Considering her extreme youthfulness, it was a hard and toilsome life that had now begun for Ethel. Day and night she had charge of her little brother and sisters; she must wash and dress them—or teach them to do those things for themselves, and see in every way to their comfort and amusement; also teach Nannette and Harry their little lessons. Besides she must learn her own, keep their room in order, and spend an hour or two every day in the use of her needle, under the instruction of Mrs. Coote, who was very strict and exacting, though she occasionally bestowed a few words of warm praise when she considered it to have been well earned.

On such occasions Ethel’s cheek would flush and her eyes brighten as she listened, a feeling akin to love for the usually cold-mannered woman tugging at her heart strings; but ere she could summon up courage for the expression of her pleasure and budding affection, the cold, distant manner had returned, and chilled and disappointed she could say no more than, “Yes, ma’am; thank you for praising my work. I mean to try always to do it as well as ever I can.”

Meantime the intimacy between the Eldons and little Mary Keith grew and increased. From the first they seemed to take great pleasure in each other’s society, and would play together in unbroken harmony by the hour; generally in Mr. Keith’s grounds as Mrs. Coote was entirely willing to have them there, Mary’s mother and grandmother no less so; and when Ethel’s tasks were finished she was allowed to join the others. Her gentle, quiet, ladylike manner made her a great favorite with the ladies and she was sometimes allowed to do her stint of needlework there, sitting quietly with them while the younger children romped and played about the garden or on the porches.

There were some pictures on the wall of the pretty sitting room where the ladies spent most of their time, one of which particularly attracted Ethel’s attention; it was a woodland scene—a little valley, a small creek with a dam, running through, it, near by a horse tethered to a sapling, and at a little distance, partly hidden by a thicket, a noble looking man in Continental uniform, on his knees in prayer.

“Mrs. Weston, who is that gentleman praying there in the woods?” Ethel at length ventured to ask.

“That is a picture of our Washington at Valley Forge,” answered the lady, bestowing a look of loving admiration upon the kneeling figure.

“Washington?” repeated Ethel enquiringly. “I think I never heard of him before. He was a good man, I suppose?”

“Yes, my dear, and a great one also. I think there was never a better or greater mere man. He is called the father of his country because, with the help of God, he did more to gain her liberties than any other man.”

“Oh, if it isn’t too much trouble, will you please tell me about him and what he did?” Ethel asked eagerly, adding, “I’m only a little girl, you know, ma’am, and haven’t lived in America very long; so I don’t know much about its history.”

The lady smiled, and softly stroking the child’s hair, “Do you call yourself English, my dear?” she asked in a pleasant tone.

“No-o, ma’am,” returned Ethel doubtfully; “papa was English but—but mamma, you know, was born on this side of the ocean, so I suppose I’m only half English, and Cousin George told me I’d have to be an American now, as I’ve come to live in this country.”

“And you don’t object?”

“Oh, no, ma’am; America seems a very good country and my cousins are all Americans, because they were born here.”

“Yes; the generality of us Americans think these United States, taken all together, make the best land the sun shines on, as it certainly is the freest.”

“Are all the people in it good, ma’am?” queried Ethel innocently.

“No, my dear, I am sorry to have to acknowledge that that is far from being the case. True very many of the wicked ones—burglars, murderers, and the like—are of foreign birth or parentage, but some are natives and the children of natives. But I must answer your question about Washington. He was the great-grandson of a gentleman named John Washington, who came over from England and settled in Virginia, which was then an English colony, as were the other twelve States. There were thirteen in all of those that formed the Union in the beginning. Do you know anything about how the colonies were settled in the first place?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, then, I must tell you that one of these days. But now you want to know about the picture. What you see there occurred during the first war with England, the war which set us free and made the colonies States. This country was then far smaller and poorer than it is now; for we have now many large and flourishing States; more than three times as many as there were then.”

“Yes, ma’am; Cousin George told me I ought to be glad to be an American, because this was the very best and freest country in the world.”

Mrs. Weston gave the little girl a pleased smile. “I entirely agree with Cousin George,” she said, “and ever since I can remember have been glad and thankful that God gave me my birth in this dear, Christian land, many of whose people came here when it was but a desolate wilderness, in order that they might be free to worship God according to the dictates of their own consciences.

“But I must tell you about the picture. Washington was the commander-in-chief of our armies during the war of the Revolution, which ended in making us free States.

“That war began in the year 1775; the Declaration of Independence was made in the summer of 1776; but it took years of fighting to induce the King of England and his Cabinet to acknowledge that we were actually a free and independent people, no longer subject to their oppressive acts; a long and terrible struggle was necessary to bring that about.

“By the fall of 1777 a good many battles had been fought; one of them—the battle of Saratoga—won a great victory for the Americans; but things had not gone so well for us farther south. Washington had suffered defeat at the battle of the Brandywine and in consequence the British had got possession of Philadelphia. Our troops must if possible be kept together through the cold winter, and that in some place from which the British could be watched and prevented from getting away to any great distance, to do mischief to the people of the land.

