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ETHEL'S work went on prosperously, and by the Christmas week she had finished all her pictures. Christmas came on Saturday, and on Thursday she went to carry them home.
It was rather late, and the store was full of people buying Christmas presents, so that even Mr. Beckford was hurried for once. He hastily counted over the pictures, said they were all right and very pretty, and handing her the money, he went to attend to the customers who were calling upon him.
Ethel had waited for some time in the store, and it was almost dark when she came out. She had a nervous dread of being out late in the street, and hurried home without looking at her money which she had put into her glove.
"Make haste down, Ethel," said her mother, as she went up-stairs to put away her bonnet and shawl, "I want you to help me."
Ethel obeyed, and dropped her money into the box without counting, or even looking at it. She was very busy all the evening helping her mother finish up the ironing and mending, that nothing might be left to do on the morrow.
When she went up to bed, however, she took her box from its hiding place, and prepared to count her treasure. She spread it out upon the table, and there among the quarters and dimes lay a bright yellow quarter-eagle!
How could it have come there? Ethel picked it up and looked at it, admiring the beauty of the coin. It almost doubled the amount of her finances, but there arose the question as to whether she had any right to it. She did not think she had earned so much, but then she could not exactly remember how many pictures she had painted.
Now the right course would have been for Ethel to go directly to Mr. Beckford, and ask him if he had intended to pay her the extra sum; but here arose a temptation.
"If this money were mine, I could buy that willow chair for mother, and a piece of pretty chintz to make a cushion for it, and yet have enough to get Tom the ten-pins he wants so much."
If Ethel had done as she had been taught, she would have put the whole matter aside till she had said her prayers and asked to be guided in the right way. But the confidence in herself which had been increasing for some time put, had arrived at such a pitch, that she no longer felt so much the need of Divine direction. She considered herself, as she said, competent to manage her own affairs; and when a little girl or a large girl arrives at that point, that girl is in great danger of a sad fall. She began to debate the matter with herself, but consciously or unconsciously she looked only at one side of the argument.
"Mr. Beckford said I did the pictures better than any one else, and that the price he first named would not pay for the trouble; so perhaps he meant to give me more. I am sure my work is worth a great deal more than Bessy's and Rosa's."
If Ethel had known Mr. Beckford better, she would have been aware, that though he often gave money away, he never on any occasion paid more than he felt himself bound to do. Neither was she entirely satisfied with her own reasoning, though she tried very hard to be so. If she had been, she would have gone to her father with the matter, and she would have said her prayers without that uneasy feeling at her heart which made them an unwelcome task; nor would the text she had lately learned in school have recurred so vividly to her memory:
"'If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.'"
It was with the same uneasy feeling that she awoke in the morning and came down to breakfast without having again looked at her money.
At the breakfast table she was rather silent, and her father said smilingly—
"You seem rather absent, my daughter; are you calculating the amount of your capital?"
"How much have you got, Ethel?" asked little Tom.
"Perhaps Ethel would rather not tell how much she has," remarked her mother, seeing that Ethel looked a little disturbed. "We must not question her too closely. I suppose you will like to go out this morning to make your purchases, my dear: don't be too extravagant; you know you will want spending money after holidays are over."
Ethel knew that very well, but she wanted still more to buy the willow chair for her mother. She put the gold piece into her purse with the rest of her money, saying to herself that a person so careful in money matters as every one said Mr. Beckford was, would never have made such a mistake, and that he must have done it on purpose. Still she did not feel easy about it, and it was not with a very light heart that she set out to make her purchases, intending first to do some errands for the family: for Ethel had learned to be quite a little market-woman, and could judge very sensibly between different qualities of sugar and tea!
She sighed as she concluded her list of small purchases at the family grocer's, thinking of the large orders they had been accustomed to make at this time of the year.
Perhaps Mr. Mortimer thought of it too, for he said: "Is that all, Miss Ethel? We have some very nice preserved ginger, such as your mother likes: shall I send a jar of it?"
"No, thank you," said Ethel blushing. "We cannot afford such things now," she added quite bravely.
"The times are hard, really quite hard," remarked polite Mr. Mortimer. "We do not sell nearly so much of such goods as we did last year. Won't you take an orange, Miss Ethel? I know you are fond of oranges."
Ethel had known good Mr. Mortimer ever since she could run alone, so she had no hesitation about choosing an orange from the basket that he handed her.
As soon as she left the shop, he called to the porter: "David, you carry these things directly up to Mrs. Fletcher, and carry a jar of that ginger. Say Mr. Mortimer sends it with his respects to Mrs. Fletcher. Come, look alive, will you?"
