Ñåìåðî äî÷åðåé, 2-4 ãëàâà

CHAPTER II.


It was a bright June morning. The windows were all open; the birds were
singing, and the air was sweet with out-of-door smells. Waving grasses,
hosts of flowers, rose and honeysuckle out on the porch in the very
height of riotous living, each trying to outbloom the other.

We were at breakfast. We never had this meal very early at the Rectory.
On summer mornings papa loved to get up and take a stroll, and botanize
a little. Mamma rose, looked after Becky, and took a quiet supervision
of us all. I helped dress the three younger children, for Fan usually
had some lessons on hand, as she was still in school. By the time we
were ready papa would be back. Then we sang a verse or two of a hymn,
said the Lord’s prayer together, and papa pronounced the greater
benediction over us. It was so short, simple, and enjoyable! Somehow
I do not think children take naturally to prayers, unless they are
rendered very sweet and attractive. We were allowed sufficient time to
get wide awake before coming to breakfast. Mamma was at the head of
the table again, looking as sweet as a new pink. Papa’s place was at
the foot. Fan and I sat opposite each other, about half way down. She
poured the water and the milk. I had the three younger children on my
side, and spread their bread or biscuits for them. I used to think of
Goethe’s Charlotte, only she had brothers as well as sisters.

It was nearly eight o’clock. Lemmy Collins came up with the mail. There
had been a shower the evening before, and none of us had gone for it.

“Ah!” exclaimed papa, “we are bountifully supplied this morning. One
for Nelly, two for mamma, and two for me.”

“O, what elegant writing!” said Nell, leaning over to look at papa’s.

“Yes;” slowly. “I cannot think;” and papa fell into a brown study.

“Why don’t you open it?” asked bright-eyed Daisy; “then you won’t have
to think.”

“To be sure, little wisdom!” and papa smiled. “I will look over this
thin one first, though.”

That was only an invitation to a meeting of the clergy. We were all
watching to see him open the letter par excellence. He took out his
penknife and cut round the seal, which he handed to Tim.

“W—h—y!” lengthening the word out indefinitely. “From Stephen Duncan!”
Then he read on in thoughtful silence, now and then knitting his brows.

Mamma’s letters were from an aunt and a cousin, with some kindly
messages for us all.

“Girls,” said father, with a sudden start, “would you like to have some
brothers large enough to keep their hands and faces clean, and strong
enough to help you garden?”

“Boys are a nuisance!” declared Nell.

“Well, I have an offer of two. One is something of an invalid, though.
My wards, I suppose, for that matter; though I have never considered
myself much of a guardian, since Stephen was old enough to look after
the boys. Then I always thought their uncle, James Duncan, _was_
annoyed at my being put in at all. It seems he died very suddenly, a
month ago, in London. Stephen has to go over and settle his affairs,
and he wants me to keep the boys. Rose, pass this letter up to your
mother.”

“How old are they?” asked Fan.

“Well, I can’t say. Louis is ready to enter college, but has studied
himself out, and will have to go to the country. Stuart is—a boy, I
suppose. I have not seen them since their father died.”

“Poor boys!” said mamma. “And Stephen is coming. Why, he will be here
to-morrow afternoon. This letter has been delayed on its way;” and
mamma glanced at the date and the postmark.

The children were through, and we rose from the table. There was a
perfect hubbub of questions then. Lily swung on father’s arm, while Tim
took a leg, and they were all eagerness to know about the brothers.

“Mamma will have to consider the subject,” he said. “Come, let us go
out and look at the flower-beds. I dare say the rain brought up a
regiment of weeds last night.”

Fanny went to put her room in order; Nelly had some buttons to sew on
her school dress, and followed mamma to the nursery. Becky came in and
helped take the dishes to the kitchen; while I went to my chambers up
stairs.

I hurried a little, I must confess. Then I bundled the youngsters off
to school, and ran into the nursery. Mamma was washing and dressing
baby.

“What about the boys?” I asked. “Will they really come? Should you like
to have them?”

“Perhaps it would be as well for you to read the letter, Rose. You are
old enough to be taken into family council. It seems so odd, too! Only
last evening papa and I were talking about—”

Mamma made so long a pause that I glanced up from the letter, having
only read the preface, as one might say. There was a perplexed look on
the sweet face.

“What is it, mamma?” and I knelt beside her, kissing baby’s fat cheek.

“My dear, I resolved long ago never to burden my girls with cares
and worries before their time. And yet, it would be so delightful to
have you for a friend! A clergyman’s wife has to be doubly discreet
on some points. Now, if I was to say to two or three good friends in
the parish, ‘Our circumstances are somewhat straightened by the recent
expenses,’ they would, no doubt, seek to make it up in some way. But I
have a horror of anything that looks like begging.”

“O, yes, mamma. Aunt Letty Perkins wondered, the day after the baby was
born, if there would not be a donation visit.”

Mamma’s sweet face flushed.

“We have managed so far,” she said; “and everything has gone very
pleasantly. Papa is well loved, and we have a delightful home. This
great old house and garden are worth a good deal. But I am wandering
from my text into byways and highways. I feel that I should sometimes
like to have a friend to talk to who would be a sort of second self—”

“O, mamma take me!” I cried.

