What She Could

"And so your breakfast all fell through; and there was a muss, I expect?"

"No; we had eggs; nobody knew anything about the beefsteak and the dish. But I want to know how to do."

"What ailed your potatoes?"

"They were too hard and too brown."

"I shouldn't wonder! I declare, I 'most think I've got into the middle of a fairy story somewhere. Did you ever hear about Cinderella, Tilly, and her little glass slipper?"

"Oh yes."

"Some people's chariots and horses will find themselves turned into pun'kins some day; that is what I believe."

"But about the potatoes?" said Matilda, who could not catch the connection of this speech.

"Well; she let 'em be in too long. That was the trouble. If you want to have things right, you must take 'em out when they are done, honey."

"But how can we tell when they are done?"

"Why, you know by just lookin at 'em. There ain't no great trouble about it; anyhow, there ain't about potatoes. You just put some fat in a pan, and chop up your potatoes, and when the fat is hot clap 'em in, and let 'em frizzle round a spell; and then when they're done you take 'em up. Did you sprinkle salt in?"

"No."

"You must mind and sprinkle salt in, while they're in the pan; without that they'll taste kind o' flat."

"Aunt Erminia don't like them chopped up. She wants them cut in thin slices and browned on both sides."

"Laws a massy! why don't she do 'em so, then? what hinders her?" said the housekeeper, looking at Matilda. "I thought she was one o' them kind o' folks as don't know nothing handy. Why don't she do her own potatoes, and as brown as she likes, Tilly?"

"Mamma wants us to take care of things, Miss Redwood."

"Won't let your aunt learn you, nother?" said Miss Redwood, sticking one end of her knitting-needle behind her ear, and slowly scratching with it, while she looked at Matilda.

"Aunt Candy does not like to do anything in the kitchen; and I would rather you would teach me, Miss Redwood – if you would."

"And can you learn Maria?"

"Oh yes."

"Well, come along; what do you want to know next?"

"I wish you'd teach me some time how to make gingerbread. And pies."

The housekeeper glanced at the clock, and then bade Matilda take oft' her things.

"Now?" said Matilda, hesitating.

"You can't do nothing any time but now," said Miss Redwood, as she put away her work in its basket. "You can think of doing it; but if you ever come to doing it, you will find it is now."

"But is it convenient?"

"La, child, I don't know what people mean by convenient. You look at it one way, and there is nothing convenient; and you look at it another way, and there is nothing but what is. Hang your things over that chair; and I'll put an apron on you."

"But which way does it look this afternoon, Miss Redwood?"

The housekeeper laughed, and kissed Tilly, whom she was arraying in a great check apron, big enough to cover her.

"It is just how you choose to take it," she said. "I declare I'm sorry for the folks as is tied to convenience; they don't get the right good of their life. Why, honey, what isn't my convenience is somebody else's convenience, maybe. I want it to be sunshine very often, so as I kin dry my clothes, when the farmers want it to be rain to make their corn and cabbages grow. It is sure to be convenient for somebody."

"But I want it to be convenient for you, this afternoon," said Matilda, wistfully.

"Well, 'tis," said the housekeeper. "There – wash your hands in that bowl, dear; and here's a clean towel for you. A body as wants to have things convenient, had better not be a minister's housekeeper. No, the place is nice enough," she went on, as she saw Matilda's eye glance around the kitchen; "'tain't that; but I always think convenient means having your own way; and that nobody need expect to do at the parsonage. Just so sure as I make pot pie, Mr. Richmond'll hev to go to a funeral, and it's spiled or lost, for he's no time to eat it; and I never cleaned up that hall and steps yet, but an army of boots and shoes came tramping over it out of the dirt; when if it wants cleaning, it'll get leave to be without a foot crossing it all the afternoon. And if it's bakin' day, I have visitors, and have to run between them and the oven, till I don't know which end is the parlour; and that's the way, Tilly; and I don't know no better way but to conclude that somebody else's convenience is yourn – and then you'll live in clover. The minister had to preach to me a good while before I could see it, though. Now, honey, sift your flour; – here it is. Kin you do it?"

Matilda essayed to do it, and the housekeeper looked on.

"The damper is turned," she said; "we'll have the oven hot by the time the cake is ready. Now, dear, what's going into it?"

"Will that be enough?" said Matilda, lifting her floury hand out of the pan.

