outrage that Zebby had quitted her, and in her altered sense of justice, she could not help seeing the truth of the poor negro’s statement; she looked up, with an ingenuous sense of error depicted on her countenance, and said—“I am sorry, Zebby, that I used you so ill, but I will never do it again.”

The poor African was absolutely astonished, for never had the voice of concession been heard from the lips of Matilda before, even to her own parents; and the idea of her humility and kindness in this acknowledgment so deeply affected the faithful creature, that, after gazing at her in admiration for a moment, she burst into tears, and then clasping her hands, she exclaimed, in a broken manner—“Oh, tankee God! tankee God! pretty Missy be good girly at last! her lovee her good mamma—her pity poor negro—her go up stair when her die. Oh, me be so glad! great God lovee my dear Missy now!”

Matilda felt the tears suffuse her own eyes, as the kind heart of her late faithful slave thus gave vent to its natural and devout emotions; and she gave her hand to Zebby, who kissed it twenty times. Ellen was so delighted with this proof of good disposition in Matilda, and with the honest effusions of the poor negro, that she could not forbear gratifying her own affectionate little heart, by running to tell her dear mamma, who truly rejoiced in every proof of Matilda’s amendment, and doubted not but it would prove the forerunner of virtue, in a child who appeared convinced of her faults, and desirous of improving herself.

It was now near Christmas, and Mrs. Harewood was inquiring for a boarding-school where she could place Miss Hanson. She would have preferred to keep her at home, and have a governess, who might attend to the instructions necessary both for her and Ellen; but the bad temper and insolent airs of Matilda had prevented this, as Mrs. Harewood could not bear the idea of subjecting an amiable young person, whom she designed for that situation, to be tormented with such a girl. She knew that, in schools, two faults seldom fail to be cured: these are impertinence, or insolence, and affectation—one rendering a person disagreeable, the other ridiculous; and every member in the community of which a school consists, is ready to assist the ruler in punishing the one, and laughing at the other.

One morning, when Matilda got out of bed, she went to look whether the morning was fine, and the moment she got to the window, eagerly cried out, in great surprise—“Ellen, Ellen! get up this moment, and come to the window; the whole world is covered with white! and see, there are thousands and thousands of little white feathers coming from the skies, as if the angels were emptying feather-beds upon the earth.”

“It snows,” said Ellen, calmly; “I recollect my papa told us you had never seen it snow.”

“What is snow?”

“We will ask Edmund; he can tell you much better than I can.”

The surprising appearance thus witnessed, induced Matilda to hasten down stairs, where Edmund was writing his Latin exercise.—“Do pray tell me,” she cried, “what snow is, and why I never saw it before?”

“Snow,” said Edmund, “is nothing but drops of rain, which, in passing through the cold air, become congealed or frozen. If you take this pretty light substance into your warm hand, it will melt and become a rain-drop again.”

As Edmund spoke, he opened the window a very little way, caught some snow, and showed her the effect he spoke of.

“But why did I never see this in Barbadoes?”

“Because Barbadoes lies nearer to the sun than England, and is much warmer, even in winter; therefore the rain-drops never pass through that region of cold air which freezes them in northern climates. If you were to go farther north, you would find still more snow and ice, the same I saw you looking at yesterday. I will lend you a little book, where you will see a description of a palace of ice, and of whole mountains of snow, called Glaciers; and, if you please, I will show you that part of the globe, or earth, in which those effects begin to take place. But, my dear Ellen, pray lend Matilda your tippet, for she looks as much frozen as the snow; she must take great care of herself in this cold climate.”

Ellen threw the pinafore she was going to put on over the neck of the shuddering Matilda, and then ran nimbly before them towards the globe, on which Edmund was going to lecture, neither of them looking in Matilda’s face; but Charles, who just then happened to enter, perceived that silent tears were coursing each other down her cheek. His compassion was moved; he apprehended that the cold, which he felt himself to be severe, had made her ill, and he inquired what was the matter with her, in a tone of real commiseration.

“I am so—so very ignorant,” said Matilda, sobbing.

“Oh, that’s it!” cried Charles, gaily; “then you and I may shake hands, for I am ignorant too.”

“Oh no, European children know every thing, but I am little better than a negro; I find what your mamma said was very true—I know nothing at all.”

“Dear Matilda, how can you say so?” said Edmund; “though you have not read as much as we have, yet you have seen a great deal more than any of us, and you are the youngest of the company, you know. Consider, you have crossed the Atlantic Ocean, seen groves of orange-trees and spices grow, and the whole process of sugar-making. You know the inside of a ship as well as a house, and we never saw any thing better than a sloop, or sailed any where but on the Thames.”

“Besides,” said Charles, “you have seen monkeys and parrots, and many other creatures, in their own country, and many curious fish on your voyage. Oh, you understand natural history much better than we do.”

“And if you understand nothing at all,” added Ellen, kindly pressing her hand, “mamma says it is only wilful ignorance that is blameable.”

Matilda wept still more while the children thus tried to comfort her. This distressed them all; but they rejoiced to see their parents enter the room, persuaded that they would be able to comfort her better, and Ellen instantly besought their attention to the subject by relating as much of the foregoing conversation as was necessary.

“No, no, it is not exactly that I am crying for,” said Matilda, interrupting her; “it is because I have been so very naughty, and you are all so—so—so——”

“So what, my dear?” said Mr. Harewood, drawing her towards him, and placing her by his side, in the same manner he was accustomed to let Ellen stand, when she was much in his favour.

The action, however kindly meant, for a time redoubled her tears; and the children, understanding their mamma’s look, withdrew to the room where they usually breakfasted, without the least symptom of discontent, although they perceived their mamma fill a cup of tea for Matilda at her own table.

When they were gone, and the little girl had somewhat recovered, Mr. Harewood whispered her—“Did you mean to say, my dear, that my children were so clever, or so proud, or so what?”

“Oh, sir, they are so good! that was what I wanted to say; for there was Edmund who always looked so grave, and was poring over his books, he talked to me quite kindly, and never made the least game of me, for all I must look like a fool in his eyes, who has seen the snow all his life. And then Charles, who is so full of fun and nonsense, and who I always thought could not abide me, he spoke to me as if he was sorry for me, and made it out that we were