“I have always wanted to be like an elder sister to my girls as they
grew to womanhood.”

I wanted to cry, and I was resolved not to. Mamma’s tone was so sweet
that it went to my heart. But to stop myself, I laughed, and exclaimed,—

“Fan would say that your hands would be pretty full if you were going
to be a sister to each one of us. Or you would have to be divided into
infinitesimal pieces.”

“And fourteen girls might not be desirable, if their father was a
clergyman,” she answered, smilingly.

“So, let us be the best of friends, mamma, dearest, and you shall tell
me your troubles. It is being so poor, for one, I know.”

“Yes, dear. Poverty is not always a delightful guest. Last evening
we were resolving ways and means, and papa proposed to give up the
magazines, and be very careful about his journeys. But I cannot bear to
have _him_ pinch. And, you see, if we took these boys, the extra living
would not cost us anything to speak of. Ten weeks would be—two hundred
dollars.”

“O, mamma!”

“It is right that I should consult you about the work. It will make
your duties more arduous. Then taking strangers into your family is
never _quite_ so pleasant. But go on with the letter. We will discuss
it afterwards.”

I felt drawn so near to mamma by the talk and the confidence, that at
first I could hardly take the sense of what I was reading. But I will
tell you the story more briefly.

Papa and Mr. Duncan had been very dear friends for many years; in fact,
I believe, since papa’s boyhood. When Mr. Duncan died he left papa a
small legacy, and some valuable books and pictures, besides associating
him with his brother in the guardianship of his three boys. Mr. James
Duncan, who was an exceedingly proud and exclusive man, seemed to
resent this, and treated papa rather coolly. Their business was done in
writing, and papa had never seen his wards since their father’s funeral.

Stephen had spent one summer at our house when he was quite a boy. It
seemed now that he preserved the liveliest recollection of my mother’s
kindness and care, and desired very much to see my father. The taking
of the boys he asked as a great favor, since he would have to spend all
the summer in England; and he appeared to feel the responsibility of
his brothers very keenly. It was such a nice, kind, gentlemanly letter,
evincing a good deal of thoughtfulness, and respect for papa; and even
where he spoke of the terms, he did it with so much delicacy, as if he
were fearful that it would not be sufficient compensation, and proposed
to come and talk the matter over, as he should, no doubt, need a good
deal of advice from papa in the course of the next few years.

“What a good, sweet letter this is, mamma!” I said. “It makes me think
of papa.”

“Yes; I liked it exceedingly. Papa is greatly interested with the plan.
He thinks it will help us to straighten up matters, so that we can
begin next fall quite easy in our minds. The only other thing he could
do would be to take some boys to prepare for college. That is very
wearing. In this we could all help.”

“I hope the boys will be nice,” I said, with a little misgiving.

“They will be out of doors a great deal, and certainly ought to behave
like gentlemen, since they have been at the best of schools. You will
have to keep their room in order; there will be rather more in the way
of cooking and deserts; but Fanny must help a little during vacation.
You see, baby is going to take up much of my time. But if I thought it
would be uncomfortable for you girls—”

“O, mamma, it will only last such a little while, after all! And the
two hundred dollars—”

“We must not be mercenary, little one.”

Before we had finished, papa came in again. We were all on the boys’
side, I could plainly see.

The next morning I aired the large spare room, brought out fresh
towels, and arranged some flowers in the vases. There was matting on
the floor, a maple bureau, wash-stand, and bedstead. The curtains were
thin white muslin, with green blinds outside, which gave the apartment
a pretty, pale tint.

I didn’t mean to put the two boys in this room when they came. There
was another, opposite, not _quite_ so nice, plenty good enough for
rollicking boys.

Papa went over to the station for Stephen.—Mr. Duncan, I mean. I
wondered why I should have such an inclination to call him by his
Christian name—a perfect stranger, too. But when I saw him I was as
formal as you please.

As tall as papa, and somewhat stouter, with a grave and rather
impressive air, eyes that _could_ look you through, a firm mouth,
that, somehow, seemed to me, _might_ be very stern and pitiless. He
had a broad forehead, with a good deal of fine, dark hair; but, what I
thought very singular, blue eyes, which reminded you of a lake in the
shade. His side-whiskers and mustache gave him a very stylish look, and
he was dressed elegantly. Poor papa looked shabby beside him.

Mamma and the baby, Fanny and I, were on the wide porch, while the
children were playing croquet on the grassy lawn, though I do so much
like the old-fashioned name of “door-yard.” Papa introduced him in his
homelike, cordial fashion, and he shook hands in a kind of stately
manner that didn’t seem a bit like his letter.

He came to me last. I knew he did not like me. I think you can always
tell when any one is pleased with you. He studied me rather sharply,
and almost frowned a little. I felt that it was my red hair. And then I
colored all over, put out my hand awkwardly, and wished I was anywhere
out of sight.

“And all the small crowd out there,” said papa, in so gay a voice that
it quite restored me to composure.

“Really, friend Endicott, I was not prepared for this.—Why, Mrs.
Endicott, how have you kept your youth and bloom? Why, I am suddenly
conscience-smitten that I have proposed to add to your cares.”

