a
passion of weeping. Was there such utter misery in the world, and near
her, and she could not relieve it? Was it possible that another child,
like herself, could be so unlike herself in all the comforts and helps
and hopes of life, and no remedy? Matilda could not accept the truth
which her eyes had seen. She recalled Sarah's gentle, grave face, and
sober looks, as she had seen her on her crossing, along with the gleam
of a smile that had come over them two or three times; and her heart
almost broke. She stood still, sobbing, thinking herself quite safe and
alone; so that she started fearfully when she suddenly heard a voice
close by her. It was David Bartholomew, come out of his room.

"What in the world's to pay?" said he. "What _is_ the matter? You
needn't start as if I were a grisly bear! But what _is_ the matter,
Tilly?"

Matilda was less afraid of him lately; and she would have answered, but
there was too much to say. The burden of her heart could not be put
into words at first. She only cried aloud,--

"Oh David!--Oh David!"

"What then?" said David. "What has Judy been doing?"

"Judy! O nothing. I don't mind Judy."

"Very wise of you, I'm sure, and I am very glad to hear it. What _has_
troubled you? something bad, I should judge."

"Something so bad, you could never think it was true," said Matilda,
making vain efforts to dry off the tears which kept welling freshly
forth.

"Have you lost something?"

"I? O no; I haven't got any thing to lose. Nothing particular, I mean.
But I have seen such a place"--

"A _place?_" said David, very much puzzled. "What about the place?"

"Oh, David, such a place! And people live there!"--Matilda could not
get on.

David was curious. He stood and waited, while Matilda sobbed and tried
to stop and talk to him. For, seeing that he wanted to hear, it was a
sort of satisfaction to tell to some one what filled her heart. And at
last, being patient, he managed to get a tolerably clear report of the
case. He did not run off at once then. He stood still looking at
Matilda.

"It's disgraceful," he said. "It didn't use to be so among my people."

"And, oh David, what can we do? What can I do? I don't feel as if I
could _bear_ to think that Sarah must sleep in that place to-night. Why
the floor was just earth, damp and wet. And not a bedstead--just think!
What can I do, David?"

"I don't see that you can do much. You cannot build houses to lodge all
the poor of the ci