It was a lovely day early in October, and the children enjoyed gazing
out upon the landscape, so new to them, the gorgeous coloring of the
forest trees particularly attracting their attention. They were close
together, having possession of a corner near the door of the car, where
two seats at right angles gave them abundance of room to move about and
gaze their fill, now on the outer world, now at the occupants of the
seats near at hand. They were pretty quiet, and disturbed no one but
each other with their prattle and fidgeting.
The sun was near its setting when they arrived at their destination.
They were bundled very unceremoniously out of the car and hurried along
the street by Mr. Coote, who seemed in hot haste to reach his parsonage,
some two or three squares distant. Poor little Nannette found it very
hard—indeed quite impossible—to keep up with him in his rapid strides,
though Ethel on one side and Blanche on the other were doing their
utmost to help her along. And even they, without that hindrance, could
not possibly have kept pace with their conductor. Nor could Harry, and
he too fell behind with them, and all four were crying more or less when
they reached the gate where Coote stood awaiting their coming, with a
scowl of impatience upon his ugly features.
“I thought you were close behind me. You’ll have to learn to walk
faster. Dawdling along is something I’ll not put up with,” he growled,
snatching Nannette up roughly and carrying her into the house, the
others following in obedience to the gruff order, “Come along in, all o’
you.”
A middle-aged woman—tall, rawboned, of scowling countenance and stiffly
starched in manner, stood waiting in the hall.
“So you’ve brought ’em,” she said in icy tones. “Well, they’ll make
trouble and work enough, but the pay will help to eke out that
starvation salary of yours.”
“Take care, Sarah,” he muttered, setting down the sobbing Nannette, none
too gently, upon the floor, “little pitchers have big ears, and there’s
no knowing when or where they might blab.”
“Just let me catch ’em at it and they’ll not be apt to do it a second
time,” she said, turning upon the trembling little ones a look so angry
and threatening that they clung together in affright, tears coursing
down their cheeks and their young bosoms heaving with sobs.
“Stop your crying, every one of you!” she commanded. “Come right in here
and eat your suppers,” opening a door near where she stood, “and then
you shall go to bed. But no. Pull off your hats and coats first and hang
them here on the rack in the hall. You must learn to wait on yourselves,
and that there’s a place for everything and everything must be in its
place, and the sooner you learn it the better it’ll be for you; for dirt
and disorder are never allowed in the house where I’m at the head of
affairs. I’ll help you this time, but you’ve got to help yourselves
after this.”
She had seized Nannette as she spoke, and was jerking off her coat.
“Well, I declare if you aint all sticky with candy!” she exclaimed, in a
tone of disgust. “What on earth did you let her have it for, Coote?”
“’Twas none o’ my doing,” he replied; “their uncle gave it to ’em, but I
can tell you it’ll be one while before they get any more.”
At that Nannette looked up piteously, and with quivering lip, into
Ethel’s face, but did not dare to so much as whimper. It was a very
faint and watery smile Ethel gave her in reply.
They were hurried into the dining room, a barely furnished apartment
with whitewashed walls, green paper window blinds, and rag carpet;
exquisitely neat and clean, but wearing like its mistress a cold and
cheerless aspect in striking contrast with the beautiful homes of their
uncles, which the children had left but a few hours before.
The table was covered with a very white and smoothly ironed but coarse
cloth, and on it stood a pitcher of milk, a plate of bread, and four
bowls of heavy ironstone china, each with a silver-plated spoon beside
it. The children were quickly seated, told to fold their hands and shut
their eyes while repeating a short grace after Mrs. Coote. Then milk was
poured into each bowl, a piece of bread laid beside it, and they were
ordered to break the bread into the milk, take up their spoons and eat,
which they did, Mrs. Coote seating herself opposite them and watching
with eagle eyes every movement they made.
No one of the four ventured a word, much less to refuse obedience to the
order given. Both bread and milk were sweet and good, and after the
first taste the little folks ate with appetite, Mrs. Coote refilling the
bowls and supplying the bread without stint.
“Eat all you want,” she said in a slightly softened tone; “I was never
one to starve man or beast; you’ll not be fed on dainties here, but
shall have all you can eat of good, wholesome victuals.”
Presently the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall was followed by the
opening of the door of the dining room, and Mr. Coote put in his head,
saying: “Here’s the trunk, Sarah; what’ll you have done with it?”
“They’ll sleep in the room over the kitchen; have it carried up there,”
she replied.
When the children had finished their meal, “Now,” she said, “you shall
go up to your room and beds,” and they followed submissively as she led
the way through the hall and up a back staircase.
The room into which she presently ushered them looked as scrupulously
clean and orderly, and also as bare and desolate, as the dining room.
There was a double bed which she told the little girls they were to
occupy, and in another corner a cot bed which she said was for Harry.
The remaining pieces of furniture were a washstand with bowl and
pitcher, a chest of drawers with a small mirror over it, two wooden
chairs of ordinary height and two little ones.
“Sit down on those chairs, every one of you, and keep still while I take
out your night clothes from this trunk,” said Mrs. Coote. “Where’s the
key?” looking at Ethel.
“In my pocket, ma’am,” returned the little girl, producing it with all
possible despatch. “The nurse told me she had put all our nightgowns
right on top.”
“Yes, here they are; looking well rumpled too. Plenty o’ folks in this
world that don’t care whether they do a thing right or wrong. I hope
you’ll not make one of that sort, Ethel.”
“I’ll try not to, ma’am,” replied the little girl meekly.
“Well, help your sisters and brother to undress, hang their clothes up
neatly on those pegs along the wall there—so they’ll get a good airing
through the night—then undress yourself and do the same with your own
clothes. Don’t forget your prayers either. I’m going downstairs now, but
I’ll be in again presently to see that you are all snug and comfortable,
and to finish unpacking your trunk.” With these concluding words she
hurried out, closing the door after her.
“Oh, me don’t ’ike dis place; me wants to go home,” sobbed Nannette.
“So do I,” said Harry, tears rolling down his cheeks. Blanche too was
crying, though softly, and Ethel’s eyes were full of tears. But she
tried to be cheerful and brave.
“We’ll make haste to bed and to sleep, and in the morning we’ll all feel
better,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully. “Blanche and I will
undress you little ones, then get undressed ourselves, and soon we’ll
all be in bed.”
And so they were, Ethel last of all; the other three were asleep when at
last her weary little head was laid upon its pillow. Her young heart was
sad and sore, for it seemed a cheerless sort of home they had come
to—oh, so different from that which had been theirs but a few short
months before, with the dear parents whom she would see never again upon
earth. With that thought in her mind she wept herself to sleep.