CHAPTER VII.
In the meantime Mr. and Mrs. Coote were in the dining room, partaking ofa much more elaborate meal than had been given to their young charges.
"Well, what do you think of them?" queried Coote, stirring and tastinghis tea, then reaching for the sugar bowl and helping himself to anotherspoonful of its contents.
"I can tell more about that when I've had time to make theiracquaintance," she answered dryly.
"The boy's an impudent little rascal," remarked her husband, reddeningwith anger as he spoke; then, in reply to her enquiring look, he went onto tell the story of the candy.
She listened in silence and with a look of growing contempt.
"Well, have you nothing to say?" he at length demanded in an irate tone.
"Nothing, except that if I was a man--or called myself one--I'd be alittle above robbing such a mite of a child of his sweets."
"No; in your great kindness of heart you'd prefer to let him makehimself sick eating them," he retorted in a sarcastic tone.
"I think I'd as lief risk it for him as for myself," she returnedsignificantly; "specially as the stuff had been given by the uncle tothem, not to me."
"Young children haven't the same digestive powers that a hearty grownperson has," he said rather angrily, "and I maintain that it was neithermore nor less than an act of kindness to make away with some of thedangerous stuff by eating it myself." A slight, scornful laugh was thewife's only reply; then she began questioning him with regard to theamount to be paid them for the board, care, and education of thechildren. She was well pleased with his reply, for the terms offered bythe uncles were liberal.
"They being so young, of course most of the care and labor will fall toyour share, my dear," remarked Coote suavely.
"Oh, of course! when was it otherwise with any of your undertakings?"she asked with withering sarcasm.
"Well, that's exactly what you should do. What was Eve made for but tobe Adam's helpmeet?" he returned with an unpleasant laugh.
"Yes, a helpmeet, and that implies that he was to do his share. However,I expect and intend to do more than mine for these little orphans. Theyshall not be neglected if I can help it, and I'll keep them out of yourway as much as I can; for their sakes as well as yours. They shall havetheir meals and be out of the way before we take ours. I'll not pamperthem, but they shall have abundance of good, wholesome victuals. Theyshall be kept clean and neat too, comfortably dressed according to theweather, though I shall not pay much attention to finery and fashion. Idon't expect to pet and fondle them--I haven't any of that motherlyinstinct--and I intend to bring them up to be neat and orderly, but theyshall have their plays and fun too, for children need it; they can havetheir games in the garden in pleasant weather and in their own room whenit storms."
"Very well; you may do as you like," he returned graciously. "I'mparticularly pleased to hear that they are to be kept out of my way.Children are troublesome animals in my estimation; so the less I'mobliged to see of them the better."
"It's something to be thankful for that we've never had any of our own,"she returned dryly. "Better for them and better for us."
Mrs. Coote had several domestic duties to attend to after the conclusionof the meal, and the children had been in bed fully an hour before shere-entered their room. She was careful to make no noise as she openedthe door, came softly in, and lighted the gas.
Harry's breathing told that he was sleeping soundly. So were Blanche andNannette. Ethel too slumbered, but with tears upon her pillow and hercheek, while at intervals her young bosom heaved with a long-drawn,sobbing sigh.
An emotion of pity stirred in the heart of the stern, cold-manneredwoman as she looked and listened.
"Poor little thing! I dare say she misses her dead father and mother,"she sighed to herself as she turned away, "and she seems to try herprettiest to supply a mother's place to the younger ones. I don'tbelieve I'll have any trouble with her, unless on account of the rest;but I'll do my duty by them all."
The unpacking of the children's trunk and re-arranging its contents incloset and drawers took but a few minutes, for Mrs. Coote was a rapidand energetic worker, a quiet one also, and the children slept on whileshe finished what she had come to do, then turned off the gas and wentout, softly closing the door after her.
It was broad daylight when Ethel woke amid her new and strangesurroundings, for a moment forgetting where she was. But only for amoment, then memory recalled the events of yesterday, and she knew thatshe and her little sisters and brother were strangers in a strangeplace.
Her little heart grew heavy with the thought; then recalling theteachings of her departed mother and Mrs. McDougal, that God, herHeavenly Father, was everywhere present, as near to her in one place asin another, and ever ready to hear the cry for help, even from a littlechild, she slipped from the bed to the floor and, kneeling there, pouredinto His ear all her sorrows, fears, and desires; asking for help to begood, to do right always, and to know how to comfort and care forNannette, Harry, and Blanche.
