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MILDRED'S NEW DAUGHTER

By MARTHA FINLEY

(MARTHA FARQUHARSON)

Author of the Famous ELSIE BOOKS

    "A sweet, heartlifting cheerfulness,
    Like springtime of the year,
    Seemed ever on her steps to wait."
                              --Mrs. Hale.

A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers--New York




COPYRIGHT, 1894,
BY
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY




CHAPTER I.


The clock on the mantel, striking six, woke Ethel and Blanche Eldon, two
little sisters lying side by side in their pretty bed.

"Ah, it is morning, Blanche, and time for you and me to be up," said
Ethel, smiling pleasantly into her younger sister's eyes.

"Yes; in a minute, Ethel," replied Blanche, turning toward her sister
and patting her cheek affectionately.

At the same moment the door into the hall opened softly and the mother
came in, her dark eyes shining, her thin, pale face wreathed in smiles.

"Good-morning, my darlings," she said, speaking softly, for fear of
waking the two younger children in the nursery beyond. "Have you slept
well?" she asked, bending over to kiss first one, then the other.

"Yes, mamma, dear," they answered, speaking together. "And so have Harry
and Nannette," added Ethel, "and they are sound asleep yet, I think."

"And we will not wake them," responded the mother.

"Did you sleep well, mamma? and is dear papa better?" asked the little
girls with eager, anxious looks up into her face, Ethel adding, "Oh, I
am sure of it, because you look so happy!"

"Yes, dears, I am very glad and happy, very thankful to our kind
Heavenly Father, that your papa slept unusually well and seems easier
and brighter this morning than I have seen him for weeks," Mrs. Eldon
replied, with tears of joy shining in her eyes. "He has asked to see his
children, and when you are dressed and have eaten your breakfast, you
shall come to him for a few minutes."

"Oh, we are so glad we may see him, mamma," they cried in a breath,
Ethel adding, "I hope papa will soon be so well that we can go back to
our own dear home again and see our own dear grandma and grandpa."

"Yes, I hope so, darling. And now you two may get up and when dressed
help Harry and Nannette with their toilet."

"Then have our breakfast and after that go in to see papa?" exclaimed
Blanche joyously. "And may we kiss him, mamma?"

"I think he will be able to kiss his children all around," the mother
answered the little questioner, with a loving smile. "But I must go back
to him now, dears," she added; and with another tender kiss she turned
and went quickly from the room.

The two little girls were already out of bed and dressing as fast as
they could; but that was not so very rapidly, for Ethel, the eldest, was
only eight years old, Blanche nearly two years younger.

Their father had been ill for a long while, and it was now some days
since they had seen him; their mother was his devoted nurse, with him
almost constantly, so that of late the children had been left very much
to themselves and the companionship of the young girl, Myra, who
combined in her person the calling of both child's-nurse and housemaid.
Ethel was scarcely dressed when the little brother and sister woke and
were heard demanding assistance with their dressing.

"Oh, hush, hush! do hush, children!" cried Ethel, running to them,
"don't make such a noise. You forget that our dear papa is very sick and
your noise may make him worse. I don't know where Myra is, but you may
get up and I will help you to dress; then we will have breakfast, and
after that we will go into dear papa's room; for mamma says we may."

"Oh! oh! can we, Ethel?" they asked in delight. "We're so glad! 'cause
we haven't seen our dear papa for ever so long."

"And Nanny wants mamma to tum and dress her," whimpered Nannette.

"Oh, no, Nan, dear; mamma is too busy taking care of our poor sick papa,
so I'll dress you and we'll have our breakfast, and then we are to go in
to see him," returned Ethel. "Now be a dear, good girl and don't cry,"
she added coaxingly; "because if dear papa should hear you it might make
him worse. Now let me wash you and put on your clothes and brush your
hair and then we'll have our breakfast."

The little maid worked away while she talked, dressing the baby sister,
and little Blanche helped Harry with his toilet.

Before they had finished Myra came to their assistance.

"Your papa is better this morning, Miss Ethel," she said, "and your
breakfast's ready now. Your mamma says you may go in to see the captain
when you are done eatin', and then you are to have your morning walk."

"Oh, yes, we know," said Blanche; "mamma told us papa was better, and
we're just as glad as can be."

"We hope he'll soon be quite, quite well," added Ethel, taking the hand
of Nannette and leading the way to the breakfast room.