Meantime Ethel proceeded on her way, and having finished all her errands, she turned towards the shop, where she had seen the chairs, only stopping now and then to ask the price of some article at a door or window. It was a very large establishment where the chairs were kept, and there was a fine assortment of them. The little stained willow chairs which had at first pleased her so much, looked cheap and ordinary by the side of the carved rosewood, mahogany, and walnut; and chintz covers were hardly to be thought of while looking at brocatelle and velvet.
She looked from one to another, and finally found one which exactly resembled her mother's. She inquired the price.
"That is a second-hand chair, Miss," replied the shopman. "It was originally very expensive, but it has been used some, and I will let you have it for three dollars."
Second-hand! Then perhaps it was the very same chair. She turned it up to look at the bottom, and there, sure enough, was her mother's name—Amber Fletcher—written by her father's own hand.
"How glad and surprised she would be to have it back again," she thought. "She said she missed it more than any other piece of furniture in the house."
Her hand was already in her pocket, when the shopman was called into the next room, and he excused himself, promising to return in a few minutes.
Left alone, Ethel walked round the chair, viewing it first in one light, and then in another, till she actually made up her mind to spend for it the gold piece, which, after all, was not hers to spend.
Priding herself upon her own and her father's honesty, she was just about to do a mean and dishonest thing, when she was saved from it by an accident. An accident! Let us rather say a Providence, for though Ethel had come out without praying for herself, that she might not be led into temptation, yet a devout father and mother had prayed for her, and who can doubt that their prayers were answered?
The shopman had gone into the next room, as we remarked, to attend to other customers, and Ethel was roused from her meditations by hearing him say, "Yes, ma'am, it is second-hand, but just as good as new. It was made to Mr. Fletcher's order, and he was universally allowed to have the best taste in furniture of any gentleman in town."
"Did the Fletchers sell their furniture? I was not aware of that," said the lady, apparently speaking to a companion. "I suppose it was an honest failure, then?"
"Oh, perfectly so, perfectly so," said another voice, in which Ethel at once recognized Mr. Beckford's measured tones. "Mr. Fletcher is an honorable man—most honorable—a credit to the Church and the State; and from what I have lately seen of his daughter, I should judge he was bringing up his children to tread in his steps. An excellent child, ma'am—an excellent child."
Ethel's face crimsoned till it was of a deeper hue than any of the chairs. Here was Mr. Beckford speaking of her in the warmest terms of praise, at the very time when she was about to cheat him. Yes, cheat was the word. Ethel now saw, through all her own sophistry, the true nature of the act she had been meditating. She looked at the little chair again, but it was with very different feelings.
"I learned my Catechism sitting on a stool by the side of that chair," she thought; "and how many times mother has heard me say my prayers when she was sitting in it! Oh, how could I ever think of doing such a mean, wicked thing! It would be as bad as what father explained to us last Sunday—robbery for burnt sacrifice. And I have been thinking myself so much better than poor dear Abby, just because she ran in debt for some things, while I was going to get what I wanted by downright stealing."
All these reflections passed through Ethel's mind while Mr. Beckford and his friend were concluding their bargains in the outer room. As they turned to go out, Ethel had made up her mind what to do.
"Mr. Beckford," said she, going to the door, "will you please to come here?"
Mr. Beckford did as she desired.
"You paid me too much money last night," she continued, hastily producing her piece, as though afraid her courage might fail. "You gave me this quarter-eagle instead of a quarter of a dollar, and I did not see it till I got home."
She placed the coin in his hand, feeling as much relieved as though she had dropped a burden of a hundred pounds.
"Oh yes," said Mr. Beckford, putting the gold piece in his pocket and producing the proper change, "I missed it last evening, and intended to call in the course of the day and inquire about it, for I felt quite sure I must have paid it to you."
Ethel felt as though a pit of destruction had yawned at her feet and closed again. "Oh, if he had come after it and I had spent it," said she to herself, "what would have become of me?"
"I am much obliged to you for saving me the walk, however," Mr. Beckford continued. "What do you see here that pleases you?"
"Oh, this chair, sir," answered Ethel, blushing more and more, but feeling immensely relieved in the midst of her shame; "it used to be my mother's, and I was wishing I could buy it back, but I shall not have money enough to do that and get the other things that I want."
Mr. Beckford was slow of speech, but quick of sight and apprehension; he had wondered at Ethel's confusion, and now at once the whole matter came to his mind.