"I want a piece," said the housekeeper; "so there had better go another bowlful. And the minister —he likes a bite of hot gingerbread, when he can get it. So shake it in, dear. That will do. Now, what are you going to put in it, Tilly, besides flour?"

"Why, I don't know," said Matilda.

"Well, guess. What do you think goes into gingerbread?"

"Molasses?"

"Yes; but that goes one of the last things. Ain't you going to put no shortening in?"

"Shortening? what is that?" said Matilda.

"Well, it's whatever you've got. Butter'll do, if it's nice and sweet – like this is – or sweet drippings'll do, or a little sweet lard, maybe. We'll take the butter to-day, for this is going to do you and me credit. Now think – what else? Put the butter right there, in the middle, and rub it into the flour with the flat of your hand, so. Rub hard, dear; get the butter all in the flour, so you can't see it. What is to go in next?"

"Spice? I think mamma puts spice."

"If you like it. What spice will you choose?"

"I don't know, Miss Redwood."

"Well, it'd be queer gingerbread without ginger, wouldn't it?"

"Oh yes. I forgot the ginger, to be sure. How much?"

"That's 'cordin' as you like it. That won't hardly taste, dear; 'tain't just like red pepper; take a good cupful. Now just a little bit of cloves!"

"And cinnamon?"

"It'll be spice gingerbread, sure enough," said the housekeeper. "And salt, Tilly."

"Salt? Must salt go in?" said Matilda, who had got very eager now in her work.

"Salt's univarsal," said Miss Redwood. "'Cept sweetmeats, it goes into everything. That's what makes all the rest good. I never could see what was the use o' salt, till one day the minister, he preached a sermon on 'Ye are the salt of the earth,' and ever since that it seems to kind o' put me in mind. And then I asked Mr. Richmond if everything meant something."

"But what does that mean, that you said?" said Matilda. "Good people don't make the rest of the world good."

"They give all the taste there is to it, though," said the housekeeper. "And I asked that very question myself of the minister; and what do you think he told me."

"What?"

"He said it was because the salt warn't of as good quality as it had ought to be. And that makes me think, too. But la! look at your gingerbread standing still. Now see, dear here's a bowl o' buttermilk for you; it's as rich as cream, a'most; and I take and put in a spoonful of – you know what this is?"

"Salaeratus?"

"That's it."

"We use soda at our house."

"Salaeratus is good enough for me," said Miss Redwood; "and I know what it'll do; so I'm never put out in my calculations. Now when it foams up – see, – now mix your cake, dear, as quick as you like. Stop – wait – let's get the molasses in. Now, go on. I declare, having two pair o' hands kind o' puts one out. Stir it up; don't be afraid."

Matilda was not afraid, and was very much in earnest. The gingerbread was quickly mixed, and for a few minutes there was busy work, buttering the pans and putting the mixture in them, and setting the pans in the oven. Then Matilda washed her hands; the housekeeper put the flour and spices away; and the two sat down to watch the baking.

"It'll be good," said the housekeeper.

"I hope it will," said Matilda.

"I know 'twill," said Miss Redwood. "You do your part right; and these sort o' things – flour, and butter, and meat, and potatoes, and that – don't never disapint you. That's one thing that is satisfactory in this world."

"But mamma has her cake spoiled in the oven sometimes."

"'Twarn't the oven's fault," said Miss Redwood. "Did ye think it was? Ovens don't do that for me, never."

"But sometimes the oven was too hot," said Matilda; "and other times she said it was not hot enough."

"Of course!" said the housekeeper; "and then again other times she forgot to look at it, maybe, and left her cake in too long. The cake couldn't knock at the door of the oven to be let out; that'd be too much to ask. Now look at yourn, dear."

Matilda opened the oven door and shut it again.

"What's the appearance of it?"

"It is coming up beautifully. But it isn't up in the middle yet."

"The fire's just right," said the housekeeper.

"But how can you tell, Miss Redwood?" said Matilda, standing by the stove with a most careful set of wrinkles on her little brow.

"Tell?" said the housekeeper; "just as you tell anything else; after you've seen it fifty times, you know."

Matilda began a painful calculation of how often she could make something to bake, and how long it would be till fifty times had made her wise in the matter; when an inner door opened, and the minister himself came upon the scene. Matilda coloured, and looked a little abashed; the housekeeper smiled.

"I am very glad to see you here, Tilly," Mr. Richmond said, heartily. "What are you and Miss Redwood doing here?"