The four were quite merry over their porridge, feeling in excellent
spirits because of the good news about their father, whom they dearly
loved.

When all had finished their meal and been made tidy again, they were
taken to him. He greeted them with a loving smile and a few low spoken
words of endearment. Alas! he was still so ill as to be scarce able to
lift his head from the pillow, and when each had had a few loving words
and a tender kiss of fatherly affection, mamma bade them run away to
their play, promising that they should come in again for a few minutes
when papa felt able to see them.

She led them to the door and kissed each in turn, saying low and
tenderly, "Mamma's own dear, dear children! no words can tell how mamma
loves you all." The baby she kissed several times, holding her close as
if loth to let her go. Setting her down at last with a heavy sigh, "Go,
my darlings," she said, "and try to be quiet while you are in the house
lest you disturb poor, dear papa."

With that she stepped back into the room again and softly closed the
door.

Nannette was beginning to cry, "Nanny wants to go back to dear mamma and
stay wis her," but Ethel put her arms about her, saying cheerily,
"There, there, little sister, don't cry; we are going to take a nice
walk out in the green fields and gather flowers under the hedge-rows for
our dear papa and mamma. Won't that be pleasant?"

"Oh yes, yes! I so glad!" cried the little one with sudden change of
look and tone. "Put Nan's hat on dus now; dis minute."

"Yes, darling, we'll go and get it at once; and Blanche and Harry and I
will put our hats on too, and oh, such a good time as we shall have!"

At that Nannette dried her eyes and began prattling delightedly about
the flowers she hoped to gather, and the birds that would be singing in
the tree-tops, or flying to and fro building their nests.

Harry and Blanche were scarcely less elated, and even staid little Ethel
grew blithe and gay as they passed down the village street and turned
aside into the green lanes and meadows.

The house grew very quiet when the children had gone. Captain Eldon had
fallen into a doze and his devoted wife sat close by his side, one thin
hand fast clasped in hers, while she almost held her breath lest she
should rouse him from that slumber which might prove the turning point
in the long illness that had brought him to the very borders of the
grave.

Mrs. Eldon was a West Indian from the island of Jamaica; and the
captain, belonging to an English regiment stationed there, had won her
heart, courted and married her. She was the only living child of a
worthy couple, a wealthy planter and his wife, who had made no objection
to their daughter's acceptance of the gallant British officer who had
made himself agreeable to them as well as to her.

He proved a kind and indulgent husband. They were a devotedly attached
couple and very happy during the first eight years of their married
life; then Captain Eldon's health began to fail, the climate was
pronounced most unfavorable by his medical adviser, and obtaining a
furlough, he returned to his native land, taking wife and children with
him; but the change had little effect; he rallied somewhat for a time,
then he grew weaker and now had scarcely left his bed for weeks.

He had no near relatives living except two brothers, who had, years
before, emigrated to America; he was too ill to seek old friends and
acquaintances, and taking possession of a cottage advertised for rent,
on the outskirts of a village and near the seashore, he, with his wife
and little ones, had passed a secluded life there, seeing few visitors
besides the physician who was in attendance.

Mrs. Eldon insisted on being her husband's sole nurse and determinedly
persisted in believing in his final recovery, often talking hopefully of
the time when they might return to her island home on the other side of
the ocean, and the fond parents who were wearying of the prolonged
absence of their only child and her little ones. But to-day as she sat
with her eyes riveted upon his sleeping face and noted its haggard
look--so thin, wan and marked with lines of suffering--her heart misgave
her as never before. Was he--the light and joy of her life--about to pass
away to that bourn whence no traveller returns? Oh, the anguish of that
thought! how could life ever be endured without him? Her heart almost
stood still with terror and despair.

"Oh, my darling!" she moaned, as suddenly the sunken eyes opened and
gazed mournfully into hers, "do not leave me! I cannot live without
you," and as she spoke she pressed her hand upon her heart and gasped
for breath.

His lips moved but no sound came from them, the fingers of the hand she
held closed convulsively over hers, he drew a long sighing breath, and
was gone.

The sound of a heavy fall brought the cook and housemaid running from
the kitchen to find the captain dead and the new-made widow lying prone
upon the floor by his bedside, apparently as lifeless as he.

"Dear, dear!" cried the cook, stooping over the prostrate form, "there
don't seem to be a bit more life in her than in him. Take hold here with
me, Myra, and we'll lift her to the couch yonder. Poor thing, poor
thing! between nursin' and frettin' she's just about killed, and I
shouldn't wonder if she wouldn't be long a-following o' him, if she
hasn't done it already."

