Ethel had been greatly interested in Mrs. Weston’s story of Washington and the Revolution. She was eager to hear more, and found both ladies of the Keith family kindly ready to gratify her whenever she was allowed to carry her needlework over there instead of doing it in the room in the parsonage appropriated to the use of herself, brother, and sisters. She was given very little time for recreation, so could not read much for herself on that or any other subject; perceiving which, Mrs. Weston often read to her, pausing now and then to explain anything the little girl did not seem to entirely comprehend, so helping the child to a great deal of information which at that time she could have gained in no other way.

Ethel was very grateful; and, loving, generous little soul that she was, wanted others to share her pleasure; so repeated to Harry and the little sisters all she thought they could understand of what she had learned from the ladies. Also, supposing that Mrs. Coote was well read on the subject, she ventured to ask some questions of her.

“I know nothing about those old times in this country, and what’s more, I don’t want to know; so let me hear no more about it,” was the ungracious rejoinder, and Ethel dared not venture another word.

“You’re no American,” Mrs. Coote went on presently, “so why should you care about those old stories?”

“I—I believe I’m half American,” Ethel returned hesitatingly. “I was born in Jamaica and so was my dear mamma.”

“Eh! I didn’t know that before. But Jamaica is only a tolerably large island, and though it’s on this side the ocean it belongs to England. And your father was born in old England, wasn’t he?”

“Yes: and I like England, but Cousin George says as we’ve come to America to live for the rest of our lives, we’re Americans now.”

“Humph! So as you behave well I for one don’t care whether you are Americans or English,” returned. Mrs. Coote; and there the conversation dropped.

Whenever the weather was at all suitable the three younger children were sent out of doors to play, Ethel joining them when her task was done, and usually they were all invited into Mrs. Keith’s yard or house.

But stormy days had to be spent shut up in their own small room, and poor little Ethel was almost at her wit’s end to keep Harry and Nannette from making such a disturbance as would bring reproof and sometimes sore punishment upon them.

They had little or no love for Mrs. Coote, who never lavished any demonstrations of affection upon them, and from her husband they shrank as from a dangerous foe. Fortunately they rarely saw him except when summoned to a recitation of the verses of Scripture which they were compelled to learn for the express purpose of enabling him to show off to chance visitors as one who was successfully training up in the way they should go the young orphans committed to his fatherly care.

As their Uncle Albert had promised, they were remembered at Christmas time by the relatives in Philadelphia, a box being sent direct to Ethel, in Mr. Coote’s care. Fortunately it reached the house one day in his absence, and Mrs. Coote put it privately away, never breathing a word to him of its arrival.

On Christmas morning, soon after breakfast, she opened it herself in presence of the children, first telling them whence it had come and cautioning them to be perfectly quiet, or they might lose some of the contents.

There were fruits, cakes, candies, and toys; all in such plentiful supply that the children were almost wild with delight.

All four urged Mrs. Coote to share with them. She looked pleased that they should wish it, accepted a very little, then saying, “If you like you can, after a bit, carry some over to your friends at Mr. Keith’s; and, Ethel, to-morrow you may write a little letter of thanks to your uncles and the rest in Philadelphia, and I will mail it for you,” she left them to the enjoyment of their gifts.

If anything could have added to their felicity it was the note from Mrs. Keith, presently brought in by her servant girl, inviting all four to take their Christmas dinner with little Mary, and to come as early as possible with Mrs. Coote’s consent.

“Oh, Mrs. Coote, can’t we go this minute?” asked Blanche and Harry in a breath, while Nannette piped, “Me wants to go, dus now; dis minute,” and Ethel’s soft brown eyes made the same request.

“Yes, yes; I’ll be only too glad to be rid of your noise and chatter for the rest of the day,” was the rather ungracious reply. “But you’ve all got to be dressed in your best first,” she added, going to the closet and taking down the dresses the little girls were wont to call their “Sunday frocks,” in which she presently proceeded to array them.

That did not take long, and they were soon at the door of Mr. Keith’s hospitable dwelling, exchanging a merry Christmas with the ladies and little Mary, displaying the toys sent by their relatives in Philadelphia, and offering a share of their sweets from the same source.

Then they were led into the parlor where was a beautiful Christmas tree loaded with ornaments and gifts.

“Oh,” cried Ethel, tears starting to her eyes as she spoke, “how it reminds me of Christmas times when our dear papa and mamma were with us!”

“Yes, I remember the one we had last Christmas,” said Blanche; “and I think this one is just as pretty as it was.”

“So do I,” said Harry. “Oh, thank you, ma’am!” as Mrs. Keith took down a bag of marbles and another of candy and handed them to him.

“And this is for dear little Nannette,” she said, disengaging a doll from the tree and putting it into the hands of the baby girl, who received it in almost speechless delight.

