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WHAT TWO
CHILDREN DID
BY
CHARLOTTE E. CHITTENDEN
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1903,
BY GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.
_Published, September, 1903_
[E-book Transcriber's Note: Obvious typos have been corrected and
missing punctuation provided.]
Contents
I. ON THE WAY
II. AT THE SHORE
III. BETH AND HER DOLLS
IV. THE WEDDING
V. THE NEW WAY
VI. A PLAN
VII. THE SECRET
VIII. THE REWARD
IX. ONCE A YEAR
X. BETH'S BIRTHDAY
XI. THE DAY AFTER
XII. SUNDAY
XIII. THE FOUR TOGETHER
XIV. THE WEDDING AND THE VISIT
XV. THE LOST INVITATION
XVI. THE MAIL AND ETHELWYN'S VISIT
XVII. OUT AT GRANDMOTHER'S
XVIII. HOW THEY BOUGHT A BABY
XIX. BOBBY'S GRANDFATHER
XX. THE VISIT TO THE HOME
What Two Children Did
_CHAPTER I_
_On the Way_
In the train we're watching
Outdoors speeding by:
Endless moving pictures,
Framed by earth and sky.
"Mistakes are very easy to make, I think," said Ethelwyn, with an uneasy
look at her mother who sat opposite, thinking hard about something. The
reason Ethelwyn knew her mother was thinking, was because at such times
two little lines came and stood between her eyes, like sentinels.
"Do you think God made a mistake when He sent us here?" asked Beth.
They were in a Pullman car which was moving rapidly along in the
darkness. Inside it was very bright and beautiful, and would have been
most interesting to the children, had it not been for those two lines in
their dear mother's face.
"She is thinking about the naughty things we have done," said Ethelwyn
to Beth in a tragic tone, at the same time taking a mournful bite out of
a large, sugary cooky. They had eaten steadily since starting, and any
one who did not understand children, would have been alarmed at possible
consequences.
On the seat between them there was a hospitable-looking basket with a
handle over the middle and two covers that opened on either side of the
handle. Underneath the covers and the napkins the children, entirely to
their joy, had found sandwiches without limit. Some were cut round,
others square, and all were without crust; inside they found minced
chicken, creamy and delicious, also ham and a little mustard, and best
of all were the small, brown squares with peanut butter between.
"It's like Christmas or a birthday, having these sandwiches," said
Ethelwyn. "They're all different and all good, and each one seems better
than the others."
Then they began on the cookies, and bit scallops out of the edges, while
between times they thought about their last mistake and their mother's
forehead lines.
Sitting up straight against the velvet cushioned seat, the two children
looked about the same age; the two heads were nearly on a level, as were
both pairs of feet stuck out straight in front of them; but Ethelwyn's
came a little farther out than Beth's, and her golden head came a little
farther up on the seat than Beth's dark one.
Just now there was a small cloud on their horizon. Although they found
the interior of their palace car, the porter, and the passengers,
fascinating, and the luncheon an endless feast, they both felt that
before they slept they must straighten things out; hence their first
question.
Mrs. Rayburn came back presently to a realizing consciousness of the two
anxious faces opposite hers, and with a smile dismissed the sentinel
lines.
"God never makes mistakes," said she, with refreshing faith and
emphasis. "It is we who do that."
"I think," said Beth, slowly pondering on this, "that the old surplus in
the garden of Eden who bothered Adam and Eve has something to do with
it."
"Serpent, child," said Ethelwyn crushingly, beginning on cake.
"Surplus, I mean," said Beth, getting out a piece of cake for herself.
"I'd give a good deal, sister, if you wouldn't always count your
chickens before they're hatched!" Whereupon she climbed down and went
over to sit by her mother, where she glared indignantly at her sister.
Her dear "bawheady" doll was in her arms.
This doll was so called because early in life he had lost his wig, and
thereby developed a capability for being a baby, a bishop, or a boy.
There was a fascinating hole on top of his head, thus making it possible
to secrete things like medicine or food until they were fished out with
a buttonhook or darning needle. He was fed on cake now, but was
generally given crusts, when there were any, because Beth did not like
them.
"Why did you ask that question?" asked their mother.
"We thought you looked as though we'd made you an awful lot of trouble,"
said Ethelwyn, regarding the gorgeous ceiling of the car.
"Yes, you did, although I was not thinking of it just then; you ran
away--"
"Walked, mother," corrected Beth, "to the 'lectric car, with
grandmother's gold dollar, to go down to buy a trunk specially for our
dolls--"
"It was fun, mother," put in Ethelwyn, "only when we stood up and fussed
to see who'd push the button to get off, the man slowed up so fast we
both fell through a fat man's newspaper into his lap and upon his toes.
He was angry too, for he just said 'ugh,' when we asked him to excuse
us, please. The trunk man gave us back four big silver nickels with the
trunk; we put them inside, and you can have them, mother, to help heal
your feelings."
"Your mistake was in not asking--"
"We thought you'd better not be 'sturbed, 'cause ever since grandpa and
brother died, you've thought such a lot, and looked so worried--"
"But I was more worried about you when I found you weren't in the house
or grounds; I thought you might be lost, and I was about telephoning to
the police station about it, when you came, and there was just time to
catch the train."
Then Ethelwyn got down, and went over to squeeze in on the other side of
her mother. She knelt on the cushions and patted the dear face until the
little smile they loved, came out again, and drove the care lines away.
"Children are such a worry, mother," she said in a funny, prim fashion,
"that I should think you'd be sorry you ever bought us."
"But we are going to be good from now on, so good you'll nearly die
laughing," said Beth, getting up to pat her side of the face.
