought which had filled her head a few minutes ago; but she was afraid she would be late. She glanced down the line of rails to the car seen coming in the distance, balanced probabilities a moment, then turned to the fruit woman. She bought a cake of gingerbread and an orange and an apple; had to wait what seemed a long time to receive her change; then rushed across the block to where she had left Sarah, stopped only to put the things in her hands, and rushed back again; not in time to catch her car, which was going on merrily out of her hail. But the next one was not far behind; and Matilda enjoyed Sarah's lunch all the way to her own.
"But this is only for one day. And there are so many days, and so many people that want things. I must save every bit of money I can."
She was late; but she was so happy and hungry, that her elders looked on her very indulgently, it being, as in truth she was, a pleasant sight.
That evening Judith proposed another practising of the proverb she and Matilda were to act together; and this time she dressed up for it. A robe of her mother's, which trailed ridiculously over the floor; jewels of value in her ears and on her hands and neck; and finally a lace scarf of Mrs. Lloyd's, which was very rich and extremely costly. Norton was absent on some business of his own; David was the only critic on hand. He objected.
"You can act just as well without all that trumpery, Judith."
"Trumpery! That's what it is to you. My shawl is worth five hundred dollars if it is worth a dollar. It is worth a great deal more than that, I believe; but I declare I get confused among the prices of things. That is one of the cares of riches, that try me most."
"You can act just as well without all that, Judy."
"I can't!"
"You can just as well, if you would only think so."
"Very likely; but I don't think so; that just makes it, you see. I want to feel that I am rich; how am I going to get the idea in my head, boy? – I declare, Satinalia, I think this satin dress is getting frayed already."
"How ought I to be dressed?" inquired Matilda.
"O just as you are. You haven't to make believe, you know; you have got only to act yourself. Come, begin. – I declare, Satinalia, I think this satin dress is getting frayed already."
Matilda hesitated, then put by the displeasure which rose at Judy's rudeness, and entered into the play.
"And how shouldn't it, ma'am, when it's dragging and streaming all over the floor for yards behind you. Satin won't bear every thing."
"No, the satin one gets now-a-days won't. I could buy satin once, that would wear out two of this; and this cost five dollars a yard. Dear me! I shall be a poor woman yet."
"If you were to cut off the train, ma'am, the dress wouldn't drag so."
"Wouldn't it! you Irish stupid. O I hear something breaking downstairs! Robert has smashed a tray-ful, I'll be bound. I heard the breaking of glass. Run, Satinalia, run down as hard as you can and find out what it is. Run before he gets the pieces picked up; for then I shall never know what has happened."
"You'd miss the broken things," said Matilda; not exactly as Satinalia.
"You're an impudent hussy, to answer me so. Run and see what it is, I tell you, or I shall never know."
"What must I say it is?" said Matilda, out of character.
"Haven't you wit enough for that?" said Judith, also speaking in her own proper. "Say any thing you have a mind; but don't stand poking there. La! you haven't seen any thing in all your life, except a liqueur stand. Say any thing! and be quick."