because I shall want all my odd cents. After all, they are
working hard to get a living; how terribly hard it must be, to live so
dirty and so cold!--and I have cake and ice cream and plenty of
everything I like. I suppose I can do without candy. I know what Jesus
would do too, if he was here; he would give them kind looks and kind
words, as well as pay. But can I? What could I say to them? I wonder if
Mrs. Laval would like me to speak to them? Anyhow, I _know_ Jesus would
say kind words to them--because He would love them. If I loved them, I
could speak, easy enough. And then--He would try to do them good, and
make them good. I wonder if they go to Sunday school, any of them? But
I don't go myself yet, here. I suppose I shall"--

Matilda's wits went off on a long chase here, about things that had
nothing to do with her piece of paper. At last came back.

"Where was I? what next? The next thing was the shopping. I had nothing
to do with that. I did not ask for anything; it was all chosen and done
without me. But this was another pleasure; and I am to take my dresses,
and wear them of course, according to my motto. How can I? 'Do all in
His name?' How can I? Well, to be sure, I can do it in such a way as to
please him. How would that be?"

There seemed to be a great deal of confusion in Matilda's thoughts at
this point, and hard to disentangle; but through it all she presently
felt something like little soft blows of a hammer at her heart,
reminding her of a very eager wish for black satin, and disappointment
at not having it; of a violent desire to be fashionable, and to escape
being thought unfashionable; and of a secret delight in rivalling
Judith Bartholomew. And though Matilda tried to reason these thoughts
away and explain them down, those soft blows of the hammer kept on,
just as fast as ever.

"Does the Lord like such feelings? Does _he_ care that his children
should be fashionable? How are you going to dress to please him, if the
object is to be as fine as Judith Bartholomew, or to escape her
criticism, or to shew yourself a fine lady? Will that be pleasing him?"

The answer was swift to come; yet what was Matilda to do? All these
things were at work in her already. And with them came now an ugly
wicked wish, that religion did not require her to be unlike other
people. But Matilda knew that was wicked, as soon as she felt it; and
it humbled her. And what was she to do? Seeing the wrong of all these
various