Their mother laughed now in a bright fashion they loved, and squeezed
them up tightly.
"No, no, chickens," she said, "I'm never sorry I bought you; you were
bargains, both of you, but I've had much to think of, and plan for, in
the last few months, and perhaps I've neglected you somewhat."
"Can you tell us 'bout things, mother?" asked Ethelwyn. "P'raps we could
help some."
"Yes, I am going to, but not now, for the porter wishes to make up our
beds."
"There are stickers in my eyes," said Beth, yawning. "There's one more
question I'd like to know about though," she said as they moved across
the aisle. "If God can't make mistakes, why does He let it be so easy
for folks to?"
"That I don't just know," said her mother, "but it's a good sign when we
know they are mistakes."
It was only a short time after this that they were all asleep in their
curtained beds, and while it was still dark, and the children were too
sleepy to realize much about it, they reached their destination and were
driven to the seashore, cottage where they were to spend the summer.
_CHAPTER II_
_At the Shore_
Underneath the washing waves
The requiem of the sea,
For those whose hopes are buried there,
Is tolling ceaselessly.
It was interesting to go to sleep in a Pullman car, and to wake up in a
dainty room hung with rosebud chintz draperies, and with an altogether
delightful air of coziness about it.
But there was something outside their room that, like a magnet, drew
them out of bed. They climbed on chairs, and gazed eagerly out of the
windows.
The house they were in, was on a hill. Pine trees grew near, and there
below them and very near, was the great silvery blue sea, with the
sunshine flashing on its tossing waves? The children gasped with
delight.
"It's another door to Paradise," said Ethelwyn.
"The gold place that shows where the sun sets is another one," said
Elizabeth. Then they heard their mother, who had come in quietly, and in
a moment was cuddling them up in her arms.
"We've lost a lot of time, I'm afraid," said Ethelwyn after they had
given her a bear hug and a kiss.
"That ocean is the prettiest thing, mother. P'raps that's the way to
Paradise where father and grandfather and brother have gone."
"Yes," said their mother, helping them into their clothes. "It is one of
the ways."
"Tell us about this place, please," begged Ethelwyn, "and how we
happened to come to such a de-lic-ious place. Will you have to work so
hard, motherdy, here? And will the little lines come between your eyes?"
Whereupon Elizabeth at once abandoned to their fate, her harness garters
with their many buckles, and climbed up to see. Yes, the lines had gone,
and she kissed the place to make sure before she climbed down again.
"Hoty potys is the twissedest things," she remarked, worse tangled than
ever.
"Hose supporters, dear child," corrected Ethelwyn with the exasperating
air that always roused Beth's wrath.
"This cottage," mother hastened to say, while she untangled the buckles
with one hand and buttoned Ethelwyn's waist with the other, "belongs to
Mrs. Stevens and her daughter, Dorothy. I have known them for years.
Recently they wrote asking me to bring you children and come to them for
the summer; they, too, were lonely, and they knew that I needed rest,
quiet, and time to plan for the future. There are few people living
here but fisher folk--"
"Christ's people?"
"Yes, like them in trade, at least. They are poor and need help--"
"Are we rich people now, and can we buy things for them?"
"Your grandfather left you a great deal of money, children, and you must
learn to use it generously. It was his wish, and mine, that you should
begin at once to think about such things before you learn to love money
for its own sake, and what it will buy."
"O, we don't care at all, do we, sister?" said Beth, stretching up on
tiptoe to get her "bawheady" from the bureau. "We'd just as lief give it
away as not, 'cause we've always you, mother dear."
"Is the money more than grandmother's gold dollar?" asked Ethelwyn.
"Much more."
"O, then we'll have fun spending it for folks; I'd like to. But, oh,
I'm hungrier than I ever was before."
"Me, too," said Beth. "I feel a great big appeltite inside me."
They decided at once that the dining-room also was charming, with its
cheery open fire of snapping pine knots, for the air outside was chilly.
Then, too, there was a parrot on a pole, who greeted them with, "Well,
well, well, what's all this? Did you ever?"
Miss Dorothy Stevens had the kind of face that children take to at once.
There never could be any question about Aunty Stevens, who laughed every
time they said anything, and who on top of their excellent breakfast,
brought them in some most delicious cookies--just the kind you would
know she could make, sugary and melty, entirely perfect, in fact,--to
take down on the beach for luncheon.
After breakfast was over they at once started for the beach. Sierra
Nevada, their colored nurse, following them with small buckets, shovels,
wraps, and cushions.
"Mother, this is the nicest place, and I love the Stevenses; but why are
they sad around the eyes, and dressed in black, like you? Has their
father gone to Paradise too?" asked Ethelwyn, as they walked along.
"Yes, dear. Besides, the young captain whom Dorothy was going to marry
went away last year and, his ship was wrecked and he has never been
heard from. So they fear he was drowned."
"O, mother, can this pretty sea do that? What was it they were saying
about a tide?"
Their mother tried to explain all she knew about the tides, and when she
had finished, Ethelwyn said:
"I think it would be easier to remember to call it tied, and then
untied."
_CHAPTER III_
_Beth and Her Dolls_
Dollie's poor mother is quite full of care,
As she who lived in a shoe,
For this child is tousled, this one undressed--
Mother has all she can do.
More dollies there are, than possible clothes,
Some of them must go to bed.
And some to be healed by mother with glue,
Lacking an arm or a head.
Then others, wearing the invalid's clothes,
Care not a fling or a jot
Nor know that to-morrow their own fate may be
The bed, or the mucilage pot.
The first Sunday that the children were at the seashore was warm and
beautiful.
