now anything about Sam," said Matilda. "She lives alone."

"Well, _she_ lives alone. That's her door yonder--where the cat sits."

"Thank you." Matilda thought to ask if the boy went to Sunday-school;
but she felt as if all the force she had would be wanted to carry her
through the visit to Mrs. Eldridge. It was a forlorn-looking doorway;
the upper half of the door swinging partly open; the cottage dropping
down on one side, as if it was tired of the years when it had stood up;
not a speck of paint to be seen anywhere, and little, bare, broken
windows, not even patched with rags. Matilda walked up to the door and
knocked, sorely appalled at the view she got through the half-open
doorway. No answer. She knocked again. Then a weak, "Who is it?"

Matilda let herself in. There was a worn and torn rag carpet; an
unswept floor; boards and walls that had not known the touch of water
or soap in many, many months; a rusty little stove with no fire in it;
and a poor old woman, who looked in all respects like her surroundings;
worn and torn and dusty and unwashed and neglected. To her Matilda
turned, with a great sinking of heart. What could _she_ do?

"Who's here?" said the old woman, who did not seem to have her sight
clear.

"Matilda Englefield."

"I don't know no such a person."

"Maybe you would like to know me," said Matilda. "I am come to see you."

"What fur? I hain't sent for nobody. Who told you to come?"

"No, I know you didn't. But I wanted to come and see you, Mrs.
Eldridge."

"What fur? You're a little gal, bain't you?"

"Yes, ma'am; and I thought maybe you would like to have me read a
chapter in the Bible to you."

"A _what?_" said the old woman with strong emphasis.

"A chapter in the Bible. I thought--perhaps you couldn't see to read it
yourself."

"Read?" said the old creature. "Never could. I never could see to read,
for I never knowed how. No, I never knowed how; I didn't."

"You would like to hear reading, now, wouldn't you? I came to read to
you a chapter--if you'll let me--out of the Bible."

"A chapter?" the old woman repeated--"what's a chapter now? It's no
odds; 'taint bread, nor 'taint 'baccy."

"No, it is not tobacco," said Matilda; "but it is better than tobacco."

"Couldn't ye get me some 'baccy, now?" said the old woman, as if with a
sudden thought. But Matilda did not see her way clear to that; and the
hope failing, the failure of everything seemed to be expressed in a
long-dra