Matilda hesitated. She found a difficulty in saying all her mind to him; she did not know whether it was best; and with that she had a suspicion that perhaps she ought to do it. She glanced at him, and looked away, and glanced again; and tried to make up her mind. Norton was busy putting up his croquet hoops and mallets; but his face looked so energetic and wide awake, and his eye was so quick and strong, that she was half afraid to say something that might bring an expression of doubt or ridicule upon it. Then Norton looked up at her again, a keen look enough, but so full of pleasure in her that Matilda's doubts were resolved. He would not be unkind; she would venture it.

"I want you to know about me, Norton," she began again.

"Well," said Norton, "so do I; but it seems difficult, somehow."

"You do not think that, for you are laughing."

Norton gave her another look, laughing rather more; and then he came and stood close beside her.

"What is it, Matilda?" he asked.

"I don't want you to think that I am good," she said, looking up earnestly and timidly, "for I am not; but I want to be; and being baptized is a sign of belonging to the Lord Jesus, so I want to be baptized."

"It isn't a sign of anything good," said Norton. "Lots of people are baptized, that aren't anything else, I know. Lots of them, Matilda. That don't change them."

"No, that don't change them, Norton; but when they are changed, then the Bible says they must be baptized."

"What for?"

"It is just telling everybody what they believe, and what they are. It's a sign."

"Then when you are baptized, as you mean to be, that will be telling everybody what you believe and what you are?"

"Yes."

"It would not tell me," said Norton, "be-cause I should not understand the sign. I wish you would tell me now in words, Matilda."

"I don't know if I can, but I'll try. You know water makes things clean, Norton?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, if it is used it does," said Matilda. "The water is a sign that I believe the Lord Jesus will take away my sins, and make me clean and good, if I trust Him; that He will wash my heart, and that He has begun to do it. And it will be a sign that I am His servant, because that is what He has commanded His servants."

"What?"

"That; to be baptized, and join the church."

"Matilda, a great many people are baptized, and keep all their sins just the same."

"Oh, but those are make-believe people."

"No, they are not; they are real people."

"I mean, they are make-believe Christians."

"How do you know but you are?"

"I think I know," said Matilda, looking down.

"But other people won't know. Your being baptized will not mean anything to them, only that somebody has coaxed you into it."

"It will mean all that, Norton; and if I am true they will see it means all that."

"They might see it all the same without your being baptized. What difference would that make?"

"It is obedience," said Matilda, firmly. "And not to do it would be disobedience. And it is profession of faith; and not to do it, would be to say that I don't believe."

Norton looked amused, and pleased, and a little puzzled.

"You have not told me anything about you, after all," he said; "for I knew it all before."

"How did you know it?"

"Not this about your being baptized, you know, but about you."

"What about me?"

"I say, Matilda, when will you come and play croquet again?"

"I don't know. But, O Norton, I must go now. I forgot all about it. And there was something else I wanted to say. I wish you would be a servant of Jesus too?"

Matilda gave this utterance a little timidly. But Norton only looked at her and smiled, and finally closed the question by taking her in his arms and giving her two kisses this time. It was done without a bit of shamefacedness on his part, and with the energy and the tenderness too of affection. Matilda was extremely astonished and somewhat discomposed; but the evident kindness excused the freedom, and on the whole she found nothing to object. Norton opened the iron gate for her, and she hurried off homewards without another word.

In a dream of pleasure she hurried along, feeling that Norton Laval was a great gain to her, and that croquet was the most delightful of amusements, and that all the weariness of the day's work was taken out of her heart. She only regretted, as she went, that those poor people in Lilac Lane had heard no reading; but she resolved she would go to them to-morrow.

There is one time, however, for doing everything that ought to be done; and if that time is lost, no human calculation can make sure a second opportunity. Matilda was to find this in the case of Lilac Lane. The next day weather kept her at home. The second day she was too busy to go on such an expedition. The third was Sunday. And when Monday came, all thoughts of what she had intended to do were put out of her head by her mother's condition. Mrs. Englefield was declared to be seriously ill.