Mrs. Rayburn and Mrs. Stevens went to church in the picturesque stone
chapel built by a sea captain, as a memorial to his daughter who was
drowned on the coast some years before this.
"We'll be really better girls to stay at home some of the church time,"
said Ethelwyn at breakfast, "we'll go this evening with Miss Dorothy."
"My dolls are needing a bath and their best clothes for Sunday-school,"
said Beth to Ethelwyn, who had decided to go down on the beach; "and I
can do it all comfy and nice while you are gone."
So Ethelwyn and 'Vada went for a run on the beach, and mother Elizabeth,
with a look of happy care on her face, and her beloved six dolls in her
arms, came out on the porch, where she had already taken a basin of
water, soap, a tiny sponge, and towels.
Directly she became aware of some one near her, and looking up saw a
girl with dark eyes and short, straight hair watching the proceedings
with much interest, her hands clasped behind her back.
"My name is Nan," said the visitor as soon as she caught Elizabeth's
eye, "Who are you? Is this your house? We've just come, and mother is in
bed with a headache, and father's gone to church, so I'm roaming around
seeking something to devour--"
"Does that mean eat?" said Elizabeth, a scene in one of her picture
books of lions devouring their prey coming into her mind.
"I think it's what my father calls a figure of speech. He's a
minister--a clergyman, you know. We've come down here to board, and he's
going to have the services in the Chapel of the Heavenly Rest. Mother's
sick about always, so I have to roam around--Say, I know a game; let's
baptize your children."
"They don't need it; they're not born in sin--"
"Everything is," emphatically. "Don't try to teach a minister's child
things, for pity's sake. I'll do the baptizing. Come along."
The rainwater barrel, half sunken in the ground, was at one of the rear
corners of the house.
"We are not allowed to play in that, I think," said Elizabeth uneasily.
"That doesn't mean me, I'm older'n you. Here, give me the doll without a
wig."
Down went the beloved "bawheady" with a thud that carried desolation to
Beth's tender heart. Four others followed in quick succession before
Beth could protest. Then clinging to Arabella, she started to run. Nan
tried to run after her, but caught her foot on the barrel's brim and
straightway joined the five dolls. Elizabeth opened her mouth to shriek,
when in an opportune moment, a young man appeared on the scene, and
speedily fished out Miss Nan, who dripped and coughed and choked;
inarticulate, but evidently wrathy sounds wrestled for utterance in her
throat. At last she shook herself free.
"I'm perfectly degusted with this whole preformance," she said as she
went stalking off, dripping as she went.
Then the young man laughed and laughed, until he became aware of
Elizabeth wistfully staring at him.
"What is it?" he asked.
"My dolls. They're baptized clear to the bottom; please get 'em out."
"I'll do it, if you will take this note to Miss Dorothy Stevens," said
the young man, at once throwing off his coat and pushing up his shirt
sleeve. Beth, before she trotted off, saw that he had a blue anchor on
his arm. When she came back, the rescued five lay stretched on the grass
in a pathetic row, and she at once ran to her prostrate children.
"You are to go to the parlor and tell Miss Dorothy all about it," she
said, in passing, to their rescuer. "Your note made Miss Dorothy cry;
and she was all white 'round her mouth. Thank you for the dolls," she
called as an afterthought.
So busy was she drying her afflicted family that it was some time after
the others had reached home that 'Vada, wildly excited, came to find
Elizabeth and to tell her that Miss Dorothy's sweetheart had come back.
"From Paradise?" queried Beth, getting up at once and bristling all over
with questions she wanted to ask him about that interesting place.
"Mighty nigh," said 'Vada, rolling her eyes. "He was shipwrecked on the
raging main, and hit on de head wid somefin that done knock all de sense
out of him, so he's pick up by some folks dat didn't know 'im, an' he
went cruisin' aroun', till he come to, and, by 'me by, back to see his
sweetheart."
Elizabeth went into the parlor later on, and stared so insistently at
the young captain that her mother drew her gently to one side and
whispered to her.
"But I'm anxious to see a sweetheart that has been in Paradise, mother,"
she explained.
_CHAPTER IV_
_The Wedding_
Bells ring,
Birds sing,
Every one is gay;
Hearts beat,
Chimes sweet,
On a bridal day.
It was one of the things for the children to remember always, that Miss
Dorothy was married while they were there to help.
They helped so much in the matter of scraping all the cake and icing
pans, stoning, and especially eating, raisins, that it was a wonder they
were not ill.
The morning on which the wedding was to take place dawned as bright and
golden as could be desired.
It was a very simple, pretty wedding in the stone chapel, towards which,
in the early morning, the bridal party walked. Nan, Ethelwyn, and
Elizabeth went ahead, bearing flowers, and after them came Miss Dorothy
in her white gown, clinging to the arm of her sailor lover.
Mrs. Stevens and the children's mother, together with a few friends,
awaited them in the pretty church, and Nan's father married them. They
then all went to the bride's home for breakfast, immediately after
which, the young couple were going away for a year. This fact, and the
mother's sad face impaired the appetites of the guests, with three noble
exceptions. The trio at the end of the table ate with zest and
unimpaired enthusiasm, of the good things that they fondly believed
might never have reached their present point of perfection had it not
been for their skill.
"Should you think," Elizabeth paused to say, in a somewhat muffled
voice, entirely owing to plum cake and not grief, "that one of us is
married too?"
"My father," returned Nan loftily, "is not given to making mistakes of
that kind. There weren't husbands enough to go 'round anyway."
"What is a husband?"
"You've been helping make one, child, and you ask that!"