“You will feel easy when you see the inside of the house. There is
plenty of room, plenty;” and papa laughed.

“You had only a small nest when I visited you before,” Mr. Duncan said
to mother. “But how very lovely the whole village is! I am so glad
to find such a place for Louis. I hope my boys will not worry you to
death, Mrs. Endicott, for, somehow, I do not know as I can give up
the idea of sending them here, especially as Mr. Endicott is their
guardian. I think it will do them both good to be acquainted intimately
with such a man.”

It was all settled then.

“I have wished a great many times that we had a sister for Louis’s
sake. Oddly enough, my uncle James’s children were all boys, and Louis
is very peculiar in some respects. It is asking a great deal of you. I
understand that well, and shall appreciate it.”

I knew that I ought to look after Becky and the supper; so I rose and
slipped away.

“Two boys,” I said to myself. “I do not believe that I shall like
them;” and I shook my head solemnly.




CHAPTER III.


I went out to the kitchen and advised a few moments with our maid of
all work, and then began to arrange the supper table. The visitor must
sit next to papa, of course, but not on my side of the table. I did not
mean to have him any nearer than I could help; for, if he disliked red
hair, I would not flirt it under his eyes. Or, suppose I placed him
next to Fan! She was so carelessly good natured that he would not be
likely to disturb her thoughts.

Mamma took the baby to the nursery, and then came in to give an
approving look. I placed the two tall vases of flowers on the table,
and it did present a very pretty appearance.

“We are all ready now,” she said. “Call papa.”

I rang the bell, and the children came trooping in, papa and Mr. Duncan
bringing up the rear. Fan glanced at the places, and looked pleased, I
thought.

“Here Mr. Duncan,” she said, with a pretty wave of her hand; and he
took the proffered seat, giving me a quick glance, that brought the
warm blood to my cheeks.

We had a merry time; for, after all, strangers were no great rarity;
and we were always merry in our snug little nest. It was said through
the parish that every one had a good time at our house; and Mr. Duncan
appeared to be no exception. When we were almost through, we began to
say verses, each one repeating a passage of Scripture commencing with
the same letter. We caught Mr. Duncan right away. He commenced two or
three before he could hit upon the right beginning.

“You see, I am not very ready with my wits,” he said, laughingly.

Lily, Daisy, and Tim always had a romp with papa afterwards; but my
duties were not ended until they were snugly tucked in bed. You see,
we could not afford nurse-maids and all that on papa’s salary. But
then, frolicking with them in bed was such a delight that I never
minded the knots in their shoestrings, and the loads of trash that
had to be emptied out of their pockets, to say nothing of mischief and
dawdling, and the heaps of dresses and skirts lying round in little
pyramids. Now and then I would make some stringent rules: every child
must hang up her clothes, take care of her shoes and stockings, and
put her comb and hair-ribbon just where they could be found in the
morning. But, somehow, the rules were never kept. I suppose I was a
poor disciplinarian.

I went down stairs at length. Mr. Duncan was pacing the porch alone.
Papa had been called to see a sick neighbor. Mamma was listening to
poor old Mrs. Hairdsley’s troubles, told over for the hundredth time, I
am sure. She was a mild, inoffensive, weak-eyed old lady, living with
rather a sharp-tempered daughter-in-law. Fan was out on an errand of
mercy also.

“What a busy little woman you are!” he said. “I am glad to see you at
last; and I hope no one will fall sick, or want broth, or be in trouble
for the next fifteen minutes. I suppose clergymen’s houses are always
houses of mercy. I begin to feel conscience-smitten to think that I am
adding to the general burden. What will you do with two boys?”

“I cannot exactly tell,” I answered slowly, at which he appeared a good
deal amused, though I did not see anything particularly funny in it.

“I think I would like to come myself, if I were not going ‘over the
seas.’ What would I be good for? Could I do parish visiting?”

“Yes; and teach the Sunday school, and go around with a subscription
list, and—”

“O, the subscription list finishes me. I should stop at every gate, and
put down a certain amount, and pay it out of my own pocket. Begging I
utterly abhor.”

“But if you had nothing in your pocket? If your neighbors were richer
than you, and if you were trying to teach people that it was their duty
to provide for the sick and the needy?”

“Why, what a little preacher you are! Let us go out in the moonlight.
What a lovely night! Suppose we walk down to meet your father. He said
he should not stay long.”

I could think of no good excuse to offer; so we sauntered slowly
through the little yard and out to the street, both keeping silent for
some time.

“Miss Endicott,” he began presently, “I wish I could interest you in my
brothers. You have such a quaint, elder-sister air, that I know you
would have a good influence over them; though they may not prove so
very interesting,” he went on, doubtfully. “Louis is nervous, and has
been ill; and boys are—well, different from girls.”

I was not such a great ignoramus. I suppose he thought, because we had
a houseful of girls, we knew nothing whatever of boys; so I answered,
warmly,—

“The parishioners sometimes come to tea with two or three boys, who
think they ought to demolish the furniture as well as the supper. Then
there are the Sunday schools, and the picnics, and the children’s
festivals—”

“So you do see boys in abundance.”

“They are no great rarity,” I replied, drily.

