In the meantime Mr. and Mrs. Coote were in the dining room, partaking of a much more elaborate meal than had been given to their young charges.

“Well, what do you think of them?” queried Coote, stirring and tasting his tea, then reaching for the sugar bowl and helping himself to another spoonful of its contents.

“I can tell more about that when I’ve had time to make their acquaintance,” she answered dryly.

“The boy’s an impudent little rascal,” remarked her husband, reddening with anger as he spoke; then, in reply to her enquiring look, he went on to 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 a little above robbing such a mite of a child of his sweets.”

“No; in your great kindness of heart you’d prefer to let him make himself sick eating them,” he retorted in a sarcastic tone.

“I think I’d as lief risk it for him as for myself,” she returned significantly; “specially as the stuff had been given by the uncle to them, not to me.”

“Young children haven’t the same digestive powers that a hearty grown person has,” he said rather angrily, “and I maintain that it was neither more nor less than an act of kindness to make away with some of the dangerous stuff by eating it myself.” A slight, scornful laugh was the wife’s only reply; then she began questioning him with regard to the amount to be paid them for the board, care, and education of the children. She was well pleased with his reply, for the terms offered by the uncles were liberal.

“They being so young, of course most of the care and labor will fall to your 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 to be 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. They shall not be neglected if I can help it, and I’ll keep them out of your way as much as I can; for their sakes as well as yours. They shall have their meals and be out of the way before we take ours. I’ll not pamper them, but they shall have abundance of good, wholesome victuals. They shall be kept clean and neat too, comfortably dressed according to the weather, though I shall not pay much attention to finery and fashion. I don’t expect to pet and fondle them—I haven’t any of that motherly instinct—and I intend to bring them up to be neat and orderly, but they shall have their plays and fun too, for children need it; they can have their games in the garden in pleasant weather and in their own room when it storms.”

“Very well; you may do as you like,” he returned graciously. “I’m particularly pleased to hear that they are to be kept out of my way. Children are troublesome animals in my estimation; so the less I’m obliged 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 conclusion of the meal, and the children had been in bed fully an hour before she re-entered their room. She was careful to make no noise as she opened the door, came softly in, and lighted the gas.

Harry’s breathing told that he was sleeping soundly. So were Blanche and Nannette. Ethel too slumbered, but with tears upon her pillow and her cheek, 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-mannered woman 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 her prettiest to supply a mother’s place to the younger ones. I don’t believe 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 in closet and drawers took but a few minutes, for Mrs. Coote was a rapid and energetic worker, a quiet one also, and the children slept on while she finished what she had come to do, then turned off the gas and went out, softly closing the door after her.

It was broad daylight when Ethel woke amid her new and strange surroundings, for a moment forgetting where she was. But only for a moment, then memory recalled the events of yesterday, and she knew that she and her little sisters and brother were strangers in a strange place.

Her little heart grew heavy with the thought; then recalling the teachings of her departed mother and Mrs. McDougal, that God, her Heavenly Father, was everywhere present, as near to her in one place as in another, and ever ready to hear the cry for help, even from a little child, she slipped from the bed to the floor and, kneeling there, poured into His ear all her sorrows, fears, and desires; asking for help to be good, to do right always, and to know how to comfort and care for Nannette, 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, then helped the others, who were now awake also, with theirs. She had just finished when the door opened and Mrs. Coote looked in.

“Ah, so you are all up, washed and dressed, I see,” she remarked in a pleased tone. “That is right; and now you may come down to your breakfast.”

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 my husband half an hour ago or more. Grown folks should always be served first, children afterward.”

“Mamma and papa didn’t do that way,” remarked Harry, “’cept when papa was too sick to come to the table.”

“But I like it best,” said Blanche, with a timid glance at the stern face of Mrs. Coote.

“It’s all the same to me whether you do or not,” she returned in an icy tone. “I’m the one to decide what is best, and it’s not my way to consult children’s fancies. Now be quiet, all of you; don’t waste time in 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 her little brother and sisters and take them out to play in the yard, while she put in order the room they had occupied and made the beds. She obeyed 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 their surroundings, “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 up the 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 our feet wet and we won’t meddle with the flowers or anything.”

The other two made the same promise, and Ethel hurried back to the house, 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 the little girl reached her side. “Come right upstairs now, and I’ll show you 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 her best to follow directions.