"We are getting ready for the business of life," said the housekeeper. "The minister knows there are different ways of doin' that."

"Just what way are you taking now?" said Mr. Richmond, laughing. "It seems to me, you think the business of life is eating – if I may judge by the smell of the preparation."

"It is time you looked at your cake, Tilly," said Miss Redwood; and she did not offer to help her; so, blushing more and more, Matilda was obliged to open the oven door again, and show that she was acting baker. The eyes of the two older persons met in a way that was pleasant to see.

"What's here, Tilly?" said the minister, coming nearer and stooping to look in himself.

"Miss Redwood has been teaching me how to make gingerbread. O Miss Redwood, it is beginning to get brown at the end."

"Turn the pans round then. It ain't done yet."

"No, it isn't done, for it is not quite up in the middle. There is a sort of hollow place."

"Shut up your oven, child, and it will be all right in a few minutes."

"Then I think this is the night when you are going to stay and take tea with me," said Mr. Richmond. "I promised you a roast apple, I remember. Are there any more apples that will do for roasting, Miss Redwood?"

"O Mr. Richmond, I do not care for the apple!" Matilda cried.

"But if I don't have it, you will stay and take tea with me?"

Matilda looked wistful, and hesitated. Her mother would not miss her; but could Maria get the tea without her? —

"And I dare say you want to talk to me about something; isn't it so?" the minister continued.

"Yes, Mr. Richmond; I do."

"That settles it. She will stay, Miss Redwood. I shall have some gingerbread, I hope. And when you are ready, Tilly, you can come to me in my room."

The minister quitted the kitchen in good time, for now the cakes were almost done and needed care. A little watchful waiting, and then the plumped up, brown, glossy loaves of gingerbread said to even an inexperienced eye that it was time for them to come out of the oven. Miss Redwood showed Matilda how to arrange them on a sieve, where they would not get steamy and moist; and Matilda's eye surveyed them there with very great satisfaction.

"That's as nice as if I had made it myself," said the housekeeper. "Now don't you want to get the minister's tea?"

"What shall I do, Miss Redwood?"

"I thought maybe you'd like to learn how to manage something else. He's had no dinner to-day – to speak of; and if eatin' ain't the business of life – which it ain't, I guess, with him – yet stoppin' eatin' would stop business, he'd find; and I'm goin' to frizzle some beef for his supper, and put an egg in. Now I'll cut the beef, and you can stir it, if you like."

Matilda liked very much. She watched the careful shaving of the beef in paper-like fragments; then at the housekeeper's direction she put some butter in a pan on the fire, and when it was hot threw the beef in and stirred it back and forward with a knife, so as not to let it burn, and so as to bring all the shavings of beef in contact with the hot pan bottom, and into the influence of the boiling butter. At the moment of its being done, the housekeeper broke an egg or two into the pan; and then in another moment bade Matilda take it from the fire and turn it out. Meanwhile Miss Redwood had cut bread and made the tea.

"Now you can go and call the minister," she said.

Matilda thought she was having the rarest of pleasant times, as she crossed the little dining-room and the square yard of hall that came next, and went into the study. Fire Was burning in the wide chimney there as usual; the room was very sweet and still; Mr Richmond sat before the fire with a book.

"I thought you were coming to talk to me, Tilly?" he said, stretching out his hand to draw her up to him.

"Miss Redwood was showing me how to do things, Mr. Richmond."

"Then you do want to talk to me?"

"Oh yes, sir. But, Mr. Richmond, tea is ready."

"We'll eat first then, and talk afterward. What is the talk to be about, Tilly? just to give me an idea."

"It is about – I do not know what is right about something, Mr. Richmond. I do not know what I ought to do."

"Have you looked in the Bible to find out?"

"No, sir. I didn't know where to look, Mr. Richmond."

"Have you prayed about it?"

Matilda hesitated, but finally said again, "No."

"That is another thing you can always do. The Lord understands your difficulties better than any one else can, and knows just what answer to give you."

"But – an answer? will He give it always?"

"Always provided you are perfectly willing to take it, whatever it may be; and provided you do your part."

"What is my part?"

"If I sent you to find your way along a road you did not know, where there were guide posts set up; what would be your part to do?"

"To mind the guide posts?"

"Yes, and go on as they bade you. That is not to prevent your asking somebody you meet on the road, if you are going right? Now Miss Redwood has rung her bell, and you and I must obey it."

