From the library Ethel went up to the schoolroom, where Nannette and the
younger cousins were engaged with their tasks for the morrow.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come at last, Ethel, dear,” said Nannette. “It
always seems lonesome without you, and besides I want your help with
this lesson; it’s so hard, and you always know how to explain things and
make them easy.”
Ethel’s eyes filled. What would Nan, dear little Nan, do without her big
sister, who had always tried to bear every burden for her? But
conquering her emotion by a great and determined effort, she took a seat
by her little sister’s side and gave the needed help.
The children were required to study only one hour in the evening, and
soon books were laid aside and they ran off to the nursery for a game of
romps before going to bed. But Ethel lingered behind, and Miss Olney,
the governess, presently enquired in a kindly tone if there was anything
she wanted to say to her. Then Ethel’s story came out, and with tears
she confessed that the hardest part was the leaving of Nannette without
her sisterly care and assistance with her tasks.
“Never mind that, dear child,” Miss Olney said, softly stroking the
young girl’s hair; “I will take your place in that. And though I am
sorry indeed to part with so docile and industrious a pupil as yourself,
I think you are doing just right; and I believe the Lord will bless and
help you. And you know you will not be far away and we may hope to see
you frequently. From what you tell me of Mrs. Baker I feel assured that
she will prove a kind and pleasant employer, making you feel yourself
just one of the family—not a stranger about whom they care nothing. Also
I think the knowledge that you can come back to your home here at any
time if you will, sure of a welcome from your kind uncle—and I dare say
all the family—will make it all the easier for you to be happy in your
new surroundings.”
“Yes, ma’am, my uncles are very, very kind to me, to my brother and
sisters too; and Harry and the girls can come to Mrs. Baker’s sometimes
to see me; any of the rest of course, but I hardly suppose my aunt,
uncles, or cousins will care to do that.”
“But possibly I may, one of these days,” returned Miss Olney with a
smile.
“I’d be delighted to see you,” Ethel said, her eyes shining. “Oh, I
don’t think I need feel unhappy or as if I were alone in the world.
Would you tell Nan about it to-night, Miss Olney?”
“No, I think not. Let her sleep in peace. I wouldn’t tell her until
after breakfast to-morrow.”
Ethel intended to act in accordance with that advice, but on going to
her own room found Nan there standing with her eyes fastened upon the
trunk her sister had been packing.
“Why, what’s this trunk doing here?” she asked. “Are we going away,
sister? Oh, I hope it’s to visit at Mr. Keith’s again, though I didn’t
suppose we’d be going there so early in the season.”
“No, we are not, Nan, dear,” returned Ethel in trembling tones, and
catching her little sister in her arms she held her close, kissing her
again and again while the great tears rolled down her cheeks and sobs
almost choked her.
“O, Ethel, what’s the matter?” cried Nan in affright. “Oh, don’t say
you’re going away from me! If you are going you must take me along, for
I could never, never do without you! You know I couldn’t.”
Ethel struggled with her emotion, and presently finding her voice, “I’m
not going very far, Nan, dear,” she said with a fresh burst of sobs;
“and I ought not to cry for it’s best I should go—it will be the best in
the end I’m sure, and our uncles are willing.”
“Going where?” asked Nan wildly. “Oh, you shan’t go! I can’t do without
you, you know I can’t!”
“But it’s to make the home for you and Blanche and Harry and me;
besides, I’ll not be far away and we can often visit each other, and
when at last we get the dear home, oh, how happy we shall be!”
“But where are you going? and how do you expect to make the home?”
In answer to that Ethel told the whole story, winding up with, “You see,
Nan, dear, it will not be so very hard; in fact, I think I shall like it
very much—it will be so nice to feel that I am earning money toward the
dear home we shall surely have some day. The worst of it is leaving you;
but then it is not at all as if I were going far away; we can see each
other very often, perhaps almost every day, and you can tell me all your
little secrets just as you always have, and whatever I can do to help
you I will. You’re sure of that, aren’t you, darling little sister?”
“Yes, yes; but oh, I shall miss you so much! I don’t see what I can do
without you.”
“You won’t be all alone, dear,” returned Ethel soothingly; “the dear
Lord Jesus will be just as near and able to help and comfort you as
ever, and just as ready to hear your prayers as if you were a woman. You
won’t forget that?”
“No; but oh, I shall want you too!” wailed Nan, hiding her face on
Ethel’s shoulder.
“But, remember, I’m not going far away, dear Nan, and we may see each
other very often,” repeated Ethel. “Besides, you will be here with dear
Uncle Albert; and the cousins are almost always kind nowadays. Now let
us kneel down and say our prayers and then get into bed and go to sleep,
and you will feel better in the morning.”
“O Ethel, is this the last time we’ll sleep together?” sobbed Nan,
creeping into her sister’s arms as they laid themselves down upon the
bed.