"Well, well, my dear young lady," he said soothingly, "times will change. A man of your father's integrity cannot but do well. 'I have been young and now am old, yet saw I never the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.'" He considered a little, and then asked—"How much money have you?"
"I have four dollars and a half, sir; but then I want to buy other presents, and some gloves for myself, so I must get something else for mother."
"Would you be willing to do some work in holiday time—say on Christmas day, for instance," asked Mr. Beckford, "supposing that I should pay you in advance?"
"I should not like to work on Christmas day, because I do not think it would be right, unless the work were very necessary indeed," replied Ethel; "and I am sure mother would not like to have me do so; but I would not mind it on other days."
Mr. Beckford smiled. "Your mother is very particular," he remarked.
"Yes, sir, about such things. When we lived in the large house, she always managed so that the servants need have just as little work as possible upon Christmas day and Sundays."
"It is a good principle," said Mr. Beckford. "But to proceed to business. The little colored books have been so popular that I have decided to get out another edition for New Year's. Now, if you are willing to work in play time, so as to get the pictures done by—say Wednesday noon, I will pay you in advance—a thing I seldom do—and trust to your honesty not to disappoint me: then you can buy your chair, and still have some money left."
Ethel considered a little. She had intended to do a good many things during holidays—and she had specially reserved some interesting reading till that time. If she bought the chair, that must be given up; and then perhaps her parents might not like to have her make such an arrangement. Finally, like a wise child, she resolved to ask advice.
"Will you please wait till I can ask father, Mr. Beckford? I can run down to his office now, and then I will come up to your store and tell you."
Mr. Beckford approved, and Ethel hastened to her father's office, considering herself happy in finding him disengaged. She explained the matter to him in few words.
"If you make this bargain, my dear, you know you must fulfil it exactly," said her father. "I am afraid you will find it rather dull working in holiday time, especially as the novelty is worn off, and you have spent the money beforehand."
"Yes, father, I know that; but then I want mother to have the chair so much that I shall not mind it, and I will be sure to get them done in time. You know she was always so fond of that chair. May I, father?"
"I think I may venture to say yes," said her father; "and I am glad to see you so unselfish, my dear. I think that will give your mother more pleasure than a great many chairs."
Ethel felt deeply humbled by her father's praises, and resolved that she would tell him the whole story of the gold piece upon the first opportunity. "You won't tell mother?" she asked. "I want to surprise her with it."
Mr. Fletcher promised, and Ethel hastened up to Mr. Beckford's store, feeling very happy. Mr. Beckford had the drawings all ready for her.
"How much can you afford to give for your chair?" he asked.
"The first one that I looked at cost twelve shillings," replied Ethel, "and I thought I could spare that much."
"Then if I pay you twelve shillings more, you can procure the chair, and yet have something to spare. Can you earn so much?"
Ethel thought she could, as there would be no school.
And Mr. Beckford put the three half-dollars into her hand, saying, as he did so, "It is a pleasure to me to pay you this money, because I am perfectly sure you will be honest about it."
"Mr. Beckford would not say so if he knew—" thought Ethel, and she almost wished to tell him the whole story; but shame or shyness kept her silent.
She bought the chair, and arranged that it should not be sent home till after seven o'clock, when she knew that her father and mother would be gone to evening service, while she would be at home with the boys. She finished her other shopping with a great deal of pleasure, making her money stretch far enough to buy something for her father and the boys, a pretty book for Abby, and a carved ivory case containing a yard measure for Aunt Sally, whom she had heard lamenting the mysterious disappearance of hers a few days before.
"Well, my daughter, you have made a long morning of it," said her mother, as she entered the house. "Did you find what you wanted?"
"Oh yes, mother, just exactly what I wanted, and I had four shillings left. How nice it seems to spend money that one has earned, doesn't it?"
"Yes, my dear, it is very pleasant. But I have been busy as well as you: see here—" And opening the parlor door, she showed Ethel the room beautifully decorated with evergreens, mixed with the red berries of the mountain ash.
"O mother, how pretty—how very pretty!" exclaimed Ethel. "It looks almost as pretty as the drawing room in the old house. But it will look prettier yet when—" she caught herself up, finishing her sentence in quite another way. "I think we shall have a pleasant Christmas after all, mother."
"I think so too, my darling—and Ethel, if you do enjoy Christmas, I hope you will not forget to thank the Giver of that and all your other pleasures."
"I have a great deal to be thankful for—more than you know of, mother," replied Ethel in a low voice. "I will tell you after to-morrow. I would tell you now—only—"
"I can trust you, Ethel," said her mother. "Now go and put your parcels away before the boys come in: I think your presents will make them very happy."