"But, what are the guide posts, Mr. Richmond?"

"We will see about that after tea. Come."

Matilda gave one wondering thought to the question how Maria and tea would get along without her at home; and then she let all that go, and resolved to enjoy the present while she had it. Certainly it was very pleasant to take tea with Mr. Richmond. He was so very kind, and attentive to her wants; and so amusing in his talk; and the new gingerbread looked so very handsome, piled up in the cake basket; and Miss Redwood was such a variety after Mrs. Candy. Matilda let care go. And when it came to eating the gingerbread, it was found to be excellent. Mr. Richmond said he wished she would come often and make some for him.

"Do you know there is a meeting of the Band this evening?"

"I had forgotten about it, Mr. Richmond; I have been so busy."

"It is lucky you came to take tea with me, then," said he. "Perhaps you would have forgotten it altogether. What is Maria doing?"

"She is busy at home, Mr. Richmond."

"I am sorry for that. To-night is the night for questions; I am prepared to receive questions from everybody. Have you got yours ready?"

"About Band work, Mr. Richmond?"

"Yes, about Band work. Though you know that is only another name for the Lord's work, whatever it may be that He gives us to do. Now we will go to my study and attend to the business we were talking about."

So they left Miss Redwood to her tea-table; and the minister and his little guest found themselves alone again.

"Now, Tilly, what is it?" he said, as he shut the door.

"Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, anxiously, "I want to know if I must mind what Aunt Erminia says?"

"Mrs. Candy?" said Mr. Richmond, looking surprised.

"Yes, sir."

"The question is, whether you must obey her?"

"Yes, sir."

"I should say, if you doubt about any of her commands, you had better ask your mother, Tilly."

"But I cannot see my mother, Mr. Richmond; that is one of the things. Mamma is sick, and aunt Candy has forbidden me to go into her room. Must I stay out?"

"Is your mother so ill?"

"No, sir, I do not think she is; I don't know; but Aunt Candy says she is nervous; and I must not go in there without leave." And Matilda raised appealing eyes to the minister.

"That is hard, Tilly. I am very sorry to hear it. But I am of opinion that the authority of nurses must not be disputed. I think if Mrs. Candy says stay out, you had better stay out."

"And everything else?" said Matilda. "Must I mind what she says in everything else?"

"Are you under her orders, Matilda?"

"That is what I want to know, Mr. Richmond. She says so. She told me not to go out to church last Sunday night; and all the others were going, and I went too; and she scolded about it and said I must mind her. Must I? in everything? I can't ask mamma."

Mr. Richmond turned a paper-weight over and over two or three times without speaking.

"You know what the fifth commandment is, Tilly."

"Yes, Mr. Richmond. But she is not my mother."

"Don't you think she is in your mother's place just now? Would not your mother wish that your obedience should be given to your aunt for the present?"

Matilda looked grave, not to say gloomy.

"I can tell you what will make it easy," said Mr. Richmond. "Do it for the sake of the Lord Jesus. He set us an example of obedience to all lawful authorities; He has commanded us to live in peace with everybody as far as we possibly can; and to submit ourselves to one another in the fear of God. Besides that, I must think, Tilly, the command to obey our parents means also that we should obey whoever happens to stand in our parents' place to us. Will it not make it easy to obey your aunt, if you think that you are doing it to please God?"

"Yes, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, thoughtfully.

"I always feel that God's command sweetens anything," the minister went on. "Do you feel so?"

"I think I do," the little girl answered.

"So if you stay at home for Mrs. Candy's command, you may reflect that it is for Jesus' sake; and that will please Him a great deal better than your going to church to please yourself."

"Yes, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, cheerfully.

"Was that all you had to talk to me about?"

"Yes, sir; all except about Band work."

"We will talk about that in the meeting. If you have a question to ask, write it here; and I will take it in and answer it."

He gave Matilda paper and pen, and himself put on his overcoat. Then taking her little slip of a question, the two went together into the lecture-room.

CHAPTER XI

Three was a good little gathering of the workers, many of whom were quite young persons. Among them Matilda was not a little surprised to see Maria. But she warily sheered off from comments and questions, and took a seat in another part of the room.

"We are here for a good talk to-night," said the minister, after they had sung and prayed. "I stand ready to meet difficulties and answer questions. All who have any more little notes to lay on the desk, please bring or send them up, or ask their questions by word of mouth. I will take the first of these that comes to hand."