“For a while, I suppose,” returned Ethel, trying hard to speak
cheerfully. “But don’t think about that, dear Nan, but about the good
time coming, when we shall have our own home—all four of us together—and
oh, such a good, happy time!”
“But oh, it will be so long to wait,” sighed the little girl, and Ethel
felt like echoing the sigh, for her heart was very sore over Nan’s
distress as well as her own sorrow, that they must now learn to live
apart, at least for a time. But both at length wept themselves to sleep.
The situation did not look very much brighter to them in the morning,
and there were traces of tears upon the cheeks of both when they took
their places at the breakfast table.
Their aunt had not come down. She was seldom present at that early meal.
But all the cousins except Arabella were in their places, and it seemed
that all the older ones looked askance and with no very pleasant
expression at her.
But her uncle said good-morning in a very kindly tone, and heaped her
plate and Nannette’s with the most tempting viands the table afforded.
Ethel’s heart was very full. She ate with but little appetite and had
finished her meal before any of the rest had satisfied their appetites.
Her uncle saw it, and on leaving the table called her into the library,
where he could speak to her alone.
“Well, my child,” he said, “I hope you have thought better of it by this
time and do not want to leave us.”
At that Ethel’s tears began to fall. “I’m sorry, oh, so sorry, to leave
you, uncle,” she replied, “but you know promises have to be kept, and I
did promise to try it. So please don’t be angry with me.”
“I am sorry, like yourself, my dear child,” he said; “but do not blame
you. Perhaps it is best you should try the plan; for as you can come
back whenever you wish, it will not be risking a great deal, and I fear
you will never be content until you have made the experiment. Your aunt
and cousins all know about it and naturally are rather displeased,
thinking it a proof that you do not value your home here as you might.”
“Oh, uncle, how can they think that! I am very, very grateful for your
kindness in giving me such a home for so many years; but it would be
asking too much of you to keep on supporting me and my sister Nannette
now when I have grown old enough to do something for myself and may
hope, if I begin at once to learn to make money, that in a few years I
may be able to help her and Blanche and Harry till they too are able to
earn their own living. Don’t you really think, uncle, that it is what is
right and best for me to do?”
“That is a question we need not discuss now, since you are decided to
try it,” he said, looking at his watch. “Well, child, I must be off to
my business now; so let me kiss you good-by, and do not forget that if
you want to come back at any time, your Uncle Albert’s door is always
open to you—his dead brother’s daughter.” He took her in his arms and
caressed her tenderly as he spoke.
“Dear uncle, you have always been so good, so good and kind to me!” she
sobbed, clinging about his neck. “Oh, don’t ever think for one minute
that it’s because I don’t love you dearly, dearly, that I’m going away.”
“No, I do not think that,” he said soothingly, caressing her hair and
cheek with his hand, “but if you come back soon to stay with me, I shall
think that is a proof that you do love me.”
“Indeed, indeed, I do!” she exclaimed earnestly, the tears coursing down
her cheeks as she spoke. “And mayn’t I come here to see you when I wish
and can be spared from the store?”
“Certainly; and it is possible I may some day call in upon you. Give me
your address.”
She gave it, and he wrote it down in his notebook.
“How soon do you go?” he asked.
“I promised to be there by nine o’clock this morning,” she replied.
“So soon? Well, then I think it will not be best for you to see your
aunt before starting. She is not likely to be up and would not wish to
be disturbed, and you will be in again soon. So just leave your good-by
with the girls.”
Ethel was well content with that arrangement, for she had dreaded the
parting interview with Mrs. Eldon; besides she was pressed for time to
finish her packing and take leave of the others.
The adieus of her cousins were very coldly spoken, and no interest shown
in her new enterprise. That saddened her, though she had hardly expected
anything else. But the parting with Nannette, who wept and clung to her
in an almost frantic abandonment of grief and despair, was the hardest
thing of all. Blanche and Harry also were much distressed over the
parting, but forgot their own sorrow in efforts to soothe and comfort
poor little Nannette. At last Blanche succeeded in doing so in a measure
by promising that when they were out for their walk that afternoon they
would all go to see Ethel in her new abode.
“Oh, yes, so you must! That’s a good idea, Blanche,” exclaimed Ethel. “I
don’t think Mrs. Baker will mind, and I shall be just as glad to see you
as you will be to see me.”
“But are we sure to be able to find the place?” asked Harry, standing
near. “Here, I’ll write it down—street and number, I mean,” taking a
small blank book from his pocket as he spoke, “and then we’ll be sure
not to forget.”
“That’s right, Harry,” Ethel said with a faint smile. “I think you are
going to make a good business man, as Uncle Albert says.” She gave the
requested information, then a hasty and last good-by to each and hurried
away, leaving Nannette in tears, the other two looking distressed and
woe-begone.