Things went pretty smoothly with the little orphans while their friend
Mrs. McDougal stayed. She managed to keep the peace between them and
their cousins by soothing and petting her young charges and interesting
all the occupants of the nursery with her fairy tales, her stories of
Wallace, the Bruce, and Robin Hood and his merry men.
But all too soon came the day when she must leave Philadelphia and go to
the husband who was wearying for his good wife; a sad, sad day to the
poor little fatherless and motherless children! They clung to her until
the last moment, and she had to tear herself away leaving the whole four
weeping bitterly.
Their uncles were kind, but because of business cares seldom seen; the
aunts took little notice of the young strangers, each being absorbed in
her usual round of occupation, while the treatment of the cousins, older
and younger, varied with their varying moods—sometimes they were kind,
disposed to pet and humor their forlorn little relatives, and
again—without any apparent reason for a change—treated them with
coldness and indifference.
That was hard to bear, and caused many a fit of home-sickness and bitter
weeping for the loss of the dear father and mother whom they would never
see more upon earth.
Ethel, who was, in spite of her tender years, a very womanly little
girl, earnestly strove to act a mother’s part to her younger sisters and
little brother—soothing and comforting them in their griefs and seldom
giving vent to her own except in the darkness and silence of night when
none but God, her Heavenly Father, could see and know it. Her pillow was
often wet with tears as she sobbed herself to sleep while pouring all
her sorrows into His sympathizing ear, as both her mother and Mrs.
McDougal had taught her to do, repeating to her again and again that
command and precious promise, “Call upon Me in the day of trouble; I
will deliver thee and thou shalt glorify Me.”
“Oh, if I could only find our dear grandpa and grandma,” she sometimes
said to herself; “they would love us as dear mamma and papa did, and
take us home to live with them, and we would be, oh, so happy!”
Then she would comfort herself with the hope that perhaps some day they
would be found, and she and her brother and sisters be taken to the
sweet and lovely home she could remember as a half forgotten dream,
where no one would think them in the way; but they would be loved and
petted and made much of, instead of being barely tolerated as those of
whose presence their entertainers would gladly be relieved.
But scarcely a week had elapsed after the departure of their beloved
caretaker, Mrs. McDougal, when the little orphans were subjected to yet
another trial in the removal of Blanche and Harry to the house of their
uncle George and the custody of his cold-mannered, unsympathetic wife.
The enforced separation was a bitter thing to both themselves and the
other two. But tears and cries brought only reproof and punishment;
especially to Harry, who proved, under the tyrannical rule of his
uncle’s wife, a very determined little rebel, bringing upon himself
punishments so many and severe that to hear of them, as she did in one
way and another, almost broke Ethel’s heart.
She sorrowed for Blanche too, and for Nannette and herself; for their
situation was only slightly better than that of their brother and
sister.
Things grew worse and worse with all four until at length their uncles,
wearied out with complaints from their wives and feeling that it was sad
to have the children separated, began to talk of trying to find a good
home for them elsewhere.
Then Mrs. George Eldon broached her idea that it would be a help to poor
Mr. Coote if he and his wife were paid to take charge of the little
orphans, and at the same time a pleasant change for the children, as the
whole four could be together.
She did not add the information that she had already written privately
to Coote, telling of her plan and advising him to casually call in upon
her husband and his brother, speak of his cramped circumstances and
remark that he was thinking of trying to get a few boarding pupils to
help himself and wife eke out their small income.
The uncles hesitated over Mrs. George’s suggestion, but finally
consented to let the experiment be tried, provided Coote and his wife
might like to try it; or if not they, someone else likely to prove a
suitable person could be found.
It seemed to them quite a providence when a day or two later Coote
called at their place of business and made known his desire for just
such an opportunity for increasing his meagre means, asking if they
could recommend him to someone who had the guardianship of children in
need of a good home where they would receive parental care and training.
The brothers exchanged glances of relief and pleasure.
“Yes, Mr. Coote,” replied the elder Mr. Eldon, “we ourselves are wanting
just such a home and caretaking for the orphan children of a deceased
brother; four little ones—the eldest eight, the youngest about three
years of age.”
“Possible?” cried Coote, simulating delighted surprise, laughing in a
gleeful way and rubbing his hands together with a look of great
satisfaction. “Well, sirs, you may rest assured that if committed to my
care and that of my estimable wife they will not long miss their
departed parents, and will be trained up in so godly a manner that they
will no doubt be reunited to them in a better world.”
“Not too soon, I hope,” observed Mr. Albert dryly. “I desire them to
live to years of maturity, becoming happy, honorable, and useful
citizens of this free land which we have adopted as our own.”
“Oh, certainly, sir,” responded Coote, “and I’m thinking they’ll be more
likely to live and thrive in the wholesome air of the country town in
which I am located than here in the city.”
