The House in Town

"But she isn't here, and I don't like to do it, Norton."

"I have ordered it. You'll have to take it," said Norton. "Judy takes it every night, and her mother does not wish her to have any."

"What then?" said Matilda.

"Nothing; only that you two are not much alike."

"David don't look at me any more, since last week," said Matilda. "Do you suppose he never will again?"

"No hurt if he don't," said Norton. "He has my leave. Well, Pink, what are you going to get?"

"I don't know a bit, Norton – except one or two things. I am certain of nothing else but just one or two."

"I am going to get that ring for mamma; that's fixed. The one with that pale malachite. Grandmamma is disposed of. Then for aunt Judy a box of French bon-bons. I think I'll give Davy a standish – I haven't picked it out yet; but I don't know about Judy. It's hard to please her, I never did but once."

"Then I shall not," said Matilda.

"And it doesn't matter, either. Here's your coffee, Pink; and here's mine."

But after a little struggle with herself, Matilda pushed her cup as far away as she could, and drew the glass of ice-water up to her plate instead. The dinner was good enough, even so; and Norton called for ice-cream and fruit afterward. And all the time they consulted over their Christmas work, which made it wonderfully relishing. It was curious to see how other people too were evidently thinking of Christmas. Here there was a brown paper parcel; there somebody had an armful; crowds came to get their luncheon or dinner, as Norton and Matilda were doing; stowed their packages on the chair or sofa beside them and refitted themselves for more shop-going. All sorts of people, – and all sorts of lunches! Some had soup and steak and tartlets; some had coffee and muffins; some had oysters and ale; some took cups of tea and an omelet. It was as good to see what was going on, as to take her own part in it, almost, to Matilda; and yet her own part was very satisfactory. They went home only to order the horses and go to drive in the Park; Norton and she alone. It was a long afternoon of enchantment. The place, and the people, and the horses and the equipages; and the strange animals; and the lake and its boats; everything was a delight, and Norton had as much pleasure as he expected in seeing Matilda's enjoyment and answering her questions.

"Norton," said the little girl at length, "I don't believe anybody here is having such a good time as we are."

"Why?" said Norton.

"They don't look so."

"You can't tell about people from their looks."

"Can't you? But I am sure you can, Norton, partly. People don't look stupid when they feel bright, do they?"

Norton laughed a good deal at this. "But then, Pink," he remarked, "you must remember people are used to it. You have never seen it before, you know, and it's all fresh and new. It's an old story to them."

"Does everything grow to be an old story?" said Matilda rather thoughtfully.

"I suppose so," said Norton. "That makes people always hunting up new things."

Matilda wondered silently whether it was indeed so with everything. Would her new dresses come to be an old story too, and she lose her pleasure in them? Could the Park? could the flowers?

"Norton," she broke out, "there are some things that never grow to be an old story. Flowers don't."

"Flowers – no, they don't," said Norton; "that's a fact. But then, they're always new, Pink. They don't last. They are always coming up new; that's the beauty of them."

"I do not think that is the beauty of them," Matilda answered slowly.

"Well, you'd get tired of them if they didn't," said Norton.

"Do people get tired of coming here?" Matilda asked again, as her eye roved over the gay procession of carriages which just then they could trace along several turns in the road before them.

"I suppose so," said Norton. "Why not?"

"I do not see how they ever could. Why it's beautiful, Norton! And the air is so sweet."

"I never know how the air is."

"Don't you! But then you lose a great deal that I don't lose. I am smelling it all the while. Are there any flowers here in summer time?"

"Lots."

"It must be lovely then. Norton, it must be nice to come here and walk."

"Walking is stupid," said Norton. "I can't see any use in walking, except to get to a place."

"Norton, do you see a boy yonder, coming towards us, on a black pony?"

"I see him."

"It looks so like David Bartholomew."

"You'll see why, in another minute. It's himself."

"I didn't know he rode in the Park too," said Matilda, as David passed them with a bow.

"Everybody rides in the Park – or drives."

"That is what we are doing?"

"Exactly."

"I should think it was pleasant to ride on horseback."

"This is better," said Norton.

"I wonder whether David will ever look pleasant at me again."

"It don't signify, so far as I see," said Norton. "David Bartholomew has his own way of looking at every thing; the Park and all. He likes to take that all alone by himself, and so he does other things. He paddles his own canoe at school, in class and out of class; he don't want help and he don't give it."

"Don't he play either, in any of your school games?"

"Yes – sometimes; but he keeps himself to himself through it all."

"Norton, do the other boys dislike him because he is a Jew?"

"No!" said Norton vehemently. "He dislikes them because they are not Jews; that is a nearer account of the matter. Pink, you and I are going to have lessons together."

"Does mamma say so?"

"Yes; at last; because if you went to school you would be broken off half way when we go home to Shadywalk. So mamma says we may try, and if I teach well and you learn well, she will let it stand so. How do you like it?"