A little way further on she suddenly caught sight of a spacious desk standing
in the midst of the heather. An elderly man was sitting at it, apparently adding
up figures. Sophie went over to him and asked his name.
“Ebenezer Scrooge,” he said, poring over his ledgers again.
“My name is Sophie. You are a businessman, I presume?”
He nodded. “And immensely rich. Not a penny must go to waste. That’s
why I have to concentrate on my accounts.”
“Why bother?”
Sophie waved and walked on. But she had not gone many yards before
she noticed a little girl sitting quite alone under one of the tall trees. She was
dressed in rags, and looked pale and ill. As Sophie walked by, she thrust her
hand into a little bag and pulled out a box of matches.
“Will you buy some matches?” she asked, holding them out to Sophie.
Sophie felt in her pockets to see if she had any money with her. Yes—she
found a crown.
“How much are they?”
“One crown.”
Sophie gave the girl the coin and stood there, with the box of matches in
her hand.
“You are the first person to buy anything from me for over a hundred
years. Sometimes I starve to death, and other times the frost does away with
me.”
Sophie thought it was perhaps not surprising if the sale of matches was
not especially brisk here in the woods. But then she came to think of the
businessman she had just passed. There was no reason for the little match
girl to die of starvation when he was so wealthy.
“Come here,” said Sophie.
She took the girl’s hand and walked with her back to the rich man.
“You must see to it that this girl gets a better life,” she said.
The man glanced up from his paperwork and said: “That kind of thing
costs money, and I said not so much as a penny must go to waste.”
“But it’s not fair that you’re so rich when this girl is so poor,” insisted
Sophie. “It’s unjust!”
“Bah! Humbug! Justice only exists between equals.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I had to work my way up, and it has paid off. Progress, they call it.”
“If you don’t help me, I’ll die,” said the poor girl.
The businessman looked up again from his ledgers. Then he threw his
quill pen onto the table impatiently.
“You don’t figure in my accounts! So—be off with you—to the
poorhouse!”
“If you don’t help me, I’ll set fire to the woods,” the girl persisted.
That brought the man to his feet, but the girl had already struck one of
her matches. She held it to a tuft of dry grass which flared up instantly.
The man threw up his arms. “God help me!” he shouted. “The red cock
has crowed!”
The girl looked up at him with a playful smile.
“You didn’t know I was a communist, did you?”
The next minute, the girl, the businessman, and the desk had
disappeared. Sophie was once again standing alone while the flames