however unprovoked, she had already forgiven. She looked wistfully in the face of her mamma, who replied for her—“We all think you are much to be pitied, because you are evidently a poor, little, forlorn, ignorant child, without friends, and under the dominion of a cruel enemy, that renders you so frightful, it is scarcely possible for even the most humane people to treat you with kindness, or even endure you.”

Matilda involuntarily started up, and examined herself in the looking-glass.—“If I had happened to be your own daughter, ma’am,” she said, crying again, “you would not have thought me ugly; but because I come from Barbadoes, you don’t like me; and it is cruel and wicked to treat me so. But I will go back—I will—I will.”

“I wish most sincerely you had never come, for it is painful to me to witness the folly and sin you are guilty of; but, since you are here, I will endeavour to bear with you, until I have found a good school to send you to. If you would give yourself time to consider, you would know that the enemy I spoke of is your own temper, which would render even perfect beauty hideous; you know very well that I received you with the greatest kindness, and that you have outraged that kindness. But I can forgive you, because I see that you are a silly child, who fancies herself of importance; whereas children, however they may be situated, are poor dependent creatures.”

Matilda answered only by a scornful toss of her head, and uttering the word—“Dependent!”

“Edmund,” said Mrs. Harewood, taking no notice of her insolent look, “you are a strong healthy boy, forward in your education, capable of reflection, and decidedly superior, not only in age, but wisdom, to any other in the room; answer me candidly, as if you were speaking to a boy like yourself—Do you feel it possible so to conduct yourself, that, if you were left alone in the world, you could be happy and independent?”

“My dear mamma,” said Edmund, “you must be laughing at me; a pretty figure I should cut, if I were to set up for a man, without any one to advise me how to act, to tell me when I was wrong, and to manage every thing for me! how could I do right without my papa, or some proper guardian? and how could I be happy without you, mamma?”

As Edmund spoke, he threw his arms round his mother; and the others followed his example, saying—“No, no, we could do nothing without you and dear papa; pray do stay with us, and make us good.”

As they spoke, the tears were in their eyes, and Matilda was affected: she remembered the tenderness of her own mother, and how often she had turned a deaf ear to her expostulations. She was convinced that these children, at this very time, enjoyed a sweeter pleasure than she had ever experienced from the gratification of her desires, and she even longed to confess her folly, and gain her share of Mrs. Harewood’s caresses; but pride still struggled in her heart; and though her reason was convinced of the truth, that children are indeed dependent on their friends for all that renders life valuable, yet her temper still got the better, and she resolutely held her tongue, though she ceased to look haughty and ill-humoured.

CHAPTER III.

THIS interesting display of natural feelings was interrupted by the hasty re-entrance of Mr. Harewood, followed by Betty, the housemaid, who, in entering the door in a hurry, had fallen down a step, and hurt her forehead, and was now brought forward by her good master, to claim the assistance of her kind and skilful mistress.

The children were full of concern and condolence with Betty, and with great tenderness shrunk when they saw their mamma bathe her forehead with vinegar, as they knew it must smart exceedingly: and Ellen could not help saying—“How good Betty is! she never says oh!”

“No, Miss,” said Betty, “I know your mamma does it for my good; and though she gives me some pain, yet she saves me from a great deal more.”

In a few minutes, Betty declared the smarting was quite gone; and the children were so glad, that Matilda began to think, though they were foolish, yet they were certainly happy, and she wished she could feel as happy as they did.

When Betty was gone, the tea came in, and Mrs. Harewood ordered a large plate of toast, as she recollected Matilda’s scanty dinner. Thomas once handed it all round, and Mr. Harewood then said—“Set it down; when the children want it, they will ask you for it.”

All the children remembered poor Matilda’s wants, and in order that she might have plenty, without any more being ordered, or any thing in reference to the past being mentioned, with true delicacy of feeling, forbore to eat any more, so that Matilda could not repeat their words in asking, which she now determined to do. She was very hungry, and the toast looked very tempting, as it stood before the fire.

Matilda looked at the toast, and then at the footman; her cheek glowed, her eye was subdued, but her tongue did not move. Thomas, however, handed her the toast, and she then articulately said—“Thank you.”

This was heard, but no notice was taken; they knew that much false shame attends the first efforts to subdue pride and passion, and they feared lest even approbation should be misconstrued.

In order to divert the general attention, Mrs. Harewood said—“I forgot to ask Betty what made her run in such a hurry as to occasion her accident, for I gave her leave to go out, and stay till nine o’clock, and it is only seven now, I believe.”

“I believe, madam,” said Thomas, very respectfully, “she came home in haste, because her sister has twins; and as you promised her some caudle, she came to tell the cook to make it, and likewise to get some little matter of clothing, from her own clothes, for the baby that is unprovided.”

“Poor woman!” said Mrs. Harewood; “we must all help; this little stranger has a claim on us.”

Ellen clapped her hands—“Oh, mamma, may I make it a nightcap?”

“Yes, my dear; I will get some old linen, and cut out a few things, after tea.”

“I will give you a crown, my dear,” said Mr. Harewood; “as I cannot assist in sewing, I must help to buy needles and thread.”

“And I will give you a shilling, mamma,” said Edmund, “if you please.”

“Oh dear,” said Charles, “I am very sorry, but I have only fourpence, because I spent all my money on my new kite; but if that will do any good, mamma——”

“It will do good, Charles, and I will not grieve you by refusing it, because I see you are sorry that you have no more, which will teach you another time to be provident, and then you will not be under the necessity of giving your last farthing, or refusing to be charitable, when such a case occurs again.”

Ellen handed Charles’s fourpence to her mamma; and as she did so, she put a sixpence between the pence, so as not to be seen by Matilda, lest it should seem like a reproach to her; and as she slipped the whole into her mother’s hand, she said—“I hope, mamma, you will be so good as to let Miss Hanson make a little cap for the baby?”

“I don’t like to sew,” said Matilda, rising; “at least not such things as these: I think a bit of calico to wrap the pickaninnies in is the best, and I’ll give that to buy some with.”

As she spoke she threw half-a-guinea on the table, with the air of one desirous of exhibiting both generosity and