When Ethel reached her room, she bolted her door, and remained alone for some time. When she came down again, her mother perceived that she had been crying, but her face was so full of peace and quiet contentment, that she would not run the risk of disturbing it by asking her any questions.
Ethel had carried her sins, her temptations, and her thankfulness to the foot of the Cross, and she felt that she had there received forgiveness for the past, and strength for the future. Her late experience had taught her that when left to herself, she was not only no better, but it seemed not half as good as the people she had been looking down upon for two or three days, and she had learned a lesson of humility and self-distrust destined to be the beginning of a new spiritual life in her soul.
The chair came at eight o'clock while her parents were in church, and just after the boys had gone to bed, and was safely housed for the night in a closet opening from the hall. Something else came too—namely, an invitation from Mrs. Sarah Bertie to the whole family to spend Christmas evening at her house, "to meet a very few friends."
When Mrs. Fletcher returned, she decided that Aunt Sally's invitation must be accepted as a matter of course, and Ethel went to bed very tired but very happy, and expecting a pleasant Christmas day.
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ON Christmas morning Ethel was awakened just as the church clocks were striking six. She jumped up at once, and lighting her candle, and partly dressing herself, she went down stairs to dispose her presents in the dining room.
"How cold it is!" she said, shivering, after she had finished her arrangements.
Just then her eye fell upon the basket of kindlings and charcoal set ready for morning use.
"I mean to make the fires," she continued, "and then it will be nice and warm for father and mother when they come down."
No sooner said than done. Her hands defended by her dusting gloves, she cleaned out the grate, got the fire going, and filled the tea-kettle. Then she lighted the dining room fire, which being of wood, was quickly despatched, and all being finished, she hastened up-stairs, and shut her own door just as her father opened his.
"Merry Christmas, papa!" she cried out, after he had reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Thank you, my dear, the same to you. But what is this? The witches have been busy here, I think: or was it a little Christmas fairy which did my work before I was up? I think the fairy had better come down and get warm!"
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"It is, indeed, my own dear little chair; but where didit come from? I never expected to see it again."CHRISTMAS EARNINGS.
"She will, papa, as soon as she gets her shoes and stockings on. It is so cold now-a-days, that fairies have to wear something warmer than rose-leaves."
Ethel finished her dressing and ran down as quickly as she could, to enjoy her mother's first sight of the present.
"What is here?" asked Mrs. Fletcher, the chair catching her eye the moment she entered the room. "It is, indeed, my own dear little chair; but where did it come from? I never expected to see it again."
"A fairy brought it," said Mr. Fletcher, "and the same fairy has kindly made my fires for me this cold morning. Seriously, my dear Amber, Ethel discovered your favorite seat in a shop, and repurchased it with a great part of her earnings and some of her holiday time, for I understand she has to work two days yet to finish paying for it."
"So this was your secret!" said Mrs. Fletcher, kissing Ethel. "My dear child, you could not have found any present that I should value so much."
"That was not all the secret, mother," said Ethel. And she told her father and mother how she had been tempted to spend the money that was not hers, and what had saved her from doing so. "You don't know how ashamed I felt, mother," she concluded, "when Mr. Beckford praised me for being honest."
"I dare say!" said her mother. "You ought to be very thankful, my darling child, that God has mercifully kept you from so great a sin."
"Indeed I am, mother; I shall always think of it when I look at that chair. Suppose I had bought it, and then Mr. Beckford had come after the money, what should I have done? But I hope I shall never be tempted in that way again."
"That is, perhaps, rather too much to expect," said Mrs. Fletcher. "We must always be subject to temptation as long as we live in the world, but you may safely hope that God will give you strength to overcome, as He has at this time."
The entrance of the boys here interrupted the conversation, and Ethel had the pleasure of hearing them say, as they pulled out the contents of their stockings, that their presents were just what they wanted.
"Now if we could only have the school-children," she thought, "I wouldn't ask any more: but we cannot, and so I won't make myself uncomfortable with thinking about it."
All the family went to Church, of course, and as they entered the porch they met Abby, who was waiting to give a Christmas greeting to Ethel. The two families sat near each other, and after the sermon and offertory (for which Ethel had a ten-cent piece ready) the two girls walked away together.
"Have you had any presents, Ethel?" asked Abby.
"No," replied Ethel, "you know I told you that I did not expect any. But I have got one for you, Abby. I hope you will like it."