So Elizabeth concluded it was a small portion of the refreshments that
had escaped her notice.
Afterwards they went down to the harbor from which the bride and groom
were to sail.
"Like the owl and the pussy cat," said Ethelwyn, cheerfully.
As they kissed their friend good-bye, they placed around her neck a
pretty chain, hanging from which was a medallion with their pictures
painted on it.
"You can look at us when you get lonesome," suggested Beth.
The last good-bye was said, and they drove sadly home in a fine,
drenching rain that had suddenly fallen like a vail over their golden
day.
'Vada had started the open fires and they were cheerfully cracking,
while Polly from her pole croaked crossly, "Shut up, do! Quit making all
that fuss!"
Mrs. Rayburn took Aunty Stevens away with her, and by and by in the
afternoon, they found her tucked up on the couch in their sitting-room
looking somewhat happier.
"Aren't you glad you have us, and specially mother?" asked Beth, kissing
her.
There was only one answer possible to this, and it was given with such
emphasis that Ethelwyn nodded and said, "That's the way we feel. Mother
knows how to fix things right better'n anybody, unless it should be
God."
"Let's sing awhile, sister, while mother thinks of a story or two,"
suggested Beth.
So they squatted in front of the grate and sang,
"Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee,
I am so glad that Jesus loves me."
Then they sang what they called "Precious Julias,"
"Little children who love Mary Deemer."
"Why," Beth stopped to ask, "does it say Precious Julias when it's 'bout
Mary Deemer, sister?"
"Middle name, prob'ly," answered Ethelwyn; "anyway that's Mary Deemer,"
pointing to a picture of Murillo's "Magdalene," "and the reason that
she's loved by children, is because she is pretty and good. If you are
good, Elizabeth, people will love you."
"I'm as good as you are, anyway," began Beth wrathfully, when she saw
Nan in the doorway.
"May I come in?" she asked, wistfully. "Mother has a headache, father's
gone fishing in a boat, and I've a toothpick in my side."
"Come in, deary," said Mrs. Rayburn, who felt an infinite pity for
sturdy little Nan, with her invalid mother. "Bless me, what cold hands!
What's this thing you have in your side?" she continued, cuddling Nan up
in her lap.
Nan breathed a contented breath. "O, it's gone now. It's a sharp,
pointed thing that sticks me when I'm lonesome."
"We're having Sunday-school, the singing part, and you may come if
you're good, and know a verse, and won't baptize the Sunday-school,"
said Beth, multiplying conditions rapidly.
"I know a verse that father says he thinks ought to be in the Bible,"
said Nan.
"Let's not have Sunday-school," she continued, snuggling down on Mrs.
Rayburn's shoulder. "It's so nice here, and I want to tell you 'bout my
dream I had the other night. Dreamed I went to heaven awhile, and when I
came home I slid down fifty miles of live wire and sissed all the way
down like a hot flatiron."
"There's a gold crack in the sky now that shows a little weenty bit of
Heaven's floor, I think, right now," said Ethelwyn, going to the west
window.
They all followed her, and sure enough there was the gold of the sky
shining through the misty rain clouds.
"Now, if God and the angels would just peek out a minute, I'd be
thankful," said Elizabeth.
_CHAPTER V_
_The New Way_
It's--hard--to--work--
And easy to play;
I'll tell you what we've done,
We play our work
And work our play,
And all the hard is gone.
The children were always glad when Mrs. Flaharty came to wash, for she
was never too busy to talk to them, nor to let them wash dolls' clothes
in some of her suds, nor, in her own way, to converse, and to explain
things to them.
One Monday morning the two were in the back yard with gingham aprons
tied around their waists for trails, and with one of Aunty Stevens'
bright saucepans which they put on their heads in turn. In this rig,
they felt that their appearance left little to be desired.
They were having literary exercises while Mrs. Flaharty was hanging the
white clothes on the line, and, by reason of her exceeding interest in
the proceedings, she took her time about it too.
In the midst of Ethelwyn's recitation of "Mary Had a Little Lamb," she
paused to say, after, "The eager children cry,"
"What do you s'pose the silly things cried for?"
"'Cause they didn't have any lamb, prob'ly," promptly replied Elizabeth
from the audience, where she sat surrounded by her dolls. "Hurry up,
sister, it's my turn."
"Is it ager, children, you're askin' about?" asked Mrs. Flaharty,
flopping out a sheet. "If you'd ever had the ager, what wid the pain in
your bones an' the faver in your blood, you'd be likely to cry--whin you
had the stren'th."
"Is it shaking ager?" asked Elizabeth doubtfully. "Oh, I didn't know
that. Come and sit down on the steps, Mrs. Flaharty, and I'll tell a
story I made up for this special 'casion."
"It's troo wid the white does I am, an' I reckin I can sit and take me
breath before I begin on the colored; besides, I'd have to be takin'
away the foine costumes ye has roun' your waists, if I wint now." So
Mrs. Flaharty sat down ponderously.
"I've a poem, too," said Ethelwyn, taking her place in the audience, and
Elizabeth began:
"Once there was a little boy whose father was cross to him, and kept him
home all the while, and when he let him go anywhere, he said he
'mustn't' and 'don't' so much, it spoiled all his fun. Once the boy went
in the woods where lived a fairy prince. 'Go not near the fairy prince,'
had said the boy's father so much that the boy thought he'd die if he
did. So the fairy prince looked over the back fence and said, 'Avast
there,' so the boy avasted as fast as he could. 'I'm in trouble,' said
the fairy prince. 'What about?' said the boy. 'I can walk only on one
foot till somebody cuts off my little toe,' said the prince.