The doctor was summoned. Her fever had taken a bad turn, he said. It was a very bad turn; for after a few days it was found to be carrying her swiftly to death's door. She was unable to see her children, or at least unable to recognise and speak to them, until the very last day; and then too feeble. And the Sunday when Matilda had expected to be baptized, saw her mother's funeral instead.

Anne and Letitia came up from New York, but were obliged to return thither immediately after the funeral; and the two younger girls were left to their grief. It was well for them now that they, had plenty of business, plenty of active work on hand. It was a help to Maria; after a little it diverted her thoughts and took her out of the strain of sorrow. And it was a help to Matilda, but in a more negative way. It kept the child from grieving herself ill, or doing herself a mischief with violent sorrow; it was no relief. In every unoccupied moment, whenever the demands of household business left her free to do what she would, the little girl bent beneath her burden of sorrow. Kneeling before her open Bible, her tears flowed incessantly every moment when the luxury of indulgence could be allowed them. Mrs. Candy did not see the whole of this; she was rarely in the girls' room; yet she saw enough to become uneasy, and tried all that she knew to remedy it. Clarissa was kind, to her utmost power of kindness. Even Maria was stirred to try some soothing for her little sister. But Matilda could not be soothed. Maria's instances and persuasions did, however, at last urge her to the point of showing a part of her thoughts and disclosing the thorn that pressed sharpest on her mind. It was, that she had not pleased her mother by doing her best in the studies she had pursued at school. Matilda had always been a little self-indulgent; did not trouble herself with study; made no effort to reach or keep a good place in her classes. Mrs. Englefield had urged and commanded her in vain. Not obstinately, but with a sort of gay carelessness, Matilda had let these exhortations slip; had studied when she was interested, and lagged behind her companions in the pursuits she found dry. And now, she could not forgive herself nor cease her sorrowing on account of this failure.

Maria in despair at last took Mrs. Candy into her confidence, and besought her to comfort Matilda, which Mrs. Candy tried her best to do. She represented that Matilda had always been a good child; had loved and honoured her mother, and constantly enjoyed her favour. Matilda heard, but answered with sobs.

"I am sure, my dear," her aunt said, "you have nothing to reproach yourself with. We are none of us perfect."

"I didn't do what I could, aunt Candy!" was Matilda's answer.

"My dear, hardly anybody – the best of us – does all he might do."

"I will," said Matilda.

CHAPTER XII

This could not last always, and the days as they passed, after a while, brought their usual soothing.

The quiet routine of the early spring began to come in again. Mrs. Candy was looking for a girl, she said, but had not found one yet; Maria and Matilda were not ready to go to school; they were better getting the breakfast and washing up the dishes than doing nothing. No doubt that was true.

"Tilly," said Maria, one of these days, when the coffee cups were getting put in order, going out of Maria's tub of hot water into Matilda's hands and napkin, – "Tilly! you know next Sunday there is to be a baptism in the church?"

"Yes," said Matilda.

It was weeks after that other Sunday, when the rite had not been administered. Spring had come forward rapidly since then. Trees were in full leaf; dandelions in the grass; flowers were in the woods, though the two sisters had not gone to see them this year; the apple orchards around Shadywalk were in a cloud of pink blossoms; and the sun was warm upon flower and leaf everywhere.

"Who is going to be baptized?" Maria went on.

"I don't know. At least, I don't know all."

"Ailie Swan is," remarked Maria.

"Yes, I know Ailie Swan is."

"And Frances Barth."

Matilda was silent.

"And Esther Trembleton, and George Rice, and Mary and Willie Edwards."

"I suppose so," said Matilda.

"You are not, are you?"

"You know I was going to be," said Matilda. "I am now."

"Tilly, it would be no harm if you waited till another time."

"Why should I wait?"

"I am going to wait," said Maria.

"Why?"

"Why, because I don't feel like it. Not now."

"I do not want to wait," said Matilda. And probably she was going to say more, but her lip trembled and she stopped.

"It would be no harm, Tilly, if you waited. Nobody would expect it of us now. Nobody would expect it, Tilly."

"I think One would," said Matilda.

"Who?"

"Jesus."

"But, Tilly," said Maria, uneasily, "I don't think so. It could not be pleasant for you and me, you know, to go forward and be baptized now. We might wait till another time; and then it would be more easy, wouldn't it?"