"I am sure I shall," said Abby, squeezing her hand. "It was very good of you to spend your earnings for me, and I shall think a great deal more of it on that account. I have one for you too, but I thought I would keep it till this evening. You are invited to Aunt Sally's, I suppose."
"Of course!" said Ethel. "We are all going."
"Was she very angry when she found out about your earning money?" asked Abby. "I was afraid she would be so vexed that she would not give you any Christmas present."
"She was angry at first," replied Ethel, "but she got over it. I do like her, after all, Abby; she is so straightforward. I don't mean about talking," she continued, seeing Abby laugh: "she is rather too straightforward about that sometimes; but in things like this, for instance. She wanted me to give it all up, but as soon as I told her that I had made a bargain, and ought not to give it up, she agreed with me directly. She made me a tempting offer too;" and she repeated her aunt's proposition.
"You are a good girl, Ethel," said Abby, sighing. "I wish I was."
"I am sure you are quite as good as I am," returned Ethel, now really feeling what she said. "You are a great deal more good-natured, and I am sure you are a better scholar. But don't let us talk about ourselves—tell me what presents you had."
The girls chatted merrily all the way home, and Ethel enjoyed the walk very much. Some apple pies had been made, and Uncle George's turkey got ready for roasting the day before. And now Ethel, having taken off her church dress, busied herself in washing the potatoes and other vegetables, and in setting the table: for they were to have rather an early dinner, Aunt Sally having particularly requested them to be at her house as early as half-past six o'clock.
The turkey and apple pies turned out exceedingly well, and Mr. Mortimer's preserved ginger was declared excellent by all but little Sidney, who complained that it bit him, and declared a preference for apple-sauce. Then all set to work to clear away the dishes, and put the house in order previous to dressing.
And the appointed hour found them at Aunt Sally's, the first of the guests except Mr. Simonton. There was a noise in the kitchen which rather surprised Mrs. Fletcher, who knew her aunt to be a strict disciplinarian in all such matters. But Mrs. Bertie did not seem to be at all disturbed by it.
It was nearly half-put seven when Mrs. Coles arrived, and as she sailed into the drawing room, rustling in flounced brocade and resplendent in ornaments, she was met with a sharp reproof from her aunt for being so tardy.
"When I say half-past six, I mean half-past six," she replied to her niece's excuses. "I don't mean seven nor eight. As to staying to dress, you would have looked much better in my opinion if you had not dressed so much. And that child, Abby, in pink silk! I thought you had more sense."
"I told you so, mother!" said Abby in a whisper. "I knew Aunt Sally would not like it. It looks just as if we were trying to outshine Cousin Amber and Ethel."
If such were the case, neither Cousin Amber nor Ethel was disturbed at it. Ethel was fast learning wisdom by the things she suffered, and was in fair way of becoming as philosophical as could reasonably be expected of a little girl of twelve years old.
"Well, we are all here at last," said Mrs. Bertie finally, after she had smoothed her ruffled plumes a little. "Now, Mr. Simonton, do your part."
Mr. Simonton smiled, rubbed his hands, bowed his old-fashioned bow to Mrs. Bertie, and glided from the room, and the company looked at each other, while Mrs. Bertie stood fanning herself in silence. It was evident that something rather unusual was going on.
There was a trampling of little feet on the basement stairs, and in the closed back parlor, then a sudden cessation of noise, and finally a score of childish voices led by Mr. Simonton raised the glorious old-fashioned Gloria in Excelsis. At the same moment the folding doors were thrown open, and the eyes of the guests were greeted by an unexpected sight. Two beautiful Christmas trees blazed with colored lights and sugar ornaments, while around the larger one were grouped some twenty little children, rather poorly dressed, but all evidently in the highest spirits, and full of smiles at seeing Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, who on their part felt as if in a dream, as they recognized the familiar faces of their Sunday scholars.
Good Mr. Simonton rubbed his hands and brushed up his spruce gray whiskers, singing all the while in his splendid tenor voice, just as he did when he led the children in Sunday-school.
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THE CHRISTMAS TREE
"There, nephew and niece Fletcher," said Mrs. Bertie, sweeping up to the table when the anthem was finished, and laying her withered hand glittering with diamonds upon the head of the nearest child; "this is your Christmas present. I felt sure that neither of you would enjoy your Christmas unless you had a parcel of poor children round you: so knowing Mr. Simonton to be superintendent of your Sunday-school, I employed him to collect these little folks together to meet you this evening."