“And you do not like them very much?”

“I do not exactly know.”

He laughed there. It vexed me, and I was silent.

“I think it a mistake when the girls are put in one family and the boys
in another. Sisters generally soften boys, tone them down, and give
them a tender grace.”

“And what are the brothers’ graces?” I asked.

“Boys have numberless virtues, we must concede,” he returned
laughingly. “I think they perfect your patience, broaden your ideas,
and add a general symmetry. They keep you from getting too set in your
ways.”

I saw him smile down into my face in the soft moonlight, and it _did_
annoy me. Men are always thinking themselves so superior!

“Our mother died when Stuart was a baby. She was always an invalid. But
the summer I spent with your mother is such a sunny little oasis in my
life, that I wanted the boys to have at least one pleasant memory. I
suppose I _am_ selfish—one of the strong points of the sex.”

“O,” I said, “I thought you were all virtues.”

“We have just about enough faults to preserve ballast. But perhaps you
do not like the idea of their coming.”

He studied my face intently for a moment, from my round chin up to my
hair. I remembered, in great confusion, that red-haired people were
suspected of being quick-tempered.

“I am sorry. They _will_ be an annoyance. I ought to have thought—”

“You misunderstood me, Mr. Duncan,” I began, with a tremble in my
voice. “I should not have objected to their coming, even if I
considered that I had a right. It will ease papa’s burdens in another
way, and I am quite ready to do my part.”

“Little girl, there are a good many things that money cannot buy,” he
said gravely.

I had surely done it now! How mercenary he would think us! I could have
cried with vexation.

There was a silence of some minutes. I had an inward consciousness that
we were not foreordained to get on nicely together.

“It is of some of these things that I would like to speak,” he began,
slowly. “The boys have been to a good school, to be sure; but they
never have had a home, or home training. And on some of the higher
points of morals, a woman’s influence does more by its silent grace
than hundreds of lectures. Will you be a little patient with their
rough ways and want of consideration? I am offering you a part of my
burden, to be sure; but then, with your father’s permission, I am to
share part of yours. I am to stand with you to-morrow at your little
sister’s christening. Believe me, that I am very glad to be here.”

Papa had intended to ask Mr. Searle, his senior warden. I was surprised
at the change.

“Do you not like that, either?” and there was a tinge of disappointment
in his tone.

“Excuse me. It was only the suddenness.”

“I like the claim it gives me upon all your remembrances. Then your
interest need only last a little while, if you so elect, while mine
stretches over a whole life.”

“There is papa!” I exclaimed, with a great breath of relief, and
sprang towards him. He put his dear arm around me, and I felt as if my
perplexities had come to a sudden end.

On the porch we found Fanny and mamma, and the conversation became very
bright and general. Indeed, we sat up past our usual hour.

When Fan and I were up stairs she began at once.

“Mr. Duncan is just splendid! I envied you your walk, and I came back
so soon that I had half a mind to run after you.”

“I wish you had been in my place. We did not get on at all. I wonder if
we shall like the boys.”

“I shall not worry about them until they come.”

“But a fortnight soon passes, and then good-by to our quiet house.”

“A quiet house, with seven children in it!” and Fan laughed merrily.

“Well they are not—”

“Boys! of course. But then, boys grow to be men. And men like Stephen
Duncan are charming. One can afford to have a little trouble.”

“O, Fan! how can you talk so?”

“I wasn’t born blind or dumb. I cannot account for it in any other way.
Now, I dare say, Miss Prim, you are thinking of the two hundred dollars
at the end of the summer, and all that it is to buy.”

“It has to be earned first.”

“We will take Mrs. Green’s cheerful view of boarders. ‘They are not
much trouble in the summer, when you only eat ’em and sleep ’em.’”

I could not help smiling at the quotation.

“I wish it were Stephen instead. And how he talks of running over to
England! Not making as much of it as we should of going to New York. It
is just royal to be rich. Rose, I think I shall marry for money, and
set a good example to the five girls coming after me; for, my dear, I
have a strong suspicion that you will be an old maid.”

“O, Fanny, to-morrow will be Sunday, and the baby’s christening.”

“Dear little Tot! yes. And we must set her a pattern of sweetness, so
that she may see the manifest duty of all women. So, good-night, Mother
Hubbard of many troubles.”

Fan gave me two or three smothering kisses, and subsided. I tried to
do a little serious thinking, but was too sleepy; and, in spite of my
efforts, I went off in a dream about her and Mr. Duncan walking up the
church aisle together, Fan in a trailing white dress. I awoke with the
thought in my mind. But it _was_ foolish, and I tried to get it out.

Sunday was beautiful. The air was full of fragrance; bloom of tree and
shrub, pungent odors of growing evergreens, and the freshening breath
of grassy fields. After a pleasant breakfast, the children were made
ready for church. Sundays were always such enjoyable days with us! I
don’t know quite what the charm was; but they seemed restful, and full
of tender talking and sweet singing.

After Sunday school, in the afternoon, the children were catechized,
and there was a short service.

Very few knew of the baby’s christening; so the congregation was not
larger than usual. After the lesson, we went forward, mamma, Mrs.
Whitcomb, baby, Mr. Duncan, and I. A sweet solemn service it was, baby
being very good and quiet. Edith Duncan. The second name had been
agreed upon in the morning, at Stephen’s request.