"So the boy did it with his father's razor, and it thundered and
lightened, and his father came and scolded over the back fence, but the
prince waved his magic cut toe; then they all banged and went up on a
Fourth of July sky rocket, till the father fell off and bumped all his
crossness out of him, and like birds of a fevver, they all lived
togevver afterwards."
"The saints be praised," said Mrs. Flaharty, fanning herself with her
apron.
Then Ethelwyn came forward. "This is my poem," she said, bowing to the
audience.
"A little girl lived way down East,
She rose and rose, like bread with yeast,
She rose above the tallest people,
And far above the highest steeple.
She kept right on till by and by
She took a peek into the sky--"
"Oh, what did she see?" asked Elizabeth, interested at once.
"That you can guess," replied the poet with dignity. "Mother says she
likes poems and pictures that you can put something into from your own
something or other, I forget what--you let folks guess about it."
"My sister is smart," complacently remarked Elizabeth to Nan, who had
just come over.
"So am I, then," said Nan, not to be outdone. "I can make up beautiful
poems."
"Let's hear one."
So Nan came forward, bowed profoundly and began:
"I have a little kitty,
Who is so very pretty,
Tho' growing large and fat,
I fear she'll be a cat.
One day, my sakes, she saw a dog,
Her tail swelled up just like a log;
He barked, she spit,
She does not love dogs, not a bit."
"What color is she?" asked Ethelwyn.
"That is left for your guessing part," said Nan promptly.
Mrs. Flaharty now reluctantly arose.
"It's a trate to hear ye," she said, "but I mus' git troo, and go home.
There's a spindlin' lad named Dick nex' door but wan to where I live,
that can walk only wid a crutch an' not able to do that lately. He'd be
cheered entoirely wid your rhymes an' tales."
"O, maybe mother'll take us to see him this afternoon. We'll ask her.
She's intending to go down that way herself, I know, and she'll be so
good to Dick; she just can't help it," said Ethelwyn, and at once they
dashed off to see, leaving the saucepan crown rolling down the yard, and
their gingham aprons lying on the steps.
_CHAPTER VI_
_A Plan_
It's nice to get gifts,
But better to give:
For giving leaves always a glow
That warms up a part
In every heart;
The joy of it never can go.
There was woe in Ethelwyn's heart and pain in her throat, and the woe
was on account of the pain; for Elizabeth and her mother had gone to
town to arrange things for Dick, who was to be taken to the hospital,
where he was to undergo an operation that would, in all probability cure
him. And now Ethelwyn, ever desirous of being at the head and front of
things, had taken this wretched cold and could not go.
Very shortly after Mrs. Flaharty had told them about Dick, their mother
had taken them to see him. His home was a long way from their cottage,
where the fisher people lived, and the sights and smells in the hot
summer air were hard to bear even for those who were well. Poor little
Dick, lying day after day on his hard bed, with no care except what the
kind-hearted washerwoman could give him, felt that life was an ill thing
at best, and he was fast hastening out of it, with the assistance of ill
nutrition and bad ventilation. Dick's own mother and father were dead,
and his stepmother, a rough-looking creature, when she remembered him at
all, looked upon him as a useless encumbrance, and by her neglect was
making him very unhappy.
Ethelwyn and Elizabeth, quite unused to suffering of this sort, sat
soberly by, during their first visit, and watched their mother bending
tenderly over the feeble little invalid, and ministering to his needs.
In a week's time they had changed things marvelously. The stepmother
had, for a sum that meant a great deal to her, relinquished all claim
upon Dick, so he was placed in the care of a sewing woman, who, by
reason of rheumatism in her fingers, could not sew any more; and she
filled the starving sore spot in her childless heart with a loving
devotion to Dick. The sum paid her for this care kept them both in
comfort, and Dick, with flowers and birds about him, and with wholesome,
dainty food, gradually lost his gaunt, hunted look and began to take a
fresh hold of life.
The doctor attending him gave it as his opinion that in one of the city
hospitals the little fellow might be cured, and it was to see about this
that Elizabeth and her mother had gone to town.
The night before they were all in their sitting-room, talking it over.
Aunty Stevens, who was greatly interested, had brought her knitting and
joined them.
"It would be a lovely work," said Mrs. Rayburn, thoughtfully looking at
the fire, "to make a home for Dick and many such poor little weaklings,
somewhere up on these heights where, with fresh air and good,
well-cooked food, they could have a fighting chance for life."
"There's our money," said Ethelwyn, cuddling her hand in her mother's.
"Let's make one with it."
"Would you like that?"
"Yes, indeed we should," they answered in a breath.
"But it would take a great deal of money, and instead of being very rich
when you grow up, and being able to travel everywhere and have beautiful
clothing and jewels, you might have to give up many things of that
sort."
"But," said Elizabeth, climbing up into her mother's lap, "isn't doing
things for poor children like Dick, better than that?"
"There's no doubt about it," said their mother, her eyes shining as she
kissed the tops of the two round heads now cuddled on her shoulders, in
what Beth called her "arm cuddles."
"Well, we don't mind then, do we, sister?"
"No indeed," said sister promptly, kicking her foot out towards the
fire. "Dresses are a bother, and always getting torn, and traveling
makes you very tired, only the luncheon's nice. But I'd lots rather
build a home."
"Let's see," said mother, "if you are as ready to give up something now.
Elizabeth's birthday is next week and Ethelwyn's next month. I had
thought we might take a short yachting trip,--all of us, Nan, Aunty
Stevens--"
"O, mother," they cried, turning around to hug her.