“I hope so indeed,” said the elder Mr. Eldon; “but if we trust them to
you and Mrs. Coote it must be with the distinct understanding that they
are to be well fed and clothed, and to receive truly parental care and
affection.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly, sir,” again responded Coote; “my wife and I
will look upon and treat the poor little orphans quite as if they were
our own.”
“Better, I trust, than some people treat their own,” returned Mr. Eldon.
“Well, sir, if my brother approves, we will, I think, give you an
opportunity to show yourself a kind and wise guardian to these little
ones who, as the offspring of our deceased brother, are very near and
dear to us.”
In reply Mr. Coote gave renewed assurances that he felt a great interest
in the little orphans, and that he and his wife would be as father and
mother to them, doing for them all that the best of parents could do.
The uncles then consented to put them in his care for an indefinite
period, reserving the right to remove them if at any time they saw
reason to be dissatisfied with the treatment they received.
“I certainly shall give you no occasion for it,” remarked Coote suavely;
“as I have said, my wife and I will be as tender and careful of the
little darlings as though, they were our own flesh and blood.”
“How soon will you be ready for them?” asked Mr. George Eldon.
“At once, sir, at once. And if you please I should greatly prefer to
take them with me on my return this afternoon. It would save me another
trip to the city, and in my circumstances that expense would count.”
“And since the change has to be made it would perhaps be as well to make
it at once,” remarked Mr. Eldon thoughtfully, adding, “I hope the poor
little creatures may be happier with you, Mr. Coote, than they have been
with us, if only for the simple reason that the whole four will be
together; for I never saw children fonder of each other than they are.”
“Nor I,” assented his brother; “and Ethel, young as she is, seems very
like a mother to Harry and Nannette, poor child! I am really sorry to
part with her. I’ll go up with you, Coote, explain matters to her, bid
good-by to the whole four, and see them off.”
Things had gone very wrong that morning with Blanche and Harry, and
Ethel was nearly heartbroken over the sore punishment meted out to them
by Mrs. George. That made the news her Uncle Albert brought her much
less distressing than it would otherwise have been; for how, she asked
herself, was it possible things could go worse anywhere than here? And
it seemed a blessing indeed that she and all three of the younger ones
would be together again.
She loved Uncle Albert, clung tearfully to him for a moment when he had
told her of the new arrangement, then almost cheerfully gathered
together the few small possessions of herself, brother, and sisters.
By direction of the aunts the children’s trunk had been already packed
with the most of their clothing, so that it was the work of but a few
minutes to get everything in readiness for their hasty departure.
The little ones were almost dazed by the suddenness of the thing, and
scarcely realized what had happened till they found themselves in the
cars alone with their new and unknown guardian. Their Uncle Albert had
gone with them to the train, and in bidding them good-by he laid a box
of candies in Ethel’s lap, saying, “That is for you and your brother and
sisters to eat on the way;” and bestowed a large, luscious orange on
each, of the four.
Ethel threw her arms about his neck and held him tight for a moment,
while her sobs came thick and fast.
“Oh, Uncle, dear Uncle Albert,” she cried chokingly, “won’t I ever see
you any more?”
“Yes, yes, dear child,” he said soothingly, “I shall run up to look at
you and the others one of these days, when business grows slack; and
perhaps—who knows but you’ll be back with us again some day? But there,
I must go now. Be good children, all of you, and Uncle Albert won’t
forget you at Christmas time.”
And with a hasty caress bestowed on each of the others he hurried from
the car.
Ethel dried her eyes, opened the box, gave a bit of the candy to each of
the other three, then seeing that Mr. Coote was eying them as though he
too would like a share, she held out her box to him, asking timidly,
“Will you have a piece too, sir?”
His only reply was to seize the box, help himself to half its contents,
then hand it back with a gruff, “Candy isn’t at all good for children,
and if your uncle had consulted me he wouldn’t have wasted his money
buying it for you.”
“Oh, dear, that man’s got most all of our candy; and Uncle Albert said
it was for us,” wailed Harry, taking a peep into the half-emptied box.
“Be quiet, sir!” commanded Coote, turning a flushed and angry face upon
the little boy.
“Give back that candy and I’ll be quiet enough,” returned Harry
sturdily.
“What a hog of a man to be robbing those poor little children of their
candy!” exclaimed a motherly-looking country woman in the next seat,
apparently addressing her remark to a young girl at her side, but
speaking loud enough for Coote and other near-by passengers to hear.
The train was just starting. Coote leaned over the back of the seat,
bringing his mouth near to Harry’s ear.
“You keep quiet, you young dog,” he said savagely, “or I’ll pitch you
out the window and let the train run over you and kill you.”
“Oh, you wicked, wicked man!” cried Ethel, with a burst of tears,
putting her arm round Harry and holding him close; “if you do you’ll get
hung for murder.”
“Take care, miss; it wouldn’t take long to send you after him,” was the
threatening rejoinder, and Coote leaned back in his seat again, took a
newspaper from his pocket, and sat looking over it while devouring with
evident enjoyment the candy of which he had robbed the children.