The children crowded around papa afterwards.

“I do not wonder that everybody loves him,” Mr. Duncan said, as we
walked homeward. “And I feel as if I had a small claim upon him myself.
I am a sort of brother to you now, Nelly.”

“Are you?” answered Nelly, with a roguish laugh. “I did not think it
was so near a relation as that.”

“Perhaps it may be a grandfather, then,” was the grave reply.

“O, that’s splendid!” declared Tiny Tim, who had big ears. “For we
never had a grandfather, you know, only—”

“Only what?”

“Your hair is not very white,” commented Tim, as if suspicious of so
near a relationship with a young man.

He laughed gayly.

“I mean to be adopted into the family, nevertheless. My hair may turn
white some day.”

“There is no hurry,” returned Fanny. “I doubt if Tim would be the more
cordial on that account.”

“Perhaps not;” with a shrewd smile. “But you will have to give me a
sort of elder brother’s place.”

“Will you really be our brother?” asked Daisy.

“I shall be delighted to, if every one will consent. Ask Miss Rose if I
may.”

“You like him—don’t you, Rose?” Papa said—

“We will take him for a brother,” I returned, gaspingly, my cheeks
scarlet, for fear of some indiscreet revelation.

“I have never had any sisters; so I am very glad to get you all. I hope
you will treat me well, and bring me home something nice when you go
abroad.”

“But we are not going,” said Tim; “and I don’t believe I could hem a
handkerchief nicely enough for you.”

“Then it will have to be the other way. Let me see: seven sisters.
Well, I shall not forget you while I am gone.”

Mr. Duncan went to church that evening with Fan and Nelly, and, after
he came home, had a long talk with papa out on the porch. Papa had
enjoyed his guest very much and I was glad of that. It had been quite a
holiday time.

After breakfast the next morning, Mr. Duncan went away. He took little
Edith in his arms, and walked up and down the room with her.

“I feel as if I did not want to go away,” he said, turning to mamma.
“I think you must spoil everybody in this house. I almost envy the
boys their summer vacation.—Ah, Miss Fanny, you see I am by no means
perfect.”

Fan nodded her head rather approvingly. I am not sure but she liked a
spice of wickedness.

“I shall remember your promise,” he said to me, with his good-by.

What had I promised? About the boys—was it? Well I would do my best. I
should have done it without his asking.

“And in three months or so I shall see you again. Good by, little
flock.”

Ah, little did we guess then how many things were to happen before we
saw him again!

But the house seemed quite lonesome without him. I made the children
ready for school, and then went at my rooms. If the boys _should_ be
like Stephen, it would not be so very bad after all.

There was a deal of work to be done in the next fortnight. Our maid, as
usual, was called away, providentially, as Fan used to say of them at
any new disappearance, and we succeeded in getting a middle-aged Irish
woman, who could wash and iron excellently, but who knew very little
about cooking. But mamma said there was always something lacking; and,
since she was good and strong, it would do. All these matters were
barely settled, when a note came, saying that Louis and Stuart Duncan
would be at the station on Friday at four.

Nelly walked over with papa. I had relented a little, and made their
apartment bright and sweet with flowers. I had a fancy that I should
like Louis the better; he, being an invalid, was, doubtless, gentle;
and I wheeled the easy-chair to a view of the most enchanting prospect
out of the south window. Then, as usual, I went back to the work of
getting supper. There is always so much eating going on in this world,
and you need so many dishes to eat it off of! We are not flowers of the
field, or fairies, to sup on dew.

“O, there they come—in a carriage!”

Tiny Tim clapped her hands at that, whereupon the baby crowed and
laughed.

A hack with two trunks. A bright, curly-haired boy sprang out, and
assisted Nelly in the most approved style. Then papa, and a tall,
slender young man, looking old for his eighteen years.

It did not seem a prepossessing face to me. The lips were thin, the
brow contracted with a fretful expression, the nose undeniably haughty,
and the cheeks sunken and sallow. Stuart was so different! red and
white, with glittering chestnut hair, and laughing eyes, that were
hazel, with a kind of yellowish tint in them, that gave his whole face
a sunny look. One warmed to him immediately.

Mamma went to the hall, and we followed; and the introductions took
place there.

“Take the trunks up to the room, Mat,” said my father.

The boys bowed, and followed, Stuart casting back a gay glance. Papa
took off his hat, kissed the baby, and sat down.

“I was quite shocked to see Louis,” he said, in an anxious tone. “He
looks very poorly indeed. We must try our best to nurse him back to
health and strength. Rose, there is some more work to do.”

The voices up stairs were raised quite high in dispute. Louis gave a
tantalizing laugh.

We never quarrelled. I do not know that we were so much more amiable by
nature; but our disputes were of small importance, and never reached
any great height. So we all started rather nervously.

“Boys!” said Fan, sententiously. “O, papa, dearest, I am so glad that
you came into the world a full-grown, evenly-tempered man, and that we
all could not help being sweet if we tried, seeing that we follow your
example.”