"Then there is a doll in town that can walk and talk. Beth, deary, you
choke me so I can't talk;--and a camera for sister. Would you mind
giving up these things to help pay the hospital expenses, or to buy a
wheel chair or some comfort for Dick?"
Down went the heads again, and dead silence reigned except for the
crackling of the fire and the clicking of Aunty Stevens' needles.
"May we go away and think it over?" said Ethelwyn soberly.
"Yes."
So they slid down and disappeared to think it out alone, as they always
did when obliged to settle questions for themselves. Ethelwyn went
outdoors, and crawled into the hammock on the porch. The wind blew
mistily from the sea and was heavy with dampness and cold, but the child
paid no attention to that; she was so busy thinking. Surely, she
thought, there was money enough for Dick and the others without giving
up her camera and the sea trip. She had longed for a camera all summer.
Nan had the use of her mother's and had taken their pictures in all
places and positions, and she did so wish for one. But then, there was
poor Dick, how uncomfortable he had looked.
Elizabeth, meantime, went to the bedside of her beloved doll family.
They were lying serene and placid, exactly as she had placed and tucked
them in at bedtime, with her own motherly hand, and the memory of Dick
lying racked with pain on the comfortless bed where she had first seen
him, almost decided her at once. But a doll that could walk and talk,
though, would be lovely.
"But then, darlings," she said, after a little, "you might think I would
love her better than you, and you are such dears, you don't deserve
that."
So Beth kissed them all with fervor, her mind quite made up.
While they were away, Aunty Stevens said, "Isn't that a pretty hard
test?"
The children's mother shook her head thoughtfully at the dancing fire.
"I hope not," she said. "I don't wish them to do things now that they
will repent of afterwards. But it seems to me that if they are trained
now to be unselfish, they will always be so. Don't you think, dear Mrs.
Stevens, that the whole trouble with the world is its selfishness?"
"No doubt at all about it," said the older woman, nodding emphatically
over her flying needles.
"Then if the world is to be made better, and rid of this, which lies at
the bottom of all the crime, sin and unhappiness, the younger ones of us
will have to be taught to sacrifice, at least some luxuries, to help
give less fortunate ones the necessities of life," said Mrs. Rayburn,
getting interested, and talking fast and earnestly.
"How I hate the expression 'Look out for number one,' It's such teaching
as this, that makes human beings so forgetful of others," she went on
after a little pause, "and the modern socialist only seems to be trying
to exchange one set of selfish, grasping rules for another of the same
sort. So the world will go on, until the laws are again based on the
teaching of our Lord, and Christian socialism will prevail."
"Yes, you are quite right, but what are you among so many?" asked Aunty
Stevens, smiling across at her friend.
Mrs. Rayburn's cheeks flushed. "Yes, I know," she said. "I suppose it
looks as though I alone were trying to reform the world; but I am not. I
am only one little atom trying to teach still smaller atoms that they
must do their share."
"Was it not in 'Bleak House' that that exceedingly unpleasant personage
used to give away her children's pocket money? And the black looks she
received from them when she was not looking, were something dreadful."
"Well," said Mrs. Rayburn, laughing, "I hope you don't think the cases
are parallel."
"No indeed, I don't. I was trying to say, I think you are right because
you go at it in the right way, and let them choose. Then, because they
love and have perfect confidence in you, they will be pretty likely to
choose the right way."
"People so often say, 'Let children have a good time,' but interpreted,
from their point of view, a good time, means a selfish time. That is
selfish enjoyment, but it might be good occasionally to put to the test
the truth that it is more blessed to give than to receive."
Elizabeth now came in with her baby doll in her arms. She soberly
climbed up again into the blessed fold of her mother's arms.
"I'd just as lief Dick would have it as not, momsey, for I've my heart
chock full of dolls now, and it will be so good to have Dick and others
well and comfyble."
Ethelwyn came a moment later.
"It's all right, mother," she said, also climbing up to her place. "I
can make pictures with a pencil more easily than I can bear to think
that Dick needs my camera money, I'll be glad to do it, mother."
But Ethelwyn's voice was hoarse, and the next morning she was not well
enough to go to town.
_CHAPTER VII_
_The Secret_
Such fun to have a secret!
To tell one too is fun.
But then there is no secret
That's known to more than one.
Ethelwyn had intended to have a most unhappy day, so after her mother
and Beth went, she lay face down in the hammock with a very damp ball of
a handkerchief squeezed up tightly against her eyes. But by and by she
heard Aunty Stevens calling her. "Here I am," she answered, at once
sitting up.
"Do you feel well enough to help me make some apple pies?" Ethelwyn
rolled out of the hammock, and ran into the kitchen in a trice.
"O if you only knew how I love to cook, Aunty Stevens," she cried. "And
nobody will hardly ever let me. I can make the bestest cookies if any
one else just makes the dough. So if you don't feel just prezactly well,
you can sit in the rocking-chair, and I will do it all."
"Thank you, deary, but I'm feeling pretty well to-day, so we will work
together. Let me tie this apron around you."
Then Aunty Stevens brought out the dearest little moulding-board and
rolling-pin, and drew out of a corner a small table.
"O isn't everything about this just too cunning? Did these used to be
Miss Dorothy's?" said Ethelwyn in a rapture, Mrs. Stevens nodded.
"Here's your dough, dear. Now roll it out to fit this little plate."
This took time, for it persisted in rolling out long and slim, and not
at all the shape of the plate, but at last it was fitted in.
"Now what comes?" said the little cook, lifting a red and floury face.
"A thick layer of these apples--no, just a layer of sugar and
flour--then the crust won't soak. Now the apples. Sugar them well. Put
any of these spices on that you wish."