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Aunt Sally," said Mr. Fletcher as soon as he could find his voice. "Nothing in the world could have given me greater pleasure. The thought of being no longer able to do any thing for these little ones, has been one of the bitterest things I have experienced in all my reverses. I hope—"
And here Mr. Fletcher broke down entirely, and had recourse to his handkerchief, while Mr. Simonton rubbed his spectacles and cleared his throat, and Mr. and Mrs. Coles looked on in silent amazement.
"Nonsense, nephew Fletcher," said Mrs. Sally, while the bright drops stood on her own lashes. "I have given you trouble enough in the course of my life, and I dare say I shall give you plenty more if I live, for I am rather too old to change my ways. But come, give your protégés their presents and dainties, and let them go home before it grows late, as they have already been kept longer than I intended. Nephew Coles, if you have done staring, perhaps you will be able to render some assistance."
In fact, Mr. and Mrs. Coles were to the last degree astonished. Mrs. Bertie, as we have already remarked, was at first very angry at Mr. Fletcher, and Mr. Coles had left no opportunity untried of fostering the feeling. He had relied upon the knowledge of Ethel's late business transactions to put the climax to his aunt's discontent, knowing how nervously sensitive she was to any thing which touched what she considered the honor of the family. And now to see her taking so much pains, and going to such an expense to feast "a parcel of dirty little Irish young ones—" so did Mr. Coles mentally designate these lambs of the flock,—for no other purpose than to give pleasure to this very offending nephew Fletcher—he was utterly confounded, and began to think Mrs. Bertie had lost her wits.
Mrs. Bertie, however, seemed to be in full possession of her faculties. She went around among the children, laughing and joking, inquiring their names, ages, and circumstances, seeing that all were helped, and making herself so agreeable that the children were perfectly delighted with her. Indeed, one little girl declared to her companions, as they were putting on their hoods to go home, that Mrs. Bertie was exactly like the fairy godmother in Cinderella; which speech being overheard by the girls and repeated to their aunt, greatly amused and delighted the old lady, who declared it to be the prettiest compliment she had had since she was a young girl.
No one in the world could be pleasanter than Mrs. Sally when she was pleased; and this evening she seemed resolved to be pleased with every thing and everybody. The presents were remarkably well chosen, except that Mr. Simonton made a grimace at a diamond ring, and declared that people would think he was growing a beau in his old age. Abby had a gold necklace and her mother a gold bracelet, which the latter secretly thought was not half as handsome as she expected. Ethel had a new paint-box and a complete set of Miss Yonge's books, with which she was greatly delighted.
"I have a present for you, Aunt Sally," she said modestly. "It is only a yard-ribbon, but I thought you would like it, because I bought it with my own earnings."
"Umph!" said her aunt. "What made you think so?"
"I don't know," replied Ethel, "unless it is because I should feel so myself."
"Really, Ethel, you are a rational child, all things considered. Yes, my dear, I am much pleased with it, and shall value it greatly—though mind, that is not saying that I approve of your working for money. What have you there, Abby?"
"A pin-cushion, aunt. I did not earn the money, like Ethel, but I hope you will like it."
"Thank you, my dear—it is very pretty, indeed. Did you make it all yourself?"
"No, aunt," replied Abby, honestly, disregarding her father's signs for silence. "I wanted to do every stitch of it, but mother thought it would not be pretty enough, so our sewing girl did all but the filling up. But I mean to do the next one all myself—see if I don't."
"That is right, Abby. Speak the plain truth, whatever you do. Now for the rest of the things."
Abby's present to Ethel was a pretty little silver-mounted magnifying glass, an instrument for which she had heard her cousin express a wish some time before. Mrs. Coles had no present for Ethel; and the reason was this: she had purchased a frock for Abby, but, upon examination, there were found in it several blemishes, which she knew very well would be enough to make Abby refuse to wear it; whereupon she resolved that the said frock should be her Christmas present to Ethel, who, she thought, might by this time be glad to have a new frock, even if it were not very perfect. She had sent it round to Aunt Sarah Bertie's for this purpose, but Aunt Sarah had not brought it forward. Mrs. Coles drew her aside, and inquired the reason.
"What a dunce you are, niece Coles!" was the polite reply. "Don't you see that your cousin Fletcher would be very much hurt at your giving her daughter a frock which you did not consider good enough for your own? I am surprised at you."
"Well, I don't know," replied Mrs. Coles; "I should think, when they are not above letting Ethel work for money, they need not be offended at her receiving a present of any sort of a dress. But I suppose you know best; only I shall not have any present for Ethel, that's all, and I should not like to have them think I meant to neglect the child, now that times are changed with them."