“Do you?” returned papa, archly. “I hope you do not use it all up, and
that there is a little left for the parish.”

“And the stranger within our gates.”

There seemed to be no cessation in the discussion up stairs; so,
presently, papa asked that the bell might be rung. Stuart answered the
summons, coming down two steps at a bound, and shaking the house.

“Louis begs you to excuse him,” he said, with a graceful inclination.
“He is knocked up completely. He made such a muff of himself at the
examinations, that he has been cross as a bear ever since. He has a
lovely temper.”

There was a droll light in his eyes as he uttered this.

“Your brother said he was in poor health. So he—failed then?” and
papa’s voice dropped softly.

“Yes. Steve did not want him to try. He said there was no hurry about
his getting into college. I only wish somebody would coddle me up,
and tell me that I needn’t study. I think the whole world is in a
conspiracy against me.”

“You seem to thrive on it,” returned papa.

“O, there is no use of worrying one’s self into the grave, so far as I
can see. I believe in enjoying everything that I can squeeze a bit of
fun out of. So I laugh at Louis, and he gets angry.”

“It is just possible that he may not see the fun,” said papa, soberly.

“That is his lookout.”

“Is he really ill?” asked mamma.

“Not much, I guess. But he is as full of whims as any old granny! He
should have been a girl.”

“Keep him on your side of the house,” retorted Fan. “It is a good thing
that boys do not monopolize all the virtues.”

He looked at her with a peculiar stare, then laughed. He did seem
brimming over with merriment, and rather pleased that Fanny had shown
her colors. So they had a little gay sparring.

“Do you not think your brother would like a cup of tea?” asked mamma.

“When he gets in a fit like this, he generally sulks it out,” returned
Stuart carelessly, rising and sauntering out on the porch.

Mamma could not resist, and presently went up stairs, tapping lightly
at the half-open door.

“I wish you would go away,” said a voice, crossly.

“It is I,” exclaimed mamma, in her soft, yet firm, tones, that always
commanded respect.

“O! excuse me;” and Louis half raised his head.

“Will you not have a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you;” rather ungraciously.

“Can I not do something for you? Does your head ache?”

“Yes. I do not want anything but quiet.”

“Very well; you shall have that,” she said, softly.

She came down stairs, with a little sigh.

“Is the bear still on exhibition, Mrs. Endicott?” asked Stuart.

“I am afraid you, in your perfect health, do not realize how hard some
things are to endure,” she said, with a touch of reproof in her voice.

“I am glad I have not such a fearful temper.—Miss Endicott, you play
croquet, of course. I challenge you to a game.”

Fanny tripped gayly down the path. But mamma, I noticed, looked very
grave.




CHAPTER IV.


Fan, Nelly, and Stuart played croquet until it was fairly dusk. There
were shouts of laughter, and much hurrying around, as if no time was to
be lost. Mamma and I went quietly about our duties; and when I had the
children in bed, I came into the nursery and sat down to have a brief
talk with her. By this time the click of the balls had ceased, and the
three were strolling up and down the street.

“How odd it seems!” I said. “I wonder if we shall get along nicely.”

“Don’t begin to fear thus early, Mr. Faint-heart,” returned mamma,
smilingly. “It will not be as nice as having our house to ourselves;
but we are not doing it for pure enjoyment. When we are tired, and
worried, and discouraged we must think of all the nice things we shall
buy in the fall, and be comforted. We shall have papa a new study
carpet, and get his chair freshly covered.”

“And if it _could_ be Russia leather! That would last him all his life.
At all events, we will spend half on him; and I am sure he will deserve
it. He will, likely, be the greatest sufferer by the confusion.”

“The boys will be out of doors much of the time, no doubt. We must try
to improve our invalid as rapidly as possible. Poor boy!”

“Mamma,” I said, “what a great generous heart you have! You always pity
every one. I have a suspicion that Mr. Louis is cross as well as sick.”

“Then we must minister to the mind as well as the body.”

“I am glad that Stuart is bright and cheerful.”

“O, those children must come in!” she said, starting up. “Fanny is so
thoughtless!”

They answered the summons, but sat down on the porch step, where Stuart
finished a story of boyish school-pranks, which was very amusing, to
say the least. Papa came in time to hear the last of it, and shook his
head rather sagely.

“It is past ten,” announced mamma.

“Country bed-time!” said Stuart, gayly. “I suppose, Mrs. Endicott, that
is a hint for me to go stir up my bear, and listen to a few growls. A
menagerie; ten cents admittance. Who’ll venture in? Don’t all speak at
once, or the place may be crowded.”

“Perhaps, since he is not very well, you had better sleep in another
room to-night,” mamma said.

“Because he might eat me up in the night, since he refused his supper.
I am much obliged, Mrs. Endicott.”

Mamma came around a trifle, so that she faced him, and, standing in the
shaded light, raised her soft, dark eyes to his, and said,—

“This is out of consideration to him, and not the fear of what will
happen to you. That will be the thought for you to go to bed with, and
see if you cannot resolve it into a lesson worth the learning. If I
adopt you into my household, I shall train you as one of my children.
And you will be astonished to see what marvels a little care for the
feelings of others will work.”