"Betty, I'm afraid she has!" sobbed the girl, "and what will the poor
children do? She was just the sweetest lady I ever saw, so she was."

"There now, Myra, don't go on so, but run and bring somethin' to bring
her to. Oh, there's the doctor's gig at the gate! Run and let him in,
quick as you can go."

In another minute the doctor entered the room, followed by the sobbing
Myra. He glanced first at the still form on the bed. "Yes, the poor
gentleman has gone!" he said, sighing as he spoke; "but it is only what
was to be expected."

He turned quickly to the couch where lay the still form of Mrs. Eldon,
the face as pale and deathlike as that of the husband, laid his finger
on her wrist, turned hastily, caught up a hand-glass lying on the bureau
and held it to her lips for a moment, then laying it down with a sigh:

"She too is gone," he said in a low, moved tone, "and I am hardly
surprised."

"Oh, sir, what ailed her?" sobbed Myra, "She scarce ever complained of
being ill."

"No, but I knew she had heart trouble likely to carry her off should she
be subjected to any great or sudden shock."

"And he's been took that suddent! and she so fond o' him," groaned
Betty. "Well, well, well! we've all got to die, but when my time comes I
'ope I'll go a bit slower; that I do!"

The doctor was looking at his watch. "I must be going," he said, "for I
have other patients needing attention; but I'll drive to the vicarage
and ask Mrs. Rogers to come and oversee matters here. By the way, can
either of you tell me where any relatives are to be found?"

"No, sir, that we can't," replied the cook, sighing heavily. "Leastways
I don't remember so much as oncet hearing the capting nor Mrs. Eldon
mention no relations 'cept it might be some o' her folks 'way acrost the
sea somewheres."

"Too far away to be of any use in this extremity," muttered the
physician meditatively. Then a little louder, "Well," he said, "I'll go
for the vicar's wife, and she'll see to all the necessary arrangements.
Where are the children?"

"Out walkin' in the fields, sir," answered Myra. "Oh, dear, the poor
little things! Whatever will they do? What's to become o' them without
no father nor no mother?"

"I dare say there are relations somewhere," returned the doctor, then
hurried out to his gig, and in another minute was driving rapidly in the
direction of the parsonage.

Not far from the house he came upon the little group of children
returning from their walk.

"Oh, doctor," cried Ethel, and perceiving that she wanted to speak to
him, he reined in his horse for a moment, "have you been to our house?
and did you find papa better? Oh, I hope--I think he is very much better,
and will soon be well."

"Yes, my dear," returned the kind-hearted physician after a moment's
pause, as if considering the question and the best reply to make. "I
found him entirely free from the pain from which he has been so long
suffering; and I am sure you and your little brother and sisters will be
glad of it."

"Oh, yes, indeed, sir! just as glad as we can be; as I am sure dear
mamma must be."

The doctor drove on, sighing to himself, "Poor little orphans! I wonder
what is to become of them. If I were only a rich man instead of a poor
one with a family of my own to support--ah, well! I hope there are
relatives somewhere who will see that they are clothed, fed, and
educated."




CHAPTER II.


"Oh, papa is better, dear, dear papa!" cried Ethel, jumping and dancing
in delight.

"Oh, I'm so glad! I'm so glad!" cried Blanche and Harry in chorus.

"I so blad! I so blad!" echoed Nannette. "But I don't want to doe home,
Ethel; I'se tired."

"Then we'll go and sit down a while under the trees by the little brook
over yonder," returned Ethel in soothing tones. "You will like that,
Blanche and Harry, won't you?"

A ready assent was given, and all three turned aside and spent an hour
or more in the pleasant spot, rolling on the grass, picking flowers,
throwing them into the water, and watching them sail away out of sight.

At length Nannette began fretting. "I so tired, so s'eepy. Me wants to
doe home see papa and mamma."

"So you shall, Nan. I want to see them, too," returned Ethel, rising and
taking her little sister's hand as she spoke. "Come, Blanche and Harry."

"Yes, I'm ready," said Harry, flinging the last pebble into the water.
"I want to see papa and mamma;'sides I'm hungry for my lunch."

"So am I," said Blanche, and they followed on behind Ethel and the baby
sister, laughing and chatting merrily as they went.

Myra met the little party at the gate, her eyes red with weeping.