Mr. Richmond unfolded a paper and read it over to himself, in the midst of a hush of expectation. Then he read it aloud.

"If a member of the Relief Committee visits a sick person in want of help, and finds another member of some other committee giving the help and doing the work of the Relief Committee, which of them should take care of the case?"

"It is almost as puzzling," said Mr. Richmond, "as that other question, what husband the woman should have in the other world who had had seven in this. But as we are not just like the angels in heaven yet, I should say in this and similar cases, that the one who first found and undertook the case should continue her care – or his care – if he or she be so minded. The old rule of 'first come, first served,' is a good one, I think. The Relief Committee has no monopoly of the joy of helping others. Let us see what comes next.

"'There are four people, I know, who go to read the Bible to one blind person – and I know of at least two who are sick and unable to read, that nobody goes to.'

"Want of system," said Mr. Richmond, looking up. "The head of the Bible-reading Committee should be told of these facts."

"She has been told," said a lady in the company.

"Then doubtless the irregularity will be set to rights."

"No, it is not so certain; for the blind person lives where it is easy to attend her; and the sick people are in Lilac Lane – out of the way, and in a disagreeable place."

"Does the head of the Bible-reading Committee decline these cases, having nobody that she can send to them?"

"She says she does not know whom to send."

"I will thank you for the names of those two cases by and by, Mrs. Norris; I think I can get them supplied. The question of theory I will handle presently, before we separate."

"Here is another request," said Mr. Richmond, who knew Matilda's handwriting, – "from a dear child, who asks to know 'what we shall do, when people will not hear the message we carry?' Why, try again. Go and tell them again; and never mind rebuffs if you get them. People did not listen to our Master; it is no matter of wonder if they refuse to hear us. But He did not stop His labours for that; neither must we. 'Let us not be weary in well-doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.' I give her that for her watchword; – ' If we faint not, remember.

"The next question in my hand is, 'what we are to do about welcoming strangers?' The writer states, that six new scholars have lately come to the school, and, to her certain knowledge, only two of them have received any welcome.

"Well," said Mr. Richmond, thoughtfully, "I must come to the words I had chosen to talk to you about. They answer a great many things. You all remember a verse in the Epistle to the Ephesians which speaks of 'redeeming the time, because the days are evil.'

"I dare say it has puzzled some of you, as it used once to puzzle me. How are we to 'redeem the time'? Another translation of the passage will perhaps be clearer and help us to understand. 'Buying' up opportunities.' The words are so rendered by a late great authority. I don't know but you will at first think it just as hard to comprehend. How are we to 'buy up opportunities'?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Mrs. Swan, Ailie's mother. "I always thought opportunities were given."

"So they are. But the privilege of using them, we often must buy."

"I don't see how."

"Let us come to facts, Mrs. Swan. Here are four opportunities in the school, in the shape of new members added to it. How comes it these opportunities have not been used? There are two other grand opportunities in Lilac Lane."

"Are we to buy them?" said Mrs. Trembleton.

"I do not see how else the difficulty can be met. They are worth buying. But the next question is, What will you pay?"

There was a long silence, which nobody seemed inclined to break.

"I think you see, my dear friends, what I mean. For welcoming those four strangers, somebody must give up his ease for a moment – must make a little sacrifice of comfort. It will be very little indeed, for these things pay as we go; we get our return promptly. The opportunities in Lilac Lane must be bought, perhaps, with some giving up of time; of pleasure, perhaps; perhaps we must pay some annoyance. It is so with most of our opportunities, dear friends. He who serves God with what costs him nothing, will do very little service, you may depend on it. Christ did not so; who, 'though He was rich, yet for our sakes He became poor, that we through His poverty might be rich.' He 'pleased not Himself.' And we, if we are His servants, must be ready to give everything, if need be, even our lives also, to the work He calls us to do. We must buy up opportunities with all our might, paying not only time and money, but love, and patience, and self-denial, and self-abasement, and labour, and pains-taking. We cannot be right servants of God or happy servants, and keep back anything. 'Let a man so account of us, as ministers of Christ, and stewards of the mysteries of God;' and let us see that all the grace He gives us we use to the very uttermost for His glory, in 'works, and love, and service, and faith, and patience, and works.' My dear friends, if we have only love in our hearts, love will buy up opportunities as fast as they come; and always have the right money."