Mildred's New Daughter. Finley Martha

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      “Yes, ma’am, I mean to learn all I can,” returned the little girl meekly, then sighed to herself: “Oh, if we could find our dear, kind grandma and grandpa, they would take care of us all, and have me learning lessons, ’stead of doing house-work while I’m such a little girl.”

      Mrs. Coote was very neat and particular and required everything done exactly in what she deemed the best manner, but when all was finished – the floor carefully swept, the beds made, the furniture dusted, she spoke a few words of praise which sounded very pleasant in Ethel’s ears.

      “Now,” she added, “you can go out and play with the others. I approve of play for children when work’s done, for – as the saying is – ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’ I don’t mean to be hard on you or the younger ones, and we won’t begin lessons till next week.”

      “Thank you, ma’am; you’re very kind, and I’ll try not to give you any trouble,” returned Ethel gratefully. “I think I can make the bed and tidy the room by myself another time.”

      “I daresay, for you seem a bright, capable child,” was the not ungracious rejoinder.

      The ice of Mrs. Coote’s manner seemed to be thawing under the influence of Ethel’s patient efforts to please and to make herself useful.

      Ethel hastened out into the grounds in search of her brother and sisters, for she had been feeling anxious about them, lest, without her care and oversight, they should get into mischief, or in some way incur the displeasure of Mrs. Coote.

      They were all three at the dividing fence between the parsonage yard and that of the next neighbor. A prettily dressed and attractive looking little girl, about the age of Nannette, stood near by on the other side of the fence, and the four seemed to be making acquaintance.

      “What oo name, little girl?” Nannette was asking as Ethel drew near.

      “I’se Mary Keith. What all of you names?”

      “I’se Nan, an’ dis is Blanche nex’ to me,” was the reply.

      “And I’m Harry, and here comes Ethel, our big sister,” announced the little boy. “What made you stay away so long, Ethel?”

      “I had to do some work. I’ve just finished,” she answered; “but now I have leave to stay with you till we’re called to our dinner.”

      Two ladies seated on the porch overlooking that part of the grounds were watching the little ones with interest.

      “Who are they? I never saw any children there before; did you, Flora?” asked the elder one.

      “No, mother, but Mrs. Coote’s girl told ours that they are some orphan little ones whom the Cootes have taken to bring up. Poor little dears, they are very young to be both fatherless and motherless!”

      “Yes, indeed! and they are very attractive looking children, too.”

      “So they are, and my heart aches for them, for there is nothing motherly in Mrs. Coote’s looks or ways – nothing the least fatherly about him.”

      “Indeed, no! though he might perhaps have been different if they had been blessed with children of their own.”

      “Ah, Hannah is baking ginger snaps! How good they smell! Mary and her little new friends must have some;” and with the words Mrs. Keith rose and went into the house.

      She returned presently with a heaping plateful, which she handed first to her mother Mrs. Weston, then carried out to the garden where she bestowed a liberal supply upon little Mary and her new friends. Mary introduced them.

      “Mamma, dis little dirl is Nan; de boy is named Harry; he is Nan’s bruver, and dose big dirls is Ethel and Blanche; dey’s Nan’s and Harry’s big sisters.”

      “Not so very big, I think,” said Mrs. Keith, smiling kindly upon them. “Where are you from, my dear?” addressing Ethel. “And have you come to stay here with Mr. and Mrs. Coote?”

      “Yes, ma’am,” answered Ethel as clearly as she could speak, in spite of the lump rising in her throat; “our uncles in Philadelphia sent us here to be taught. They didn’t say for how long, but Mr. Coote told me we are to stay till we grow big enough to take care of ourselves.”

      “Well, dear, I hope you will be happy and prove pleasant playfellows for my little Mary,” returned the lady kindly. “If you are the good children I take you for, I should be glad to have you with her a good deal, because it will be pleasant for her, and you, too, I hope.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” replied Ethel, dropping a little courtesy, “thank you. It will be very pleasant for us, I’m sure, for she seems a dear little girl; so we will come sometimes, if Mrs. Coote will let us.”

      “Mayn’t dey tum in now, mamma?” pleaded little Mary.

      “Certainly, if Mrs. Coote says they may,” replied her mother; then seeing Mrs. Coote near at hand she called to her and preferred the request.

      “It’s no matter to me if you like to be bothered with them,” was the almost surly rejoinder. “To my way of thinking children are little else than a torment and pest, and I’m willing enough to have them out of my way if I know they’re safe.”

      “As I think you may be pretty sure they will be with us,” returned Mrs. Keith in a slightly indignant tone, and with a glance of pity directed toward the young strangers. “Poor little orphans!” she added in a lower tone, “it will be really a pleasure to me if I can put some brightness into their lives.”

      The next two hours passed very delightfully to the little Eldons, playing with their young hostess about the garden and in the porch of her father’s house, and making acquaintances with her mother, grandmother, and baby sister, her dollies and other toys, of which she possessed a goodly number.

      In a kindly, sympathizing way Mrs. Weston questioned Ethel about her parents and her former home, and she was both greatly interested and much moved by the pathetic story told with the artless simplicity of a young and trustful child.

      “My dear little girl,” she said, softly stroking Ethel’s hair when the tale had all been told, “truly I feel for you. It was a sad thing, indeed, to part so early from your dear parents, but God our Heavenly Father knows what is best for us, and loves His children more than any earthly parents can. The Bible tells us that He is a Father of the fatherless, and He can never die, will never leave nor forsake those who put their trust in Him. Go to Him with all your sorrows, all your troubles and trials, and He will be sure to hear and help you.”

      Ethel listened with tears in her eyes. “I will, ma’am,” she said; “I do tell Him all my troubles and my little brother’s and sisters’ troubles, too, and ask Him to help us, and I’m sure He does. But oh, ma’am, why did He take away our dear father and mother while we are so little and need them so badly?”

      “Perhaps to teach you to keep very near to Him, loving and trusting Him instead of any earthly creature,” the lady answered tenderly. “It is a grand lesson to learn; one that will make you better and happier all the days of your life. Jesus said to Peter, ‘What I do thou knowest not now, but shalt know hereafter’; and I think he is saying the same to you, dear child. When we get home to heaven we shall see and know just why all our trials were sent us – just how necessary they were and that СКАЧАТЬ