"It is not hard now," said Matilda. "It is pleasant now. I do not wish to put it off."

"Pleasant?" repeated Maria.

"Yes," said her little sister, quietly, lifting her eyes to Maria's face so steadily and gravely that the other changed her ground.

"But at least it is not duty, Matilda."

Matilda had dried all the cups, and she threw her napkin down and covered her face.

"Oh yes!" she said; "it is duty and pleasure too. I'll do what I can."

"But what does it signify, your doing it?" said Maria. "It isn't anything. And it will look so odd if you do and I don't."

Matilda took up her napkin again, and went to work at the plates.

"Matilda, I wish you would wait. I am not ready to go now."

"But I am ready, Maria."

"If I was to tell Aunt Candy, I believe she would put a stop to it," said Maria, sulkily. "I know she does not think much of such young people doing such things."

"But Jesus said, Let them come."

Maria tossed her head. However she did not speak to Mrs. Candy.

So it was with no notion of Matilda's intention that her aunt that Sunday took her seat in Mr. Richmond's church. She had heard that a number of people, most of them young people, were to be baptized in the evening; she had been to her own church duly in the morning, and thought she might gratify her curiosity now in seeing how these things are managed in a different communion. She and Clarissa went alone, not supposing that the younger ones of the family were at that same moment getting ready to follow.

"How are you going to dress yourself, Matilda?" her sister inquired.

"To dress myself!" said Matilda, turning her eyes upon her sister in astonished fashion.

"Why, yes, child! you will go out there in sight of everybody, you know. Aren't you going to put on a white frock? Clarissa says they always do in 'her church.'"

Matilda looked down at her own black dress and burst into tears; only by a vigorous effort she kept the tears from falling, after the first one or two, and hurriedly and silently began to get herself ready.

"But, Matilda! why don't you speak?" said her sister. "Are you going just so? and why don't you speak to me? There is no harm in a white frock."

"I don't want a white frock," said Matilda. "Do you mean to stay at home?"

"I suppose I am going," said Maria, beginning slowly her own preparations. "People would think odd if I didn't go. Where are you going to sit?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you are very stupid. I mean, where are you going to sit?"

"Where we always do, I suppose."

"But then you would have so far to walk."

"To walk?" Matilda repeated, bewildered.

"Why, yes, child! When you are called to go up with the rest, you know; you would have so far to go."

"Oh!" said Matilda. "What of it?"

"Don't you care?"

"Why, no. It don't make any difference."

"Well, I'd have a white frock if I were you," said Maria. "Being in black is no objection to that; for people do just the same, Matilda, for a baptism."

"You will be late, Maria," was all the answer her little sister made.

And they were late. Matilda was ready and waiting, before Maria's slow preparations were made. They walked quick; but service had begun in the church before they got there. They paused in the vestibule till a prayer should be ended. And here Matilda was seized upon.

"I thought you were not coming," said an earnest whisper. "What made you come so late?" It was Norton Laval.

"I couldn't help it," said Matilda.

"And when you came, I all but missed you. They said all of you – you know – would be in white dresses; and I was looking out for white. Aren't you going to be baptized, after all?"

"Oh yes, Norton."

"Well, here's some flowers for you," said the boy, putting a bunch of white heath and lilies into Matilda's hand. "Mamma is here; up in the Dawsons' pew; it was sold with the place, so we've got it. Come there, Matilda, it will be a good place for you; yours is farther back, you know. Mamma told me to bring you."

Maria had gone in, after an impatient whisper to her sister. And Matilda yielded to a secret inclination, and followed Norton.

The service of baptism was not entered into until the close of the evening. During one of the intervals of the usual service, which preceded the other, Matilda questioned with herself if she really would have done better to put on a white dress? Everybody seemed to expect it. She could not, from the Daweon pew, which was a corner front one, see how her companions were dressed. But she presently recollected that the "fine linen," which Mr. Richmond had talked to them about, "is the righteousness of saints;" and she quieted herself with the assurance that the real attire of fitness is inward and not outward. And when the candidates for baptism were called to come forward, she quietly left her bunch of lilies with her hat on the cushion of the pew.