“There was no town that would answer the purpose, and the place that suited best was Valley Forge on the Schuylkill River, twenty-one miles above Philadelphia. It was a little valley lying between two ridges or hills and covered by a thick forest. The poor soldiers had no tents and were in sore need of clothes, also of blankets and shoes. They—even the officers—were astonished when Washington ordered the trees cut down and log huts built of them. But they spent their Christmas holidays at the work and were much surprised and delighted at their success, when they found that they had changed the forest into cabins thatched with boughs, in the order of a regular encampment.

“But oh, what suffering they still had to undergo for lack of food and clothing! Many were almost, some entirely, naked.

“For more than two years the war had been going on and for four months they had been fighting the enemies of their country, marching and counter-marching day and night in order to baffle the designs of the foe against their dear native land; and they had come to this spot with naked, bleeding feet and destitute of supplies of every kind.

“It was a dreadful winter for that poor army. Washington did all he could, but it was out of his power to relieve anything like all the suffering; and Congress was strangely apathetic, and slow to do what it might have done to give relief.

“Because of their sad neglect the condition of the poor, patient soldiers grew worse and worse so that men died for want of straw or other bedding to raise them at night from the damp, cold earth; and sometimes they had no fuel to make fires, for want of shoes and stockings to enable them to go through the snow and cut it in the woods near at hand; often they had no meat, sometimes no bread, and there was danger that they would perish with famine or have to disperse in search of food.”

“And why didn’t they?” asked Ethel. “I should think anything would be better than staying there freezing and starving to death.”

“Because they loved their country and her liberties better than they loved themselves,” replied Mrs. Weston. “They were fighting for her, for their own homes, wives, and children, yet, as I have said, Congress was most shamefully neglecting them, while most of the people in the vicinity of their camp were Tories—that is in favor of the British, unwilling to do anything for the cause of freedom, and ready to help the foes of their country, for which these poor, starving, bleeding, freezing men were willing to lay down their lives.

“But Washington was their friend, doing all in his power for them, showing a fatherly concern and fellow-feeling for all their troubles and privations, exerting himself in every way to help and encourage them, and urging Congress to come to their relief.

“Washington was a Christian man; so he carried the troubles and distresses of his poor soldiers, and the woes of his bleeding country to God, who is the hearer and answerer of prayer. Probably the woods were a more private place than any other to which he had access at that time; and I presume he never knew that any earthly creature had ever seen him at his devotions.”

“Who was it that saw him, Mrs. Weston?” asked Ethel.

“The man at whose house he was lodged: Mr. Isaac Potts. He owned the dam, and one day was strolling toward it, along the bank of the creek, when he heard a solemn voice, and walking quietly in the direction of the sound, he saw Washington’s horse tied to a sapling and near by, in a thicket, the dear man himself on his knees in prayer, with the tears coursing down his cheeks.”

“Did Washington see him—Mr. Potts?” asked Ethel, gazing with eager interest into the lady’s face.

“No; doubtless his eyes were closed, and Mr. Potts, feeling that he was on holy ground, stole quietly away, back to his own house, with eyes full of tears. His wife noticed them as he entered and asked what was the matter. Then he told her what he had just seen, adding, ‘If there is anyone on this earth whom the Lord will listen to, it is George Washington; and I feel a presentiment that under such a commander there can be no doubt of our eventually establishing our independence, and that God in his providence has willed it so.’”

“And that’s what the picture is about?” Ethel said musingly, gazing upon it with redoubled interest. “I’m glad the Americans had such a good man for their general, and that God helped them to get free.”

“Yes, as one of our poets has said:

“Ah, I like those verses,” Ethel said, her eyes shining. Then turning them again upon the picture, “He was praying for his poor soldiers then, wasn’t he? I think you said so.”

“No doubt; I know his heart bled for them in their sore extremities, for they were sore indeed. I have read that one day a foreign officer was walking with Washington among the huts where his soldiers were quartered, when they heard voices coming from between the logs of which they were built: ‘No pay, no provisions, no rum!’ and one poor fellow whom they saw going from one hut to another, was naked except that he had a dirty blanket wrapped about him. Then that officer despaired of ever seeing the Americans gain their freedom.”

“They did though, and I’m ever so glad of it!” Ethel said with satisfaction. “But—but you said they wanted rum. Were they drunkards, Mrs. Weston?”

“In those days, my dear, almost everybody took a little and did not think it wrong,” replied the lady, adding, “though now we think it is.”

“I hope God heard Washington’s prayer and soon made that bad Congress take better care of the poor soldiers who were fighting for them,” Ethel said enquiringly, still gazing earnestly at the picture.

