"Olive saw, and then heard the other night," cried Kittie excitedly.

"She's got thirty dollars already, and was giving us a regular lecture just before supper. Now I'm going to----"

"Wait a minute, dear," said mama, laughing as she shook her finger. "I knew Olive was saving her allowance, and that she had earned some money, and I was very much pleased; but I am more than happy to find that she was doing it for papa."

To every one's surprise, Olive grew scarlet and turned her face clear away from the light; but she brought it back in a minute, and said, with lips that tried to be stiff and firm--for praise was dear to Olive--"I didn't do it for papa--I didn't know then--I----" and then, sooner than cry, Olive stopped, and left them to think what they would.

"But you are willing for it to go to papa now," finished Mrs. Dering, smiling brightly, and bringing some of the cloud from Olive's eyes.

"That is just as n.o.ble, dear," and with these skillfully thrown in words, mother smiled again, for only she understood her daughter's peculiar disposition.

"When I was a girl," went on Mrs. Dering, "Grandpa was very wealthy, you know, and of course gave me every advantage. I took music from the most distinguished professors, also painting and the languages, and at the age of eighteen, was handed over to society as finished in every way. I loved the gayeties that surrounded me, just as well as ever a girl could, but after a while, it struck me as being such an idle, aimless life, for a well educated, sensible girl to live, so I determined to make use of all that I had received. I had a small cla.s.s in music, and one in painting and drawing; some of them paid, and some, members of my Sunday-school cla.s.s, did not. After that, I felt so much happier and more contented, and enjoyed all my fun so much more, so I decided that if ever I had any daughters, they should be fitted to be independent, whether it was ever necessary or not. I have never been able to supply you with masters as I was, but I have taught you thoroughly myself, and while I did not intend that you should begin quite so early, the time has come suddenly, when we must all help. So you, my older girls, I want you to choose as your choice lies, and fit yourselves so as to make it your stand-by, in this and other times of trouble."

"Oh," exclaimed Ernestine, with a sudden smile; she had looked very much worried, for work or self-denial was distasteful, and yet it seemed so near. But now she smiled and nodded brightly, "I know what I will do, mama. I'll go on cultivating my voice and work hard, so that I may take a position in some city church, where everything is so elegant and prima-donnas get such immense salaries."

"Yes, dear, music is unmistakably your talent," said Mrs. Dering, and if they had only noticed it, she did not smile, and her eyes, fixed on the fire, were tinged with deep sadness for a moment. "Cultivate your voice, and your fingers too; for the positions as prima-donnas are sometimes lacking, then you have a little cla.s.s to fall back on."

When no one was looking, Ernestine gave her head a decided little shake.

It would be altogether touching and delightful, to stand up in a choir before a beautiful congregation, with a pale lily in your hat, the sunlight through a stained gla.s.s falling all around, and sing something pathetic, that would make people cry, and then have everyone say: "Such a n.o.ble young girl, she does it to help her father." But a cla.s.s! A lot of little children to talk to, and teach, no one to ever see, or compliment;--no! Ernestine would never cultivate her fingers; that was sure.

"I'm a sort of jack at all trades," said Beatrice breaking a thoughtful pause with a little sigh. "I play a little, sing a little, draw a little, but I've no talent for either, or anything else."

"I know some one who is very fond of books and children," said Mrs.

Bering, with a suggestive smile.

"Oh! to be sure," cried Beatrice, brightening. "Teach, so I could. Well now, I'll go right on, harder than ever with my studies, and work up the French; I never can get German; I haven't the necessary twist to my tongue."

Olive was studying the fire with an intense dreamy gaze. She did not say what she would do, but every one knew, or at least supposed they knew.

Olive's talent lay in her pencil. Such wonderful pictures as she could rapidly sketch, when the different moods took her!

"Well, I should like to know," cried Kittie abruptly. "What will Kat and I do? We haven't got a shadow of a talent of any kind, and don't really know how to behave ourselves yet; why, mama----,"

"I have you all fixed, dear," interrupted mama. "Just wait a minute."

"There isn't anything that I can do either," said Jean, with a pathetic little smile. "But I will give up my quarter every month; perhaps that will help papa a very little bit."

"That's it, Jeanie," cried Kat, with a startling suddenness. "We'll do it too, Kittie, and that will make four dollars and a quarter less for papa to hand over every month. Second the motion, Kittie?"

"Done!" echoed Kittie, and every body had a hearty laugh as the twins shook hands violently over the table.

"But, mama," said Olive's quiet voice, breaking in upon the racket, "You say papa is worried now, and yet what the girls have decided to do, they can only do when they have fitted themselves for it; can't we do anything to help right away?"

"Quite right, dear," answered Mrs. Dering. "You can all help right away; though in a way that papa will strongly object to, for he does not like to deprive home of any pleasures, or little luxuries that he can afford.

But we will go ahead and make our plans and take him by storm. First, there is the horse and carriage; it will seem hard and strange for a while without it, but it is a great expense, together with Jack's wages.