Stuart blushed and smiled, said good night, and followed papa to the
best guest-chamber, that I had put in such lovely order. And so there
was quiet through the night.

Louis did not make his appearance at breakfast; but Stuart had been
in stirring him up, for we heard the growls. But he was so merry and
good-natured when he came down, that one had not the heart to find any
fault. Indeed, he kept the children laughing all through the meal.

“What is there to do in this queer little town, Mr. Endicott?” he asked
presently. “Fishing, I suppose—the staple amusement of lazy people. Any
hunting?”

“Not at this season; and very little at any. There are some nice
rambles, and the fishing, as you say.”

“Any young fellows that one would like?”

“Yes a number; though some of them keep pretty busy during the day. And
I forgot rowing. There are boats to be had.”

“Thank you. I’ll take a saunter round. I always do have the luck of
finding some one.”

“And there are books in the library. You may like to keep fresh for
fall. So your brother was a good deal disappointed at not passing?”

“Yes. It wouldn’t have troubled me. Steve was not a bit anxious; so I
should have let it go without a sigh. There is nothing like resignation
in this world.”

“You are an admirable pattern of it,” said Fanny. “I feel tempted to
envy you. I have another fortnight of school; and fearful examinations
are hanging over my devoted head.”

“Couldn’t I go in your stead? I am fresh from it all, and might save
you much vanity and vexation of spirit.”

“Especially the vanity. Your kindness is only exceeded by your great
beauty. _Shakespeare._”

“Fanny!” said papa.

Mamma rose from the table, and prepared a dainty breakfast upon a
waiter, pouring the coffee in a pretty medallion cup that had been
given her at Christmas. Then she took it herself. Stuart sprang up with
an instinct of gentlemanliness.

“You are not going to carry that up stairs?” he asked, in surprise.

“Why not?”

“If you are not going to send a servant, I will take it.”

“You may carry it for me, if you like; but I wish to make a call upon
your brother.”

He was her attendant as far as the door; but when her summons was
answered, she dismissed him. Then she walked straight to the bedside,
placing her tray on a small table.

“Are you rested this morning?” she asked, gently. “I think you
will feel better for some breakfast. I am sorry that you should be
so fatigued and ill, for a place seldom looks bright under such
circumstances. But we will do our best for you, and you must try as
well.”

The scowl remained in his forehead. He raised himself on his elbow, and
turned towards her, though his eyes were still averted.

“I am obliged for the trouble, though I do not need any breakfast,” he
said, rather gruffly.

“I think you _do_ need it. Here is a glass of cool spring water, and
some fragrant coffee. A little of both may revive you. Does your head
still ache? If I had known just what to do for you, I should have come
again last night.”

“Was it you who—” and his face flushed a swarthy scarlet.

“Yes;” and mamma looked steadily at him out of her sweet brown eyes.

He moved uneasily, and in his heart wished she were away.

“Was it you who came last evening?” he asked, in a low, wondering tone.

“Yes. I felt anxious about you. I knew you were in a strange place,
and, doubtless, feeling awkward and lonesome. That must be my apology.”

“O,” he exclaimed, “don’t make any—to me. I acted like a boor! I am
sorry and ashamed. And I don’t deserve that you should take all this
trouble for me. But I had been—”

“And I _did_ sympathize with you to the utmost. The disappointment must
have proved great. But I do believe it will be much better for you to
wait. You were not strong enough to take up a college course.”

“Yet I had said those things over and over again. I knew them fairly
well, at least. And to have all those boobies set up and sneer! I could
have killed them!”

He looked so at the moment.

“O,” mamma said, “you must not think of this now. Do not try to keep
the angry flames alive. It is a bright, lovely morning; and if you
could make the effort to come down on the porch, you would feel so much
better! Try this coffee—to please me.”

“You are very kind and solicitous.”

There was a little tremble in his voice; but he made no effort to touch
the food.

“If you appreciate it, you will begin your breakfast before everything
gets cold. You will feel more like rising then. Come, I mean to cheer
you up in spite of yourself. This is not Doubting Castle, and I cannot
take in Giant Despair.”

He smiled faintly then, and sipped his coffee.

“There,” mamma said, in her bright, cheery way, “you have made a small
beginning, and that gives me faith in you. Now I must go back to my
flock. Down stairs there is a cool, pleasant library, and a piano,
which always stands open. I want you to feel at home.”

“You _are_ good,” he returned. “Can I have the library to myself, or
only with Mr. Endicott?”

“Yes; or the parlor, either. Indeed, Mr. Endicott has finished his
sermons, and will be out nearly all day.”

“Thank you.”

Stuart was lying in wait at the foot of the stairs.

“Well,” with a gay little laugh, “did you beard the lion in his den? I
must go up and make him roar.”

“No,” said mamma, laying her hand on his arm, “you must not go up; and
I ask, as a personal favor, that you will not tease him this whole
day.”

“Tease him! The baby! Poor little thing!”

“I have promised him a quiet morning. You will not compel me to break
my word?”

“Then I shall have to go out and hunt up some fun.”

She smiled in her irresistible fashion, that conquered if it did not
convince.