"I like the taste of cinnamon, and spice-oil, but nutmegs are so cunning
to grate. I b'lieve I'll put 'em all in," said Ethelwyn, critically
studying the spice shakers.
"Now dot the apples over with butter, a dash of cold water, and a
sprinkle of flour. Now roll out your top crust. Cut little slits for it
to breathe through; pinch the two crusts together, after you have wet
your finger and thumb in cold water. There! now it is ready to go in the
oven."
"O isn't it sweet?" said Ethelwyn. "Nobody can cook like you, Aunty
Stevens. Nobody. I think it's a great--great appomplishment."
"Thank you, dear. Now sit down, and when I have cleaned up things a
little, we'll go out on the west porch, and I am going to tell you
something. I have saved it for a secret for the little girl who couldn't
go to town to-day, but who gave up her birthday presents for the sake of
others."
"O goody," said Ethelwyn, beaming with joy. "Next to cooking, I love to
hear secrets. And would you mind telling me a thing or two, I have been
thinking about lately? I have been meaning to ask mother about it. You
know in church we say we believe in the resurrection of the body. Well,
what do you s'pose," leaning forward impressively--"becomes of the
bodies the cannibals eat?"
"Well, Ethelwyn," said Mrs. Stevens with a gasp. "I suppose it's no
harder than to resurrect them from anywhere else."
"O yes, I should think so," said Ethelwyn earnestly, "because they'd get
dreadfully mixed up in themselves. But never mind. I suppose the Lord
can manage it."
Aunty Stevens and she then went out on the porch that faced the sea.
"O now I'm going to hear the secret," said Ethelwyn, sitting down on the
arm of the chair. "And my own pie is in the oven baking. Aren't we
having a good time, Aunty Stevens?"
"Yes, we are," said Aunty Stevens, hugging her. "And now I am going to
tell you. I'm afraid, deary, that I have been a very selfish woman. When
my husband died, I felt as though I had nothing to live for but Dorothy,
and when she too went away, I felt that there was no use in living. The
other evening when I heard you all planning for others, it occurred to
me to be ashamed, for here is this house, and I am all alone in it. Why
it's the very thing for a children's rest and training school."
"O Aunty Stevens," said Ethelwyn, getting up close to hug and kiss her.
"I can give the cottage, and I can manage it, and your money can fit it
up, and hire teachers."
"Yes, sir," said Ethelwyn, wildly excited. "You can teach them to make
pies like mine--"
"Yes, they can be taught to do all sorts of things about a house--"
"And Dick?"
"He shall be the first one."
"And his 'dopted aunt?"
"Yes, indeed. She can help in many ways."
"O this is lots better than going to town. I just wish I could tell
mother and Beth. Seems to me I can't possibly wait."
"I see Nan coming. Suppose 'Vada should take you two down to have your
luncheon on the beach."
"The pie, too?"
"Yes, and other things, if your throat is better, so you can go."
"O it's all well, cured with joy, I guess. Anyway mother said I might go
outdoors, you know. It was the noise and smoke in town she thought would
hurt me."
So they went off on their picnic, and did not come home until time to
dress for the train that was to bring back Mrs. Rayburn and Beth.
"Well Ethelwyn," said Aunty Stevens, meeting her, "how was the picnic?"
"The picnic as far as the pie, and other eating were concerned, was
perfect, but Nan was a trial sometimes," said Ethelwyn, sighing deeply;
"she said she couldn't possibly go home, 'count of her mother having a
headache as usual, and she was as cross as a bear. I had my hands pretty
full with that child. She does not give in to me like my sister--I will
say that." And Ethelwyn again sighed deeply, as she walked into the
house for her bath and toilet.
When the train stopped, and Elizabeth appeared, Ethelwyn and she rushed
at each other, and both began to talk at once.
"I've a secret that will make your eyes stick out--then I made a pie--"
"I saw the doctor that makes bone people. There was one for a sign at
the pittalhos where we were--"
"Hospital, child."
"And he was undressed, even from out of his skin; you could, see clear
through him. I was scared, because I thought that the doctor would make
mother and me into one, but he was nice and said he'd cure Dick. We saw
his bed all white--"
"Wait till you know the secret. I saved you a piece of pie--Nan wanted
it--"
"I rode up in an alligator--"
"Elevator."
"And a man at the pittalhos said, 'where did I get those dimple holes,'
and I said prob'ly they wasn't fat enough to stuff it all--he laughed
though at that."
And so they chattered on until they reached home.
_CHAPTER VIII_
_The Reward_
To help the sorry, hungry poor,
Or ease a burdened one,
Begins to bring the answer, when
We pray "Thy Kingdom come."
It all unfolded like a beautiful flower, and every one was interested in
getting ready the Children's Rest and Summer Training School, which was
to be the name of the cottage. In the midst of it all, Mrs. Stevens one
day received from Japan a long and happy letter from Dorothy and her
husband; and a mysterious box, which was smuggled away for the birthday,
came for the children.
Dick was getting better every minute, and was looking forward with eager
delight to the time when he should go to the Rest, well and strong.
In the Rayburn sitting-room one evening, the children were looking over
a portfolio of photographs.
Aunty Stevens as usual was knitting, and laughing with them over the
pictures.
Ethelwyn was showing them, for she had seen them before.
"This is Beethoven," she announced, holding up one of the great masters.
"He isn't very pretty, but I s'pose he made up in being clever."
"He is sort of kind-looking," said Beth, who always liked to say
something nice about every one.
"He is better than pretty," said Ethelwyn. "He's a very good musician.
He can play the piano."
"Where does he live?"
"Paradise, I think. Mebbe not, though."