"O Myra, what's the matter?" asked Ethel in alarm.

"Never mind," returned the little maid evasively. "Your lunch is ready,
and you'd best come and eat first thing, 'cause I know you must be
hungry."

So saying she led the way into the house and on to the dining room.

They had come in with appetites sharpened by exercise in the open air,
and were too busy satisfying them to indulge in much chatter. Nannette
at length fell asleep in her chair and was carried to her bed by Myra,
whither Harry presently followed her.

"Has mamma had her lunch yet, Myra?" asked Ethel.

Myra seemed not to have heard, and the question was repeated.

"No, miss," she replied, and Ethel noticed a suspicious tremble in her
voice.

"O Myra, I hope mamma isn't sick," exclaimed the little girl. "She has
been looking so pale of late!"

"She--she's lying down--asleep," Miss Ethel, Myra returned with
difficulty, swallowing a lump in her throat and hurrying from the room.

"How oddly Myra acts! and she looks as if she'd been crying ever so long
and hard," remarked Ethel, half to herself, half to Blanche.

But Blanche had thrown herself on the bed beside the two little ones,
and was so nearly asleep that she scarcely heard or heeded.

Ethel seated herself in a large easy-chair by the window with a book in
her hand; but all being so quiet within and without the house, she too,
rather weary with the walk and sports of the morning, was presently
wandering in the land of dreams.

She was roused from her slumber by someone bending over her and softly
pressing a kiss upon her forehead. Her eyes opened and looked up into
the kind face of Mrs. Rogers, the vicar's wife.

"Oh, I thought it was mamma!" exclaimed the little girl in a tone of
keen disappointment.

"No, dear, but I kissed you for her--your dear mother," returned the lady
with emotion.

"But why didn't mamma come herself?" asked Ethel, growing frightened
though she could scarcely have told why. "You are very kind, Mrs.
Rogers, but oh, I do want mamma! Can I go to her now?" She sprang to her
feet as she spoke.

"My poor child, my poor dear little girl," the lady said tremulously,
seating herself and drawing Ethel into her arms.

"Oh, ma'am, why do you say that?" queried Ethel in terror. "Is anything
the matter with mamma? is papa worse? Oh, what shall I do? Can't I go to
them now? I'll be very quiet and good."

"Oh, my child, my poor dear child, how shall I tell you!" cried the
lady, folding the little girl close in her arms, while great tears
chased each other down her cheeks. "Your dear father has gone to his
heavenly home, Ethel, and to the dear Saviour whom he loved and served
while here upon earth."

"Do you mean that papa is dead?" almost shrieked Ethel. "Oh, oh, my
papa, my dear papa!" and hiding her face in her hands she sobbed
violently for a moment.

"But I must go to mamma!" she cried, dashing away her tears; "she will
be wanting me to comfort her, for there's nobody else to do it now. Oh,
let me go! I must!" as Mrs. Rogers held her fast.

"No, dear child," she said with emotion, "your mamma does not need you
or any other earthly comforter now, for God Himself has wiped away all
tears from her eyes and she will never know sin or sorrow or suffering
any more."

A dazed look up into the lady's face was Ethel's only rejoinder for a
moment, then she stammered, "I--I don't know what you mean, ma'am.
I--I--mamma has taught me that it is only in heaven there is no sin or
sorrow or pain."

"Yes, darling, and it is there she is now with the dear husband--your
father--whom she so dearly loved!"

"Oh, you can't mean it! it can't be that both are gone, and nobody left
to love us or take care of us--Blanche and Harry, and Nan and me! Oh, no,
no, it can't be possible!" cried the little girl, covering her face with
her hands and bursting into an agony of sobs and tears. "Mamma, mamma,
mamma, oh, I can never, never, never do without you!"

Mrs. Rogers drew her closer and spoke in low, comforting tones, her own
tears falling fast the while, "Dear child, God will take care of you and
your little brother and sisters. He calls Himself the father of the
fatherless. He pities and loves you and will raise up friends and
helpers for you. Can you not trust Him for that, dear child, and be glad
for papa and mamma, that they are safe with Him and will never again be
sick or in pain? and that if you love and serve Him while on earth He
will one day take you to be with Him and them?"

"I don't want to die, and I cannot, I cannot do without my dear papa and
mamma!" wailed the well-nigh heartbroken child.

Her cry waked the three younger ones; a trying scene ensued.




CHAPTER III.