"That last remark has some sense in it," said Mrs. Bertie. "I'll manage it for you."
And returning to the company, she said to Ethel, "There was a mistake about your cousin Coles' present for you, child, which mistake was partly mine; so you must not feel hurt about it."
"Of course not," said Mrs. Fletcher, seeing that Ethel did not know exactly how to reply. "Ethel has had too many proofs of her cousin's kindness to doubt it, and she has had quite presents enough for once."
"Well," said Mrs. Coles to herself, "I am nicely out of the scrape; but, after all, I don't see why she should not have been glad of the dress."
The evening passed off very pleasantly to all concerned, especially to the children, who thought Aunt Sally had never been so agreeable before. The party broke up at an early hour, and they found themselves at home before half-past ten o'clock.
"Well, Ethel," said Mrs. Fletcher, "this Christmas, which you dreaded so much, has turned out pleasantly after all, has it not?"
"Yes, indeed, mother, though I came pretty near to spoiling it too. Was it not kind of Aunt Sally to get the school-children together to meet us?"
"It was indeed," said Mr. Fletcher. "I never experienced a pleasanter surprise in my life."
"How odd she is!" continued Ethel. "She never does any thing like any one else. I don't mean ever to get out of patience with her again, if I can help it."
"A good resolution, as regards her or any one else," said Mrs. Fletcher, smiling. "Now go to bed, and don't keep awake to read your new books."
It was rather hard for Ethel to put the new books aside on Monday morning, and sit down to the pictures, which had now become an old story, and especially difficult to say "no," when Abby, with a whole sleigh-load of the school-girls, came for her to take a ride. But the chair was before her to remind her of her debt, and Ethel persevered so steadily, that by ten o'clock on Wednesday morning they were all done and carried home.
Mr. Beckford praised her punctuality, and begged leave to present her with a new book in token of his regard.
So Ethel returned home, feeling as though the holidays were going to be as happy as any she had ever spent.
Pleasant indeed they were, though destined to have rather a sorrowful termination. As the family were sitting at the breakfast table the morning after New Year's day, a hasty ring was heard at the door, and a messenger announced the sudden death of Mrs. Sally Bertie. She had not rung her bell at the usual time, and her maid going to her room, found her dead in her bed. She must have expired some hours before, as she was quite cold, and her features and limbs were composed, as though she had passed away in her sleep.
Mrs. Bertie had left written directions for her funeral along with her will, in the hands of Mr. Simonton; and according to the tenor of them, the families of both her nephews were provided with handsome mourning at her expense.
The funeral was put off for a week, greatly to the secret annoyance of Mr. Coles, who was all impatience to have the will opened. He had long felt pretty sure in his own mind that Abby would be her aunt's heiress, but recent events had somewhat shaken his confidence, and he felt rather nervous about it. As he told his wife in the carriage going up to the cemetery, "She was such an unaccountable old piece, no one ever knew where to have her, or what to expect from her."
"For shame! father," said Abby, who had not been brought up to be as respectful in her manners as was desirable. "How dare you speak so of poor Aunt Sally, now she is dead and gone? I am sure she was always good to us." And Abby, who really loved Aunt Sally for her own sake, began to cry afresh.
Mr. Coles was silent, and Mrs. Coles made a moral reflection upon the vanity of earthly things. She always had a moral reflection ready for every occasion, and Aunt Sally used to tell her that she talked like a copy-book.
After the funeral, the family again met at the house to hear the reading of the will.
Mr. Coles' face was properly solemn, but he could not help glancing around the rooms and estimating the probable value of the furniture, &c. Mrs. Coles had already decided that she should send it all to auction, or perhaps give it to her cousin Fletcher. Abby and Ethel sat side by side on the sofa, Ethel holding poor little Fido, who missed his kind mistress sadly, and watched the door eagerly with his black eyes, as though he expected to see her enter! As often as a hand was laid on the lock, he brightened up and wagged his tail; and at every fresh disappointment, he gave a little whine, and drew up closer to Ethel, as though asking her sympathy in his bereavement.
When Mr. Simonton finally read the will, it astonished every one but himself. Mrs. Bertie began by bequeathing her wardrobe and her jewels, of which she had a splendid collection, to her grandniece Abby Coles, and a thousand dollars to Abby's father. The house, with its contents, was given to Ethel, on condition that she should take care of the dog and parrot as long as they lived. Three or four valuable pictures, and a cabinet of shells, were to go to Mr. Simonton; there were some legacies to servants, and then all the rest of her property, amounting to about sixty thousand dollars, was bequeathed "to my beloved nephew George Fletcher, in whose integrity and Christian principles I have the utmost confidence." There was no condition attached, but Mrs. Bertie expressed a wish that her cousin should live in the house, and keep the furniture, at least till Ethel should come of age.
