The children had not always lived in this northern valley.

Janet and Jack and Essie and Ally had come from the far south—where no snow fell, and the only ice they ever saw was made by a machine—to the home of Old Uncle and Aunt Susan, who had lost all their own children. Uncle Billy and Aunt Rose had journeyed down to bring them, after their father and mother had gone into the country from which they never came back. Uncle Billy was a great comfort to them at that time; he was Old Uncle’s brother, and Aunt Rose was Old Uncle’s sister. Aunt Rose was young and pretty—at least as young and pretty as grown people can be, and wherever she was she made everything bright and happy.

It was a queer thing, that although Ally had great blue eyes, and fluffy yellow hair, and dimples all over her rosy face, and Essie had brown eyes, and dark smooth braids, and was a trifle the taller, people should always be taking them for each other, and often had to stop and think: “Oh, no, oh, no, the brown-haired one is the other one!”

Janet’s hair was the most beautiful thing you ever saw; although if you heard anyone call it red, you might not think so till you saw that really there was no red about it. She wore it in long braids, and when it was combed out, it fell round her like a cloud of chestnut overlaid with gold; and her eyes were the very same color. “It isn’t healthy,” said Old Uncle. “That hair really ought to be cut.” But it never was cut.

Jack’s hair was short enough to make up for it, however, for it stood up like a stiff hair-brush above his honest little freckled face. Poor Jack, in those days, was usually to be seen going round with a string tied to one of his front teeth, which he was going to fasten to an open door and then slam the door, so that the tooth would come out quickly—just as soon as he could make up his mind to it.

The four children from the south had missed their own dear people exceedingly at first; Ally and Essie crying themselves to sleep in each other’s arms, and Janet getting up several times to see that they were covered, like a little mother herself, and Jack creeping into Will’s bed, because he had a lump in his throat, he said.

But the novelty of new surroundings had gradually worn away their sorrow and homesickness. Charlie and Will were very condescending and kind—they were Aunt Susan’s nephews, and had lived here ever since they became orphans—and Aunt Susan had said that where there was room for her people there was room for all of Old Uncle’s. Michael was delightful with fairy stories out of Ireland. Pincher told them of blood-curdling happenings in the woods. And the maids were very choice people. Aunt Susan always had sweeties and dainties for them. Uncle Billy was great fun when he chose.

It was only Old Uncle who was a drawback. For this sound disturbed Old Uncle’s nap, and that sound hindered Old Uncle’s work, and the other sound irritated Old Uncle’s nerves; and the children tiptoed and held their breath as they went past his office-door, and everybody hushed them down and hushed them down on account of Old Uncle, until Jack said one day, “They don’t really like children here at all!”

“It is very unfortunate to be children, anyway,” said Janet, with a sigh.

“Yes,” said Ally. “They always send you to bed if there’s anything going on; and they say it isn’t good for you if there’s anything nice to eat; and they send you out of the room if there are secrets, or else they spell or talk French or something.”

“They say, ‘Do-grey they-grey hear-grey,’” said Essie.

“And ‘Do-hoolty they-aylty hear-ealty,’” said Janet.

“It’s very, very exsulting to children,” said Ally.

“But we can’t help being children,” said Jack.

“And they can’t help not liking children,” said Essie. “I suppose the reason we’re called children is because it gives people a cold chill to hear us coming.”

“Well,” said Janet, repenting, “I suppose we could make them stop not liking us. I suppose we could be so careful and so quiet that they’d think it lovely to have us round.”

“Let’s, then!” cried Ally.

But Jack said Janet was too good to live.

However, for a little while they all went about softly, till Michael called them to see a little furry brown bat clinging to the under-side of an apple-bough, at which strange sight, and with subsequent endeavors to capture the sleepy thing that woke and fluttered just a bough higher every time, the little knot of southerners forgot their good resolution.

There was always a time of comparative peace, though, after breakfast, when Aunt Rose kept school, and also another hour, after their dinner. But when the restraint of lessons was removed, they poured forth to play again with such a joyous outcry that Old Uncle always rose and closed his door.

There was another rapturous season of peace,—on Sunday mornings when they were waiting for the carryalls to take them to church. Janet stepped about the gardens, with the others at her heels, getting as pale and delicate a zinnia as she could find, to pin in the ruffle of her pretty white gown, and a stem of thyme for Jack, and a sprig of southernwood for Will, and a bit of citronella for Charlie; the twins foraging for themselves among the late honeysuckles and early cosmos.

They enjoyed the drive to church. They went in the carryalls, drawn by the three span of farm-horses in the driving harnesses. Janet felt it was like a picnic when they drove away from the piazza in the three carriages, one after the other. It was wrong of Janet, no doubt, to think of a picnic on a Sunday morning; but there certainly was a gala air about the little procession, with so many children in their flowers and ribbons, and their beautiful hair.

They enjoyed the day at church; they enjoyed seeing the people; they enjoyed rambling in the old neglected, bramble-covered graveyard near by, if they arrived too early; they enjoyed tuning up their own little pipes in the singing of the hymns.

There was room for them all in Old Uncle’s big square pew, but part of them sat across the aisle. Six children were too many for one pew. Six turning young heads! six pairs of knocking young heels! twelve restless elbows! It was not to be thought of. Old Uncle sat in one pew with three of them, and Aunt Susan across the aisle with the rest. Uncle Billy and Aunt Rose sat farther back, and were able to report on the general behavior when all reached home.