To Ethel and Blanche the memories of the next few days seemed, through
the rest of their lives, ever like a dreadful dream. Then they were
taken on board an ocean steamer bound for the city of Philadelphia in
the United States of America, where two brothers of their father had
settled years before. They were merchants doing a large wholesale and
retail business, and were known to be abundantly able to provide for the
orphan children of their deceased brother.

The address of the parents of Mrs. Eldon was not known to those who made
the arrangements, so that they were not even advised of their daughter's
death.

There were no relatives to take charge of the forlorn little ones on
their voyage, but they were given into the care of the wife of a soldier
who was going out to join her husband in Canada, a Mrs. McDougal, a
warm-hearted earnest Christian, childless herself, but with a heart full
of love and tenderest sympathy for the sadly bereaved little ones
committed to her care. She petted, soothed, comforted them, attended
faithfully to all their physical needs, and spent many an hour amusing
them with quaint stories of Scottish life and manners, of brownies,
elves, and fairies; tales that would interest and amuse, yet teach no
harmful lesson.

Before the good and gallant vessel had reached her destination the
mutual love between the kind caretaker and her young charges had grown
very strong, and it was with a heavy heart that Mrs. McDougal looked
forward to the coming separation.

The announcement of the deaths of their brother and his wife, and that
the children would be sent directly to them, had reached the firm of the
Eldon Brothers only a few hours before the arrival of the vessel
bringing them.

It was a great and not altogether welcome surprise, yet their hearts
were moved with pity for the forlorn little ones, and together they
repaired at once to the dock and boarded the newly arrived vessel in
search of them.

They found them on the deck with their kind caretaker, Nannette on her
lap, the others grouped about her.

"Ah, here they are! I'd know that little lad anywhere as poor Harry's
boy!" exclaimed Mr. Albert Eldon, the younger of the two, with emotion,
and laying a hand tenderly upon the child's head, as he spoke.

"That's my name, sir; and it was my papa's name too. Mamma called him
that, but most folks said captain when they talked to him," volunteered
the little fellow in return.

"Ah? then I'm your uncle Albert; and this gentleman," indicating his
brother, "is your uncle George."

"Oh I thought so for you resemble papa; at least as he was before he was
taken so ill," Ethel said, lifting tearful eyes to the face of Mr.
George Eldon.

"Do I, my dear? I believe there is said to be a strong family
resemblance among us all," he returned. "At all events we are your
father's brothers, and therefore own uncles to all of you little ones,"
he added, stooping to caress them in turn, as his brother was doing.

Then the gentlemen held a conversation with Mrs. McDougal in
which--perceiving how loth the children were to be separated from her,
clinging to her with tears and entreaties that she would not leave
them--they proposed that she should remain in charge of them for a few
days or weeks while they were becoming familiar with their new
surroundings.

She replied that she could do so for only a day or two, as she must
embrace the first opportunity to rejoin her husband.

"I am sorry to hear that," returned Mr. Albert Eldon, "but do us the
favor to stay while you can; and let it be at my house; for we will not
try separating these little folks while you are with them, whatever
arrangement we may decide upon later. Will not that be the better plan,
brother?"

"For the present--till we have time to talk the matter over with our
wives? Yes, I think so."

A carriage was waiting on the wharf, in which Mrs. McDougal and the
children were presently bestowed, Mr. Albert Eldon following, after a
moment's low-toned chat with his brother and an order to the driver. He
seated himself and took Harry on his knee.

"Where are we doin' now?" asked Nannette, peering out of the window as
the vehicle moved on.

"To my house--Uncle Albert's house, little one," replied Mr. Eldon in
pleasant tones. "You will find some little cousins, a girl and a boy,
and I hope have nice times playing with them."

"What's the boy's name, Uncle Albert?" queried Harry.

"Charles Augustus; the little girl is Leonora; but they are usually
called Gus and Lena, or Nora, for short."

"Are they all the children you have, uncle?" asked Ethel with shy look
and tone.

"Oh, no," he replied; "there are Albert and Arabella, nearly grown up,
and Olive and Minnie; Minnie is twelve and Olive fourteen."

"Has dey dot a papa and mamma?" asked Nannette.

"Yes; your Aunt Augusta is their mamma and I am their papa."

"And we haven't any; our papa and mamma both went away to heaven,"
sighed Blanche.

"Where they are very, very happy, dear child," returned her uncle,
laying a hand tenderly on her head as she sat by his side.