Mr. Fletcher was as much amazed as any one by this sudden change in his circumstances, for he had never taken any particular pains to court Mrs. Bertie, and she had been so angry at him for his failure, that he supposed himself to have lost her favor forever. He could hardly realize what had happened; and it was not till Mr. Simonton, having finished the will, begged to congratulate him upon his good fortune, that he felt himself to be awake. He returned the grasp of Mr. Simonton's hand warmly; but if he had known how much he was indebted to the good little man's representations, he would have returned it more warmly still.
Mr. and Mrs. Coles were still more astonished than their cousin. Mr. Coles, indeed, could hardly believe his ears, and asked to look at the will, which Mr. Simonton politely put into his hands, with the gratifying remark that he would find it perfectly formal and correct.
"Well, Fletcher," he said, bitterly enough, but trying to smile, "you have played your cards cleverly, I must allow, and won the game. I believe you understood the old lady better than I did, after all."
"It may be well for those to play such a game who can stoop to it," said Mrs. Coles, who was as angry as her husband, and had less prudence. "For my part, I should be ashamed of it."
"Cousin Anna," said Mr. Fletcher calmly, "do not say any thing which you will afterwards be sorry for. You are angry now, and not in a condition to weigh your words. You both know very well that I never courted Aunt Sally's favor by subserviency, though I always intended to treat her with all the respect due to her age and our relationship. No one can be more surprised than myself at the disposition she has made of her property, with which, let me remind you, she had a perfect right to do as she pleased."
Meantime Ethel and Abby were talking on the sofa.
"You are quite an heiress now, Ethel," said Abby, who, childlike, was perfectly satisfied with the prospect of possessing all Aunt Sally's cashmere shawls and diamonds. "Only think how funny it will seem to own a house, and such a large one too!"
"It seems very strange," said Ethel. "I cannot feel right about it somehow. One minute I feel pleased to think we are going to be well off again, and the next it seems wicked to be glad of any thing that comes from Aunt Sally's dying. I am sure I will always take care of you, dear Fido," she continued, addressing the dog, and hugging him in her arms, "and of poor old Polly, too. I hope you will both live to be fifty years old."
"I am glad she did not leave him to me, for I don't like dogs much," said Abby; "not but that I would have taken as good care of him as I could. Well, Ethel, I am very glad that your father has the money, for now we shall be alike again. It always made me feel mean to be dressed up myself and have every thing that I wanted, while you were wearing all your old things, and living in that little stuck-up house."
So spoke Abby, whose naturally kind and generous disposition had not been spoiled by the worldly influences to which she had been subjected, and who was perhaps too young to understand exactly what she had lost by her cousin's gain.
It was with no small pleasure that the Fletcher family took possession of their new abode, where every thing was kept as far as possible unaltered, out of respect to Aunt Sally's memory. Mrs. Coles, was very ready to be on friendly terms with her cousins again, after the first heat of her disappointment had passed away, advised them to have the house papered, or at least to cover up that hideous old brown India paper in the dining room.
But Mrs. Fletcher only smiled and said the house was Ethel's, and Ethel cherished a great admiration for the processions of elephants and long-tailed Chinamen, and Chinese ladies drinking tea out of thimbles, with their little fingers turned up in the air, and would not hear of their being covered: so every thing remained just as it had been for thirty years past.
Fido mourned for his mistress a long time, but he gradually became attached to his new friends, especially to Ethel, who occupied her aunt's bed-room, and seems likely to live to a good old age.
The first use Mr. Fletcher made of his means was to pay off all his remaining debts, after which he felt himself a free man once more. It was with a wonderful satisfaction that when the last receipt was signed, he walked into a bookstore and gave an order for new books.
"Here come the books, mother!" said Ethel laughing, as the large package made its appearance. "Father is going back to his old ways, and you will soon be saying again—'I wish there was one table in the house, that was not covered three deep with books.' After all, mother, I feel rather sorry to leave the little house. It seems as if I had learned more there than I ever knew in all my life before."
"I have no doubt of that, my dear Ethel," replied her mother. "Experience is a hard teacher, but her lessons are worth all they cost. I only hope we shall none of us forget in prosperity the lessons we learned in adversity, nor to thank God for all His mercies to us. We may truly say with the Psalmist: 'We went through fire and through water: but Thou broughtest us out into a wealthy place.'"