“I am sorry to have to say that it was some time before Congress did much for their relief,” returned Mrs. Weston. “Indeed two winters later they—the poor soldiers—were in much the same condition at Morristown, where they were encamped at that time, having only beds of straw on the ground and but a single blanket to each man; while still their clothing was very poor and some had no shoes.

“It was a very severe winter, the snow early in January being from four to six feet deep and so obstructing the roads that they could not travel back and forth to get provisions, and in consequence were often for days at a time without bread, then again as long without meat; and the cold and hunger made the poor fellows so weak that they were hardly fit for fighting or for building their huts.”

“Oh, the poor, poor things!” exclaimed Ethel, tears starting to her eyes. “Did they ever try to run away or to steal something from the farmers to eat, when they were so dreadfully hungry?”

“Yes, they sometimes did steal sheep, hogs, and poultry; but since they were starving and their just wages kept back from them, one can hardly feel like blaming them very severely for taking a little food from those whom they were defending.

“There was only one decided mutiny; that was on the 1st of January, 1781, by about two thousand men of the Pennsylvania troops, stationed at Morristown and under the command of General Wayne.

“They had made their preparations secretly, appointing a sergeant major their commander, calling him major-general. At a preconcerted signal all, excepting a part of three regiments, paraded under arms without officers, marched to the magazines and supplied themselves with ammunition and provisions; then they seized six fieldpieces and took horses from General Wayne’s stables to draw them.”

“And nobody tried to stop them?” exclaimed Ethel enquiringly.

“Yes; hearing what was going on their officers tried to do so, calling on the men who did not join in the revolt to help. But the mutineers fired, killing a captain and wounding several others; then they ordered the men who had not revolted to come over to their side, threatening that if they did not they would kill them with their bayonets; and they went over. Then General Wayne tried his influence with the men, who all loved him, using both persuasion and threats to bring them back to their duty. But they refused to listen even to him, and when he cocked his pistol at them they pointed their bayonets at his breast, saying, ‘We respect and love you; you have often led us into the field of battle, but we are no longer under your command; we warn you to be on your guard, for if you fire your pistol or attempt to force us to obey your commands we will instantly put you to death.’

“Wayne then tried to persuade them, speaking to them of their love for their country. They answered by reminding him how shamefully Congress was treating them. He spoke of the pleasure and encouragement their conduct would give to the enemy. In reply to that they called his attention to their tattered garments and how thin they themselves were from starvation; they told him they dearly loved the cause of freedom and wanted to fight its battles, if only Congress would see to it that their sore need was relieved.”

“I don’t think that was asking too much, do you, Mrs. Weston?” asked Ethel.

“No, not at all.”

“And did General Wayne give them what they asked and had a right to ask?”

“He could not do that, but he supplied them with provisions and then marched them to Princeton, where he heard their demands and referred them to the civil authority of Pennsylvania.

“In the mean time the British general, Sir Henry Clinton, heard the story of the revolt, and not understanding the spirit and motives of the troops, sent a British sergeant and a New Jersey Tory named Ogden, with a written offer to them that if they would lay down their arms and march to New York they should receive in hard cash the money owed them by the American Congress, be well clothed, and have free pardon for having fought against the King of England; and not be required to fight on his side and against their country, unless they chose to do so of their own accord.”

Ethel looked intensely interested. “And did they do it?” she asked half breathlessly.

“No, indeed,” replied Mrs. Weston; “they were not fighting for money, but for liberty, their homes, their wives and little ones; but the money Congress owed them, the food and clothes, were necessary even to keep them alive, so that they felt justified in using their weapons in redressing their grievances while still looking with horror upon the armed oppressors of their country, and feeling that they would rather die than prove traitors to her. ‘See, comrades,’ one of them said to the others, ‘he takes us for traitors. Let us show him that America can furnish but one Arnold, and that America has no truer friends than ourselves.’

“The others approved his sentiments. They immediately seized Clinton’s spies and papers and took them to General Wayne, stipulating that the men should not be executed till their own affairs with Congress were settled, and that if their complaints were not attended to the prisoners should be delivered up to them again when they demanded them.”

“Did Congress do what they asked of them?” inquired Ethel.

“Yes; then the spies were executed, and the reward which it appears had been offered for their apprehension, would have been given to the men who had seized them, but the brave, patriotic fellows refused to accept it, poor as they were, saying that necessity had forced them to demand justice from Congress, but they wanted no reward for doing their duty to their bleeding country.”

“I like them for that!” exclaimed Ethel, “and I don’t think they were at all to blame for making that Congress pay them what they had earned by working and fighting so long and so hard.”

“No, nor do I,” returned Mrs. Weston, “and I am proud to own them as my countrymen.”

“It is a very interesting story; thank you for telling it to me, Mrs. Weston,” said Ethel. “I’d like to know more about that good General Washington and that war. All the English people didn’t want the Americans abused so, did they?”

“Oh, no, my dear! Some of them tried hard to have their wrongs redressed. Some day I will tell you more about it, but now I hear Mrs. Coote calling you.”