Then he called their attention to something passing in the street, and
exerted himself to amuse them in various ways till the carriage drew up
in front of a spacious dwelling.

"Ah, here we are," he said, throwing open the door, alighting and
handing them out one after the other.

"Why, who in the world can they be? And what is papa bringing them here
for?" exclaimed a little girl, leaning out from an upper window and
scanning with eager curiosity the new arrivals whom her father was
marshalling up the front door steps, and at once admitted to the hall
with his dead-latch key.

"What's that? More company coming, Min?" queried another voice, and
Olive's head appeared beside that of her sister, just as the hack in
which the little party had arrived turned and drove away. "Pooh! nobody
of any consequence; they came in a hired hack."

"But they were children--except one woman--their nurse, I suppose; and
papa with them! There, I hear them coming up the stairs now, and I mean
to find out all about it," and with the words Minnie threw down her
books and ran from the room, Olive following close at her heels.

They heard their father's voice coming from the nursery, and rushed in
there, asking breathlessly:

"Papa, whom have you got here? And what did you bring them for?"

"These children are your little cousins," he answered pleasantly. "Come
and speak to them, all of you. They are the children of your Uncle
Henry, of whom you have often heard me speak. Ethel, here, Charles
Augustus, is just about your age, and Blanche might be Lena's twin;
Harry is two years younger, and Nannette, a baby girl, the youngest of
all."

The greetings over:

"But, papa, where are Uncle Harry and--and their mother?" asked Minnie,
more than half regretting her query as she saw the tears gathering in
Ethel's eyes.

"In heaven, I trust," her father replied in low and not unmoved tones.
"There, my dears, do what you can to make your cousins comfortable and
happy, I must go and speak to your mamma." So saying he left the room.

Mrs. Eldon, lying on the sofa in her dressing room, looked up in mild
surprise as her husband entered.

"Why, Albert," she said, closing her book with a yawn, "what fortunate
circumstance brings you home at this unusual hour?" Then as he drew
nearer: "What is it, my dear? Why, actually, there are tears in your
eyes. Oh," half starting up, "is there anything wrong with Albert or----"

"No," he said huskily, "but bad news from England reached us this
morning. My brother Henry is no more; he and his wife died within a few
minutes of each other. She had heart disease, we are told, was strongly
attached to him, worn out with long and arduous nursing, and the shock
of his decease was more than her enfeebled frame could bear."

"How very sad! I am really sorry for you, my dear. And they left some
children, did they not?"

"Yes, four little ones--a boy and three girls, the eldest only about
eight years of age. They have grandparents, probably very well to do,
somewhere in the West Indies, but no one knows their name or address. So
the little orphans have been sent to us. The steamship came in this
morning, only a few hours after the letter was received telling us all
this, and which was forwarded by a vessel bound to a Canadian port but
delayed somewhat in her voyage, so that, starting some days before the
other, she reached port only a day or two ahead of her."

"And you are going down to the vessel to get the children?"

"No; we went down--George and I--at once on learning that she was in,
found the little folks there all right, and I have just brought them
home with me."

"But surely we are not to be expected to keep the whole four? Surely
George and his wife will take two, as they have the same right as we to
be at the expense and trouble."

"I think so, eventually; but just at present, while the poor little
things feel themselves strangers in a strange place, it would be hard
for them to be separated; so I have engaged to keep the whole for a few
days," he replied; then seeing that she looked ill-pleased with the
arrangement:

"But, I do not intend they shall be any trouble to you, my dear," he
added hastily. "The woman who had charge of them on the voyage will
remain with them for a few days, and except when they are taken out for
air and exercise, they can be kept in the nursery and adjoining rooms."

"Well," she sighed, returning to her book, "I suppose I may as well
resign myself to the inevitable."

"Do you think it more than their nearest relatives should do for our
children, were they so sorely bereaved?" he asked.

"No, I suppose not; but I have given my consent and what more would you
ask?"

"Nothing more, Augusta, except that you will encourage our children to
be kind and considerate toward their orphan cousins."

"Really I know of no one but their father who would expect them to be
anything else," she returned in a not particularly pleasant tone.

"I do not expect it," he said; "yet think it might be as well to call
their attention to the fact that the little orphans are entitled to
their kindly sympathy. But I am needed at my place of business and must
return at once. Good-by till dinner time, my dear;" and with the last
word he left the room.

"Dear me! as if we hadn't children enough of our