There was another almost exactly like it for her own little Mary, a larger one for Blanche, a neat housewife and pretty book for Ethel, and a bag of candies for each of the five; for little Mary had waited for hers until the coming of her guests.

What a happy day it was to the children! The grown people seemed to lay themselves out for their enjoyment; games and stories filled most of the time not taken up with the partaking of the grand Christmas dinner of turkey and all the usual accompaniments for the first course—plum pudding, ice-cream, fruits, and cake for the dessert.

The Eldons were sent for by Mrs. Coote at their usual early bedtime, and obeyed the summons without a murmur.

“Dear Mrs. Keith, you and Mrs. Weston are so good and kind to us; we’ve had such a pleasant time,” Ethel said as she bade good-night.

“You are very welcome, dear child,” was the kindly response, “and I hope you and my little Mary will have many a pleasant time together while you are living so near us.”

“Thank you, ma’am; I hope so, too,” returned Ethel gratefully, then hurried away with her little brother and sisters.

Mrs. Coote met them at the parsonage door. “Go right up to your room and to bed everyone of you,” she said, and they silently obeyed.

“Strange that their uncles didn’t send some Christmas remembrance to the children,” remarked Mr. Coote to his wife as they sat together at the tea table.

“Possibly they may have thought they had enough to do in providing for their own, and that you and I might find some little thing for those you promised to treat as if they were your own,” she rejoined in a slightly sarcastic tone.

“Humph! we’re not in circumstances to do much for our own if we had ’em,” he sniffed angrily; “so I don’t consider myself pledged to do anything of the kind.”

“And the children didn’t expect it, I’m sure; nobody would ever mistake you for a Santa Claus,” she returned with a not particularly pleasant laugh.

He colored and flashed an angry look at her, but let the remark pass in silence. Neither then nor afterward did his wife let him know of the Christmas box sent to the children. She had given them only a part of the sweets that day, but they received the rest in small instalments till all were gone.

So long as the weather was pleasant a part of nearly every day was spent at the house of their kind neighbors, but when it stormed their only refuge for the greater part of the time was the small room appropriated to them over the kitchen in their temporary home. It was hard for all, but especially for Harry and Nannette, to be so constantly confined to such close quarters, and Ethel could not always keep them quiet; they sometimes played noisily, at others fretted and cried aloud because they were so tired of staying in that little room where there was so small space for running and romping.

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Coote would tolerate such noise, and again and again the hearts of Ethel and Blanche were made to ache by the sore punishment meted out to the little brother and sister. And sometimes they themselves were in disgrace and severely dealt with for failures in their tasks, or anger or too much sympathy shown the other two when they were punished.

These were great trials, as also was the reciting of their Bible verses to Mr. Coote, and being made to repeat them before company. They were warned not to tell any tales to the neighbors, and threatened with dire consequences if they disobeyed. So most of their troubles were kept to themselves.

Ethel looked and longed for the promised visit from her uncle Albert, but he did not come; he seemed to have forgotten his promise. Then after a while Mr. Coote took to reading to the children letters which he said came from their uncles, reproving and threatening them with punishment for rebellious conduct toward those who now had them in charge, and bidding them be very obedient and submissive.

Those letters were deliberate forgeries, but the innocent little ones never dreamed of such deceit and wickedness on the part of the man who professed to be so good, and poor Ethel was well nigh heartbroken that her uncles should think so ill of her and her dear little brother and sisters, and write so cruelly to them.

She tried very hard to be good and industrious at her tasks, wanting the time to come as soon as possible when she would be able to support herself, Blanche, Harry, and Nannette.

Thinking of that she put forth every effort to learn the various kinds of needlework Mrs. Coote undertook to teach her, with the assurance that if she became expert in them all she could some day earn money in that way.

At times the child’s heart beat high with hope that when she was grown up she would be able to make with her own earnings a little home for herself, brother, and sisters. Remembering the unkind treatment they had often received at the hands of the aunts and cousins in Philadelphia she was not at all sure that they would be much better off could they return there—and if they could go back how hard it would be to bid farewell to the kind friends next door—but what could be more delightful than to get away from these stern guardians often so unkind and unjust. And then, when she was old enough to know how to set about it, perhaps she could find her maternal grandparents, and they would give a good home to their daughter’s orphan children.

Their uncle Albert did at length make them a hasty visit, but Mr. Coote took good care that they should not be left for a moment alone with him. Also he treated them with the greatest and most effusive kindness in their uncle’s presence, so that Mr. Eldon left them there feeling assured that they had a very happy home.

Thus two years rolled slowly away to Ethel and Blanche, Harry and Nannette, bringing little change except that they all grew older and taller; wiser too in some respects and more than ever fondly attached to each other, and the next-door neighbors who treated them so kindly.