At the ages of fifty-four and fifty, respectively, Mr. and Mrs.
Wentworth found themselves possessed of a roomy, old-fashioned
farmhouse near a thriving city, together with large holdings of lands,
mortgages, and bank stock. At the same time they awoke to an
unpleasant realization that many of their fellow creatures were not so
fortunate.
"James," began Mrs. Wentworth, with some hesitation, one June day,
"I've been thinking--with all our rambling rooms and great big yards,
and we with never a chick nor a child to enjoy them--I 've been
thinking--that is, I went by the orphan asylum in town yesterday and
saw the poor little mites playing in that miserable brick oven they
call a yard, and--well, don't you think we ought to have one--or maybe
two--of them down here for a week or two, just to show them what summer
really is?"
The man's face beamed.
"My dear, it's the very thing! We'll take two--they'll be company for
each other; only"--he looked doubtfully at the stout little woman
opposite--"the worst of it will come on you, Mary. Of course Hannah
can manage the work part, I suppose, but the noise--well, we 'll ask
for quiet ones," he finished, with an air that indicated an entirely
satisfactory solution of the problem.
Life at "Meadowbrook" was a thing of peaceful mornings and long, drowsy
afternoons; a thing of spotless order and methodical routine. In a
long, childless marriage Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth's days had come to be
ordered with a precision that admitted of no frivolous deviations: and
noise and confusion in the household machinery were the unforgivable
offenses. It was into this placid existence that Mr. and Mrs.
Wentworth proposed to introduce two children from the orphan asylum.
Before the week was out a note was sent to the matron of the
institution, and the prospective host and hostess were making their
plans with unwonted excitement.
"We 'll rise at six and breakfast at seven," began Mrs. Wentworth.
"And they must be in bed by eight o'clock," supplemented her husband.
"I did n't say whether to send boys or girls, and I forgot to say
anything about their being quiet; but if they 're boys, you can teach
them gardening, James, and if they 're girls, they can sew with me a
good deal."
"Hm-m--yes; I really don't know what we shall do to entertain them.
Perhaps they might like to read," suggested Mr. Wentworth, looking with
some doubt at his big bookcases filled with heavy, calf-bound volumes.
"Of course; and they can walk in the garden and sit on the piazza,"
murmured Mrs. Wentworth happily.
In the orphan asylum that same evening there was even greater
excitement. Mrs. Wentworth's handwriting was not of the clearest, and
her request for "two" children had been read as "ten"; and since the
asylum--which was only a small branch of a much larger institution--had
recently been depleted until it contained but five children, the matron
was sorely perplexed to know just how to fill so generous an order. It
ended in her writing an apologetic note to Mrs. Wentworth and
dispatching it the next morning by the hand of the eldest girl, Tilly,
who was placed at the head of four other jubilant children, brushed,
scrubbed, and admonished into a state of immaculate primness.
At half-past nine o'clock the driver of the big carry-all set five
squirming children on to their feet before the front door at
"Meadowbrook," and rang the bell.
"Here you are," he called gayly, as Hannah opened the door. "I've
washed my hands of 'em--now they're yours!" And he drove briskly out
of the yard.
Hannah neither moved nor spoke. She simply stared.
"Here's a note," began Tilly, advancing shyly, "for Mis' Wentworth."
Mechanically Hannah took the note and, scarcely realizing what she was
doing, threw open the door of the parlor--that parlor which was sacred
to funerals, weddings, and the minister's calls.
The children filed in slowly and deposited themselves with some skill
upon the slippery haircloth chairs and sofa. Hannah, still dazed, went
upstairs to her mistress.
"From the asylum, ma'am," she said faintly, holding out the note.
Mrs. Wentworth's eyes shone.
"Oh, the children! Where are they, Hannah?"
"In the parlor, ma'am."
"The parlor? Why, Hannah, the parlor is no place for those two
children!" Mrs. Wentworth started toward the door.
Hannah coughed and uptilted her chin.
"They ain't two, ma'am. There's as much as half a dozen of 'em."
"What!"
"There is, ma'am."
"Why, Hannah, what--" The lady tore open the note with shaking
fingers, and read:
_My dear Madam_: You very generously asked for ten children, but I hope
you will pardon me for sending only five. That is all we have with us
now, owing to several recent adoptions from our ranks--you know we are
never very large, being only a branch of the Hollingsworth Asylum. The
children were so crazy, though, at the idea of a trip to the country,
that I am sure each child will have fun enough--and make noise enough,
also, I fear--for two, so in the end you may think you've got your ten
children, after all. You must be fond of children to be willing to
give so many a two-weeks' vacation, but you don't know what a lot of
good you are doing. If you could have seen the children when I read
them your note, you would have been well repaid for all your trouble.
I wish there were more like you in the world. Yours respectfully,