"I'm sorry for his folks."
"This is Handel."
"What of?" and Nan got up to look.
"Not a dipper-handle, but a man of that name. He could play too."
"He looks kind of like a woman--look at his hair."
"That is his wig."
"Was he a bawheady?" and Beth got up to look more closely at the man who
was afflicted like her beloved doll.
"I s'pose he must have been. But it doesn't show like your doll's," said
Nan.
"This is a bust of Diana."
"Where is she busted?"
"All but her head and shoulders."
"Who did it?"
"A man I guess. This is the 'Kiss of Judas.'"
"Oh, isn't Judas mean-looking?"
"Looks like a bug thief." This from Beth.
"Burglar, child," said Nan.
"Bug thief is what I meant," said Beth with dignity, for she didn't
propose to be corrected by Nan or sister. Then she walked over to her
mother. "Are you very old, mother?" she asked. "I've been meaning to
ask. Are you a hundred, or eleven, or is that your size shoe?"
"Elizabeth Rayburn!" said Ethelwyn, dropping the photographs and coming
over to her mother, followed by Nan. "Our mother isn't old at all!"
"No I know she isn't, only she must be toler'bly old, to know so much
goodness."
"I'm just old enough to love you," said their mother, laughing and
hugging them all three at once in a way she had.
"I've some money in the bank," said Nan presently. "I've been thinking
what I'd buy for the Rest, and I've 'bout decided on a feeble chair."
"Goodness me! I shall never sit in it, if it's feeble, Nan," said Aunty
Stevens, laughing.
"No, _for_ the feeble," corrected Nan. "I want my mother to give
something too; she has some money, and I believe if she would give it
for my brother's sake, she would feel better and wouldn't cry so much.
Perhaps she will."
"We are all going to church to-morrow, 'cause your father is going to
preach about the Rest,--pray over it too, and mother's going to sing the
offertory, two verses, if the sermon's too long, and three if it isn't.
You tell your father that, for singing is much more interesting than
preaching any day."
"Ethelwyn!"
"Why it is, mother."
"I'll tell father, but he is likely to go on a long time when he is once
started," said Nan.
"If I don't go to sleep, I'll be sure to wiggle," said Beth.
But they all went to sleep.
Ethelwyn sat in the choir seats close to her mother; while Elizabeth
sat below with Aunty Stevens. Nan sat quite near them and sweetly smiled
at Elizabeth.
"How do you feel?" she asked in a shrill whisper. "Wiggly? I told father
not to preach very long, but there is no telling. Mother has some gum
drops for me if I wiggle."
"Don't you think you will then?" asked Beth.
But Nan's mother stopped further disclosures by turning her daughter
around, and setting her down with emphasis on the other side of her.
Fortunately they all three fell asleep in the early part of the sermon
and did not wake up until Mrs. Rayburn began to sing. At the first note
Ethelwyn slipped down, and stood with her hand in her mother's. Then
Elizabeth eluded Aunty Stevens's vigilant eye, slipped out of the seat
and walked up and stood on the other side, her head raised looking into
her mother's face, and to their great delight the three verses were
sung.
_CHAPTER IX_
_Once a Year_
Birth days,
Earth days,
Seem very few;
Year days,
Dear days,
When life is new.
By constant and hard work, the house was ready for occupancy on
Ethelwyn's birthday.
Two or three days before it was finished, Nan's mother came over, the
melancholy look on her face somewhat lifted. She brought with her the
deed of the land adjoining the cottage and sloping down to the sea. This
land she at once undertook to have equipped for a playground with
swings, tennis courts, a ball ground and all the things that delight
young hearts.
"It is for Philip," she said simply. "I have put his money into it, and
perhaps, by looking a little after homeless, suffering children, I can
forget my own heartache."
"You have chosen the very best way to do so," said Mrs. Rayburn.
Nan's "feeble" chair came the night before the opening, and all three of
the children christened it, by getting in, and wheeling it over the
shining floors at a high rate of speed, thereby proving it to be
anything but feeble.
The morning train brought a bevy of pale-faced, joyless-looking waifs.
At first they were stiff and shy, but under the vigorous leadership of
Nan, Ethelwyn, and Beth, they were soon organized into a Rough Riders
Company, and slid down the banisters, and shot out into the playground
with shrill yells of delight.
Dick was general, for he was not yet strong enough to run, so he sat in
his wheel-chair, and directed the others.
"We made him general, for generals never have anything to do but boss
others; they are never killed or anything," explained Nan.
A doctor from the hospital had sent down a wagon and goat team. There
were bicycles and a hobby-horse, and boats safely fastened; so they
rode, ran, trotted, or sat in the boats, all the happy day.
Two things were almost forgotten in all the excitement. One was, that
this was Ethelwyn's birthday, and the other, that they had to go away
the next day.
In the evening, however, there was a birthday cake, with eight candles
on it. Then they had the fun of opening the box from Japan.
There was a whole family of quaint dolls for Elizabeth, labeled by
Dorothy's husband, "Heathen dolls: never baptized."
"Nor never will be, by Nan," said Elizabeth, fondly hugging them to her,
and fixing guilty Nan with a steadfast glance.
There was the cunningest watch for Ethelwyn about the size of a quarter
of a dollar.
"It's a live one, though," said its owner proudly, shaking it and
holding it up to her ear.
There was a parasol and a sash for Nan, and three Japanese costumes
complete for the "three little maids from school." These, they at once
put on. Then they all went out on the lawn, and hung Japanese lanterns
in the trees, and Nan's father set off the fireworks, which were also in
the box; so the day closed in a blaze of glory.
At last they were in the sitting-room again.