Having thus rolled her burden on the Lord she felt stronger and happier,and rising from her knees made haste with the duties of the toilet, thenhelped the others, who were now awake also, with theirs. She had justfinished when the door opened and Mrs. Coote looked in.
"Ah, so you are all up, washed and dressed, I see," she remarked in apleased tone. "That is right; and now you may come down to yourbreakfast."
With that she led the way, the children following.
They found hot baked potatoes, bread, butter, and milk awaiting them;all excellent of their kind, and they ate with relish.
"Don't you eat breakfast, ma'am?" asked Harry innocently.
"Of course," replied Mrs. Coote. "I had my breakfast along with myhusband half an hour ago or more. Grown folks should always be servedfirst, children afterward."
"Mamma and papa didn't do that way," remarked Harry, "'cept when papawas too sick to come to the table."
"But I like it best," said Blanche, with a timid glance at the sternface of Mrs. Coote.
"It's all the same to me whether you do or not," she returned in an icytone. "I'm the one to decide what is best, and it's not my way toconsult children's fancies. Now be quiet, all of you; don't waste timein talk or you'll not be ready for prayers when Mr. Coote comes in."
After prayers Ethel was directed to put their outdoor garments upon herlittle brother and sisters and take them out to play in the yard, whileshe put in order the room they had occupied and made the beds. Sheobeyed promptly.
"Oh, children, don't for the world do any mischief," she said anxiously,when she had led them out and taken a hasty survey of theirsurroundings, "for you'd be sure to get punished for it, and that would'most break my heart. Don't go on the grass either till the sun dries upthe dew, or you'll be sick, and oh, dear! what could I do for you then?And there's nobody here to be good to any of us."
"Don't be afraid, Ethel, we'll be good," said Blanche, "we won't get ourfeet wet and we won't meddle with the flowers or anything."
The other two made the same promise, and Ethel hurried back to thehouse, for Mrs. Coote's sharp voice was calling her in impatient tones.
"You'll have to learn to be quicker in your movements," she said as thelittle girl reached her side. "Come right upstairs now, and I'll showyou how to make the beds properly and put the room to rights."
"Yes, ma'am," replied Ethel meekly, and at once set to work, doing herbest to follow directions.
"Now notice and remember exactly how I want you to do everything, sothat after this you can do it all without instruction or help," saidMrs. Coote, adding: "you're none too young to learn to make yourselfuseful, and just as like as not you'll have to earn your own living allyour days."
"Yes, ma'am, I mean to learn all I can," returned the little girlmeekly, then sighed to herself: "Oh, if we could find our dear, kindgrandma and grandpa, they would take care of us all, and have melearning lessons, 'stead of doing house-work while I'm such a littlegi
rl."
Mrs. Coote was very neat and particular and required everything doneexactly in what she deemed the best manner, but when all wasfinished--the floor carefully swept, the beds made, the furniture dusted,she spoke a few words of praise which sounded very pleasant in Ethel'sears.
"Now," she added, "you can go out and play with the others. I approve ofplay for children when work's done, for--as the saying is--'all work andno play makes Jack a dull boy.' I don't mean to be hard on you or theyounger ones, and we won't begin lessons till next week."
"Thank you, ma'am; you're very kind, and I'll try not to give you anytrouble," returned Ethel gratefully. "I think I can make the bed andtidy the room by myself another time."
"I daresay, for you seem a bright, capable child," was the notungracious rejoinder.
The ice of Mrs. Coote's manner seemed to be thawing under the influenceof Ethel's patient efforts to please and to make herself useful.
Ethel hastened out into the grounds in search of her brother andsisters, for she had been feeling anxious about them, lest, without hercare and oversight, they should get into mischief, or in some way incurthe displeasure of Mrs. Coote.
They were all three at the dividing fence between the parsonage yard andthat of the next neighbor. A prettily dressed and attractive lookinglittle girl, about the age of Nannette, stood near by on the other sideof the fence, and the four seemed to be making acquaintance.
"What oo name, little girl?" Nannette was asking as Ethel drew near.
"I'se Mary Keith. What all of you names?"
"I'se Nan, an' dis is Blanche nex' to me," was the reply.
"And I'm Harry, and here comes Ethel, our big sister," announced thelittle boy. "What made you stay away so long, Ethel?"
"I had to do some work. I've just finished," she answered; "but now Ihave leave to stay with you till we're called to our dinner."