Papa has an opportunity of selling the buggy, and Mr. Phillips will take 'Prince' until we can afford to keep him again. Are you willing?"

"Yes, mama," in a rather feeble chorus, with Ernestine's voice lacking.

'Prince' was such a pet--O dear!

"And then, Lizzie," continued Mrs. Dering, apparently not noticing the way all faces were going down. "We can get along with one girl, if we all make up our minds to work. The house is large and it will take all of our hands to do the necessary cleaning; but we can, can't we?"

"Yes, mama." A little more energy this time. Only Ernestine sighed dolefully, and laid her hands out on her lap. Such slim little hands and so white. It was perfectly horrible to be poor and have to go to work; yes it was, and she privately resolved to shirk just as much as possible.

They had a long evening's talk over the coming change and how they were going to do, but at ten o'clock, as Mr. Dering was still absent, they separated for the night, and mama carried sleepy little Jean off to bed in her arms.

Beatrice and Ernestine roomed together in the front room, the twins in one next, and Olive alone across the hall. Generally, while getting ready for bed, the doors were left open, and a merry conversation carried on; but to-night, they were full of thought, and had not much to say, so everything settled into quiet very soon after the "good nights"

had been spoken.

In the front room, the girls were wakeful. Beatrice, as the oldest sister, felt, in her quiet thoughtful way, that perhaps, the way she did in the coming change, would act as an example to the others; and that an extra duty rested on her, to be as patient and willing as possible, in whatever might be necessary for them to do, and to be all to mother, that an elder daughter should be, in time of trouble. Ernestine was also deep in thought, and had twisted her pillow into such a position, that the moonlight made quite a halo around her yellow hair and made her face, with its beautiful eyes, look like a cameo in golden setting. She knew it, too, just as well as Beatrice, who at that moment, turned and looked at her, and furthermore, she knew just how to go on with what she wanted to accomplish.

"Bea," she said, with her voice dropped to its sweetest, "I want you to do something for me."

"What?"

"You said you had nine dollars, will you loan me five?"

"How? I was going to give it to papa to-morrow."

"You know he wouldn't take it," began Ernestine, impatiently; then smoothed her voice carefully again, and went on: "Papa won't have us give up everything, Bea. We are all willing to lessen expenses at home, but we are not to scrimp and pinch ourselves all to pieces. I'll pay you back just as soon as----"

"It isn't that," interrupted Bea, "But I don't see how you can want to spend it now."

"But I do; there are the loveliest lace scarfs----"

"Lace scarfs;" cried Bea again, in shocked surprise. "Would you, Ernestine?--Five dollars?"

"Certainly! Since we've made my old black silk over, it looks so nice, and I've nothing fit to wear around my neck. I'm sure its not much and I'm going to work this winter, am I not?"

Bea turned her pillow over and laid her head down thoughtfully. Was Ernestine selfish, or had she much heart? The question had often come silently up, and been put as silently down, but now it lingered persistently, though Bea moved her head restlessly, as if to get rid of it. If Ernestine wanted anything, she left no avenue untried, and got it if possible, no matter at whose expense or self-denial. All through fifteen years of her life, she had kept a clear unfaltering eye on herself, her wants, and her welfare, and after they were all supplied, she was ready and willing to help any one else; but no one must ever ask, or expect it at the expense of her personal comfort or plenty. Yet with her candies, the girls had lion shares; her pretty things,--and somehow all of Ernestine's things were so pretty and graceful,--she loaned willingly, and was never too tired or unwilling to help the girls' dress on great occasions; for though Olive was the artist, Ernestine had the artist's quick eye for graceful draping, harmony of colors, and picturesque structures of hair. Moreover, she was always good natured, nothing ever ruffled her, except for a pa.s.sing moment, and any hour of the day, you might hear her voice, just like a bird's, filling the house with music, while her lovely face made sunshine; so it came, that she received the credit for making home happy, when she did it with no such intention, or exertion, only because she loved to sing, and it was perfectly natural for her to be gay and untouched by anything.

"I'm sure," she said, speaking suddenly, as Bea gave a restless twist to her head. "You needn't, if you don't want to, Bea. Perhaps you want to buy----"

"You know better," cried Bea, flying up from her rumpled pillow. "I don't want to buy anything, and if you want to spend five dollars for a lace scarf, why you're welcome to my money. That's all. Good night."

Next Sunday, when the girls went to church, Ernestine wore a cob-webby scarf of ivory white over her "made-over" silk, and put a creamy day lily in her yellow hair, and the girls looking at her, silently thought: "No wonder papa calls her his picture!"

CHAPTER III.

A FOUNDATION THAT BROUGHT KAT TO GRIEF.

Slam! went the gate, knocking the dead leaves right and left, and whiz!

went two girls up the walk, like unruly sky-rockets, with the odd ends flying. Rattle-de-tap, went four feet with steel-capped heels over the old shady porch, and bang! went the door back against the wall; then:----

"Mama,----"

"Bea,--Er,----"