prettier than Judith Bartholomew."

"She is as delicate as a little wood flower," said Mrs. Laval.

"She has more stuff than _that_," said Norton; "she is stiff enough to
hold her head up; but I'll tell you what she is like. She is like my
Penelope hyacinth."

"Your Penelope hyacinth!" Mrs. Laval echoed.

"Yes; you do not know it, mamma. It is not a white hyacinth; just off
that; the most delicate rose pearl colour. Now Judy is like a purple
dahlia."

"Matilda is like nothing that is not sweet," said Mrs. Laval fondly,
looking at the little head.

"Well, I am sure hyacinths are sweet," said Norton. "Mamma, will you
let me teach her?"

"You will not have time."

"I will. I have plenty of time."

"What will you teach her?"

"Everything I learn myself--if you say so."

"Perhaps she would like better to go to school."

"She wouldn't," said Norton. "She likes everything that I say."

"Does she!" said his mother laughing. "That is dangerous flattery,
Norton."

"Her cheeks are just the colour of the inside of a pink shell," said
Norton. "Mamma, there is not a thing ungraceful about her."

"Not a thing," said Mrs. Laval. "Not a movement."

"And she is so dainty," said Norton. "She is just as particular as you
are, mamma."

"Or as my boy is," said his mother, putting her other hand upon his
bright locks. "You are my own boy for that."

"Mamma," Norton went on, "I want you to give Pink to me."

"Yes, I know what that means," said his mother. "That will do until you
get to school and are going on skating parties every other day; then
you will like me to take her off your hands."

Norton however did not defend himself. He kissed his mother, and then
stooped down and kissed the sleeping little face on her lap.

"Mamma, she is so funny!" he said. "She actually puzzles her head with
questions about rich and poor people, and the reforms there ought to be
in the world; and she thinks she ought to begin the reforms, and I
ought to carry them on. It's too jolly."

"It will be a pleasure to see her pleasure in New York."

"Yes, won't it! Mamma, nobody is to take her first to the Central Park
but me."

The questions about rich and poor were likely to give Matilda a good
deal to do. She had been too sleepy that night to think much of
anything; but the next day, when she was putting her five dollars in
her pocket-book, they weighed heavy.

"And this is only for November," she said to herself; "and December's