"Is that Matilda!" whispered Clarissa to her mother.

"I never heard a word of it!" said Mrs. Candy.

"You cannot stop her now."

"No; if I could I would," answered Mrs. Candy. "This ought not to be. Such a child! – does not know what she is doing. What a way!"

But Matilda knew what she was doing; and when the candidates were asked respecting their faith and profession, there was no voice among them all that answered more clear and free; none that promised with more calm distinctness to "keep God's holy will and commandments, and walk in the same all the days of her life." And it was a meek little face, without a cloud or a doubt upon it, that was raised towards Mr. Richmond when her turn came.

There was a long line of candidates for baptism, reaching nearly from one end to the other of the communion rails. Mr. Richmond stood near one end, by the font, and did not change his place; so each one, as he or she received the rite, passed to one side, while the place was filled by another. Without breaking the rank this was done; one set slowly edging along from left to right, while from right to left, one by one, the others came to take their turn. It was a pretty sight. So some thought; but there were varieties of opinion.

One variety Matilda had to encounter that night before she slept. Going back to Mrs. Laval's pew to get her hat and flowers, naturally she walked home with her and Norton, and had no annoyance until she got there. As she went through the hall the parlour door opened and she was called in.

"I want to speak to you, Matilda," said Mrs. Candy; "and I think it is proper to do it at once. I want to know about this. How long have you been preparing for this step you have taken to-night?"

"Ma'am?" said Matilda.

"How long have you been thinking of doing this?"

"Oh, a long while, Aunt Candy."

"Why did you not consult me?"

Her mother would have been the one to speak to about it, and her mother had been too ill. Remembering this, Matilda stood silent and her eyes filled.

"You have been intending it for these two months past?"

"Yes, Aunt Candy; and before."

"Well, then, why did you not speak to me?"

"I spoke to Mr. Richmond."

"Mr. Richmond might have had the courtesy, himself." (Which Mr. Richmond had meant to do, but various pressing matters had prevented.) "But you ought to have spoken to me, Matilda. You are too young a child to take such responsibility."

Matilda did not think of anything to say to this.

"I do not think you understand what you have been doing."

"I think I do, Aunt Candy."

"What did you want to be baptized for?"

"Because Jesus says we must."

"Yes, properly; but not improperly, without knowing what you do. What do you think it means, Matilda?"

"To be baptized, Aunt Erminia?"

"Yes."

"It means," said the child steadily, and with the clear utterance of pleasure, "that I belong to the Lord Jesus Christ."

"There!" said Clarissa, appealing to her mother.

"I thought so," said Mrs. Candy. "That is not what it means, Matilda."

"It is what I mean, Aunt Candy."

"It means a great deal more, my dear, which you cannot understand. And you ought to have had a white dress on."

"I don't think God cares," said Matilda.

"Did you ever hear such dreadful teaching as these people have?" said the mother, appealing to the daughter. "My dear, there is a propriety in things. And not one of the candidates this evening was dressed in white."

"But the water means a clean heart," said Matilda; "and if we have that, God will think we are dressed in white."

"So you think you have a clean heart?"

"I think Jesus has begun to make it clean."

"And what does it mean to renounce the devil and all his works?"

"It means," said Matilda, sighing, "to have nothing to do with anything that is wrong."

"How is such a child as you to know what is wrong?"

"Why, the Bible, Aunt Candy."

"What is the vain pomp and glory of the world?"

"I don't know," said Matilda. "All the glory, I suppose, except what God gives."

"What does He give, child?" said Mrs. Candy, with an odd expression on her face.

"Why, you know, Aunt Erminia," said Matilda, a little wearily.

"I should like to hear you tell."

"I can't tell," said Matilda. "I think it was glory, when He said of that poor woman, 'She hath done what she could.'"

"My dear," said Mrs. Candy, after a pause, "I am very sorry you have taken this step without consulting me. Your answers show that you have not the discrimination necessary for making such vows. However, it is too late now. You may go to bed."

Which Matilda did, and speedily forgot all that had troubled her in her aunt's words. For she went to sleep making a pillow to her head of those other words —

"And white robes were given to every one of them."