Two ladies seated on the porch overlooking that part of the grounds werewatching the little ones with interest.
"Who are they? I never saw any children there before; did you, Flora?"asked the elder one.
"No, mother, but Mrs. Coote's girl told ours that they are some orphanlittle ones whom the Cootes have taken to bring up. Poor little dears,they are very young to be both fatherless and motherless!"
"Yes, indeed! and they are very attractive looking children, too."
"So they are, and my heart aches for them, for there is nothing motherlyin Mrs. Coote's looks or ways--nothing the least fatherly about him."
"Indeed, no! though he might perhaps have been different if they hadbeen blessed with children of their own."
"Ah, Hannah is baking ginger snaps! How good they smell! Mary and herlittle new friends must have some;" and with the words Mrs. Keith roseand went into the house.
She returned presently with a heaping plateful, which she handed firstto her mother Mrs. Weston, then carried out to the garden where shebestowed a liberal supply upon little Mary and her new friends. Maryintroduced them.
"Mamma, dis little dirl is Nan; de boy is named Harry; he is Nan'sbruver, and dose big dirls is Ethel and Blanche; dey's Nan's and Harry'sbig sisters."
"Not so very big, I think," said Mrs. Keith, smiling kindly upon them."Where are you from, my dear?" addressing Ethel. "And have you come tostay here with Mr. and Mrs. Coote?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Ethel as clearly as she could speak, in spite ofthe lump rising in her throat; "our uncles in Philadelphia sent us hereto be taught. They didn't say for how long, but Mr. Coote told me we areto stay till we grow big enough to take care of ourselves."
"Well, dear, I hope you will be happy and prove pleasant playfellows formy little Mary," returned the lady kindly. "If you are the good childrenI take you for, I should be glad to have you with her a good deal,because it will be pleasant for her, and you, too, I hope."
"Yes, ma'am," replied Ethel, dropping a little courtesy, "thank you. Itwill be very pleasant for us, I'm sure, for she seems a dear littlegirl; so we will come sometimes, if Mrs. Coote will let us."
"Mayn't dey tum in now, mamma?" pleaded little Mary.
"Certainly, if Mrs. Coote says they may," replied her mother; thenseeing Mrs. Coote near at hand she called to her and preferred therequest.
"It's no matter to me if you like to be bothered with them," was thealmost surly rejoinder. "To my way of thinking children are little elsethan a torment and pest, and I'm willing enough to have them out of myway if I know they're safe."
"As I think you may be pretty sure they will be with us," returned Mrs.Keith in a slightly indignant tone, and with a glance of pity directedtoward the young strangers. "Poor little orphans!" she added in a lowertone, "it will be really a pleasure to me if I can put some brightnessinto their lives."
The next two hours passed very delightfully to the little Eldons,playing with their young hostess about the garden and in the porch ofher father's house, and making acquaintances with her mother,grandmother, and baby sister, her dollies and other toys, of which shepossessed a goodly number.
In a kindly, sympathizing way Mrs. Weston questioned Ethel about herparents and her former home, and she was both greatly interested andmuch moved by the pathetic story told with the artless simplicity of ayoung and trustful child.
"My dear little girl," she said, softly stroking Ethel's hair when thetale had all been told, "truly I feel for you. It was a sad thing,indeed, to part so early from your dear parents, but God our HeavenlyFather knows what is best for us, and loves His children more than anyearthly parents can. The Bible tells us that He is a Father of thefatherless, and He can never die, will never leave nor forsake those whoput their trust in Him. Go to Him with all your sorrows, all yourtroubles and trials, and He will be sure to hear and help you."
Ethel listened with tears in her eyes. "I will, ma'am," she said; "I dotell Him all my troubles and my little brother's and sisters' troubles,too, and ask Him to help us, and I'm sure He does. But oh, ma'am, whydid He take away our dear father and mother while we are so little andneed them so badly?"
"Perhaps to teach you to keep very near to Him, loving and trusting Himinstead of any earthly creature," the lady answered tenderly. "It is agrand lesson to learn; one that will make you better and happier all thedays of your life. Jesus said to Peter, 'What I do thou knowest not now,but shalt know hereafter'; and I think he is saying the same to you,dear child. When we get home to heaven we shall see and know just whyall our trials were sent us--just how necessary they were and that ourkind, wise Heavenly Father sent each one for our good."
"Yes, ma'am," returned the little girl thoughtfully, "I will try toremember it all and to be very patient and good."