“Now notice and remember exactly how I want you to do everything, so that after this you can do it all without instruction or help,” said Mrs. Coote, adding: “you’re none too young to learn to make yourself useful, and just as like as not you’ll have to earn your own living all your days.”

“Yes, ma’am, I mean to learn all I can,” returned the little girl meekly, then sighed to herself: “Oh, if we could find our dear, kind grandma and grandpa, they would take care of us all, and have me learning lessons, ’stead of doing house-work while I’m such a little girl.”

Mrs. Coote was very neat and particular and required everything done exactly in what she deemed the best manner, but when all was finished—the floor carefully swept, the beds made, the furniture dusted, she spoke a few words of praise which sounded very pleasant in Ethel’s ears.

“Now,” she added, “you can go out and play with the others. I approve of play for children when work’s done, for—as the saying is—‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’ I don’t mean to be hard on you or the younger 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 any trouble,” returned Ethel gratefully. “I think I can make the bed and tidy the room by myself another time.”

“I daresay, for you seem a bright, capable child,” was the not ungracious rejoinder.

The ice of Mrs. Coote’s manner seemed to be thawing under the influence of Ethel’s patient efforts to please and to make herself useful.

Ethel hastened out into the grounds in search of her brother and sisters, for she had been feeling anxious about them, lest, without her care and oversight, they should get into mischief, or in some way incur the displeasure of Mrs. Coote.

They were all three at the dividing fence between the parsonage yard and that of the next neighbor. A prettily dressed and attractive looking little girl, about the age of Nannette, stood near by on the other side of 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 the little boy. “What made you stay away so long, Ethel?”

“I had to do some work. I’ve just finished,” she answered; “but now I have leave to stay with you till we’re called to our dinner.”

Two ladies seated on the porch overlooking that part of the grounds were watching 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 orphan little 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 motherly in Mrs. Coote’s looks or ways—nothing the least fatherly about him.”

“Indeed, no! though he might perhaps have been different if they had been blessed with children of their own.”

“Ah, Hannah is baking ginger snaps! How good they smell! Mary and her little new friends must have some;” and with the words Mrs. Keith rose and went into the house.

She returned presently with a heaping plateful, which she handed first to her mother Mrs. Weston, then carried out to the garden where she bestowed a liberal supply upon little Mary and her new friends. Mary introduced them.

“Mamma, dis little dirl is Nan; de boy is named Harry; he is Nan’s bruver, and dose big dirls is Ethel and Blanche; dey’s Nan’s and Harry’s big 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 to stay here with Mr. and Mrs. Coote?”

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Ethel as clearly as she could speak, in spite of the lump rising in her throat; “our uncles in Philadelphia sent us here to be taught. They didn’t say for how long, but Mr. Coote told me we are to stay till we grow big enough to take care of ourselves.”

“Well, dear, I hope you will be happy and prove pleasant playfellows for my little Mary,” returned the lady kindly. “If you are the good children I 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. It will be very pleasant for us, I’m sure, for she seems a dear little girl; 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; then seeing Mrs. Coote near at hand she called to her and preferred the request.

“It’s no matter to me if you like to be bothered with them,” was the almost surly rejoinder. “To my way of thinking children are little else than a torment and pest, and I’m willing enough to have them out of my way 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 directed toward the young strangers. “Poor little orphans!” she added in a lower tone, “it will be really a pleasure to me if I can put some brightness into 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 of her father’s house, and making acquaintances with her mother, grandmother, and baby sister, her dollies and other toys, of which she possessed a goodly number.

In a kindly, sympathizing way Mrs. Weston questioned Ethel about her parents and her former home, and she was both greatly interested and much moved by the pathetic story told with the artless simplicity of a young and trustful child.

“My dear little girl,” she said, softly stroking Ethel’s hair when the tale 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 Heavenly Father knows what is best for us, and loves His children more than any earthly parents can. The Bible tells us that He is a Father of the fatherless, and He can never die, will never leave nor forsake those who put their trust in Him. Go to Him with all your sorrows, all your troubles 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 do tell 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, why did He take away our dear father and mother while we are so little and need them so badly?”

“Perhaps to teach you to keep very near to Him, loving and trusting Him instead of any earthly creature,” the lady answered tenderly. “It is a grand lesson to learn; one that will make you better and happier all the days 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 why all our trials were sent us—just how necessary they were and that our kind, wise Heavenly Father sent each one for our good.”

“Yes, ma’am,” returned the little girl thoughtfully, “I will try to remember it all and to be very patient and good.”