"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.

CHAPTER VII.

In the meantime Mr. and Mrs. Coote were in the dining room, partaking of a much more elaborate meal than had been given to their young charges.

"Well, what do you think of them?" queried Coote, stirring and tasting his tea, then reaching for the sugar bowl and helping himself to another spoonful of its contents.

"I can tell more about that when I've had time to make their acquaintance," she answered dryly.

"The boy's an impudent little rascal," remarked her husband, reddening with anger as he spoke; then, in reply to her enquiring look, he went on to tell the story of the candy.

She listened in silence and with a look of growing contempt.

"Well, have you nothing to say?" he at length demanded in an irate tone.

"Nothing, except that if I was a man--or called myself one--I'd be a little above robbing such a mite of a child of his sweets."

"No; in your great kindness of heart you'd prefer to let him make himself sick eating them," he retorted in a sarcastic tone.

"I think I'd as lief risk it for him as for myself," she returned significantly; "specially as the stuff had been given by the uncle to them, not to me."

"Young children haven't the same digestive powers that a hearty grown person has," he said rather angrily, "and I maintain that it was neither more nor less than an act of kindness to make away with some of the dangerous stuff by eating it myself." A slight, scornful laugh was the wife's only reply; then she began questioning him with regard to the amount to be paid them for the board, care, and education of the children. She was well pleased with his reply, for the terms offered by the uncles were liberal.

"They being so young, of course most of the care and labor will fall to your share, my dear," remarked Coote suavely.

"Oh, of course! when was it otherwise with any of your undertakings?"

she asked with withering sarcasm.

"Well, that's exactly what you should do. What was Eve made for but to be Adam's helpmeet?" he returned with an unpleasant laugh.

"Yes, a helpmeet, and that implies that he was to do his share. However, I expect and intend to do more than mine for these little orphans. They shall not be neglected if I can help it, and I'll keep them out of your way as much as I can; for their sakes as well as yours. They shall have their meals and be out of the way before we take ours. I'll not pamper them, but they shall have abundance of good, wholesome victuals. They shall be kept clean and neat too, comfortably dressed according to the weather, though I shall not pay much attention to finery and fashion. I don't expect to pet and fondle them--I haven't any of that motherly instinct--and I intend to bring them up to be neat and orderly, but they shall have their plays and fun too, for children need it; they can have their games in the garden in pleasant weather and in their own room when it storms."

"Very well; you may do as you like," he returned graciously. "I'm particularly pleased to hear that they are to be kept out of my way.

Children are troublesome animals in my estimation; so the less I'm obliged to see of them the better."

"It's something to be thankful for that we've never had any of our own,"

she returned dryly. "Better for them and better for us."

Mrs. Coote had several domestic duties to attend to after the conclusion of the meal, and the children had been in bed fully an hour before she re-entered their room. She was careful to make no noise as she opened the door, came softly in, and lighted the gas.

Harry's breathing told that he was sleeping soundly. So were Blanche and Nannette. Ethel too slumbered, but with tears upon her pillow and her cheek, while at intervals her young bosom heaved with a long-drawn, sobbing sigh.

An emotion of pity stirred in the heart of the stern, cold-mannered woman as she looked and listened.

"Poor little thing! I dare say she misses her dead father and mother,"

she sighed to herself as she turned away, "and she seems to try her prettiest to supply a mother's place to the younger ones. I don't believe I'll have any trouble with her, unless on account of the rest; but I'll do my duty by them all."

The unpacking of the children's trunk and re-arranging its contents in closet and drawers took but a few minutes, for Mrs. Coote was a rapid and energetic worker, a quiet one also, and the children slept on while she finished what she had come to do, then turned off the gas and went out, softly closing the door after her.

It was broad daylight when Ethel woke amid her new and strange surroundings, for a moment forgetting where she was. But only for a moment, then memory recalled the events of yesterday, and she knew that she and her little sisters and brother were strangers in a strange place.

Her little heart grew heavy with the thought; then recalling the teachings of her departed mother and Mrs. McDougal, that G.o.d, her Heavenly Father, was everywhere present, as near to her in one place as in another, and ever ready to hear the cry for help, even from a little child, she slipped from the bed to the floor and, kneeling there, poured into His ear all her sorrows, fears, and desires; asking for help to be good, to do right always, and to know how to comfort and care for Nannette, Harry, and Blanche.

Having thus rolled her burden on the Lord she felt stronger and happier, and rising from her knees made haste with the duties of the toilet, then helped the others, who were now awake also, with theirs. She had just finished when the door opened and Mrs. Coote looked in.

"Ah, so you are all up, washed and dressed, I see," she remarked in a pleased tone. "That is right; and now you may come down to your breakfast."

With that she led the way, the children following.

They found hot baked potatoes, bread, b.u.t.ter, and milk awaiting them; all excellent of their kind, and they ate with relish.

"Don't you eat breakfast, ma'am?" asked Harry innocently.

"Of course," replied Mrs. Coote. "I had my breakfast along with my husband half an hour ago or more. Grown folks should always be served first, children afterward."

"Mamma and papa didn't do that way," remarked Harry, "'cept when papa was too sick to come to the table."

"But I like it best," said Blanche, with a timid glance at the stern face of Mrs. Coote.

"It's all the same to me whether you do or not," she returned in an icy tone. "I'm the one to decide what is best, and it's not my way to consult children's fancies. Now be quiet, all of you; don't waste time in talk or you'll not be ready for prayers when Mr. Coote comes in."

After prayers Ethel was directed to put their outdoor garments upon her little brother and sisters and take them out to play in the yard, while she put in order the room they had occupied and made the beds. She obeyed promptly.

"Oh, children, don't for the world do any mischief," she said anxiously, when she had led them out and taken a hasty survey of their surroundings, "for you'd be sure to get punished for it, and that would 'most break my heart. Don't go on the gra.s.s either till the sun dries up the dew, or you'll be sick, and oh, dear! what could I do for you then?

And there's n.o.body here to be good to any of us."

"Don't be afraid, Ethel, we'll be good," said Blanche, "we won't get our feet wet and we won't meddle with the flowers or anything."

The other two made the same promise, and Ethel hurried back to the house, for Mrs. Coote's sharp voice was calling her in impatient tones.