We had made an exception, and done the most of our Saturday’s work on
Friday morning. So now there was only a little dusting, with the usual
making of beds, and all that. I had just finished the other rooms, when
Louis left his, and went quietly down to the study, shutting himself
in. To mamma’s satisfaction, he had eaten nearly all the breakfast she
had prepared.

I put the room in its usual order. Oddly enough, I found a withered
rose under the pillow, and it was still sweet. I remembered that
Stephen was very fond of roses. There were ever so many small articles
strewn about. I thought those big boys were as careless as the children.

Papa came in just before dinner was ready, and had a little chat with
Louis, though the young man was not disposed to be social. At dinner he
seemed dreadfully awkward and embarrassed, his sallow cheeks, flushing
at the least word. Somehow I was glad Stuart was not there. Afterwards
he went up to his room, and spent the whole afternoon alone.

We had rather a funny time. Stuart came in late, and insisted upon
having his dinner in the kitchen, telling Ann two or three such
laughable Irish stories, that they were friends straightway. Then he
would insist upon carrying Fan’s basket when she was ready to start on
her visitation, as she called it.

“It was as good as a play,” he said afterwards. “I thought I should
smile audibly at that old lady—Mrs. Means, I believe you called her.
She is an ungrateful wretch, Mrs. Endicott. ‘She did not like such
light, chaffy bread; it had no heart. You might as well eat sawdust.’
And she wanted to know how many eggs were in the custard; and when
people sent currants, she wished they would send sugar, too. ‘Nasty,
sour things!’ Why, I had half a mind to hustle the gifts back in the
basket, and bring them home.”

“We are not to get weary in well doing,” said mamma.

“I’m not sure but a little wholesome hunger would be good. And then
that old Mrs. Bogert! Doesn’t she look funny there in the bed, with
her little, wrinkled face and that flapping cap-ruffle. And her talk,
and the queer way in which she keeps questioning her maid—‘Betty, how
long is it since I was tuck sick?’ in that high, cracked voice, which
sounds like a smashed hand organ with a monkey grinding it. ‘Betty,
tell the gentleman how I fell down the cellar stairs. Betty, bring me
my snuff-box; mebby the young gentleman will take a pinch.’”

He imitated Mrs. Bogert’s tone so exactly, that we could not help
laughing.

“Did you take a pinch?” asked Nelly.

“Of course I did. And such sneezing!”

“It was dreadful,” said Fan, with a reproachful look. “And not a bit in
earnest.”

“How _did_ you do it?” Nelly questioned.

“This way.”

There isn’t any method of spelling such terrific sneezing. No
combination of letters would do it justice. I thought I wouldn’t laugh;
but I did and the children screamed.

“Good snuff—wasn’t it?” he said, with a droll wink.

“I don’t see how you can do it, all in fun,” said wide-eyed Daisy.

“I do not believe I shall take you out with me again,” commented Fan,
severely.

“But I know the way now. I shall drop in to see the old lady often, and
get a pinch of snuff. O, dear! I am almost worn out with my arduous
duties. Can any one stay me with a glass, and comfort me with cold
water—the literal for apples and love? And then can’t we dissipate
on croquet? If I sit still much longer I shall have the rickets. My
physician prescribed active exercise.”

“You had better take the baby out in her carriage, if you want
exercise,” said Tiny Tim, having heard the two connected some way.

He laughed.

“For—

    ‘Satan finds some mischief still
      For idle hands to do.’

Isn’t that in the hymn book?”

“Not in mine,” returned Fan.

“Well, I am sure it is in the spelling-book. I learned it somewhere;
and it is about a busy bee. Good instructions, like pins, are never
lost.”

“But pins _are_ lost. Your logic is faulty.”

“No they’re always gone before—that is, before you want them.”

“You are too smart for your size,” said Fan. “I am afraid you’ll grow
up a dunce.”

“Well, you cannot have all the virtues for a little money. As it is, I
think of striking for higher wages.”

“You are not worth what you get now,” said Fan, running away.

Stuart did not venture up stairs until just before supper. Louis
declined to come down; so mamma sent him some tea, berries, and
biscuits.

“I am afraid you are beginning in a way to make trouble for yourself,”
papa said, thoughtfully, afterwards.

“I am going to indulge him for a few days. He is nervous, and really
bashful; and I want him to learn to like us. But he cannot be forced to
do anything.”

“I believe I like my girls the best,” said papa, fondly.

Saturday evenings, when no one dropped in, were our choicest time of
all the week. Mamma played, and we all sang. This time no one came to
disturb us. And we never knew, until long afterwards, that Louis Duncan
listened with his eyes full of tears, and had not the courage to join
us. But it always appeared to me like a little bit of heaven below.
Papa’s sweet tenor voice seemed to belong to some particular hymns, and
it took me far above the petty work-day affairs. How good and lovely he
was in his every-day walks and ways!

Louis began to get somewhat acquainted with us on Sunday. He did not
go to church, but lay on the bed reading nearly all day. No one found
any fault with him; and Stuart’s teasing tongue was hushed. I think he
stood a little in awe of my mother, gentle as she was. It was plain
to see that the boys had been brought up with mere outward forms of
religion; that they had no love and very little respect for it. How
different they were from Stephen!

But the enforced quiet was broken on Monday morning, there were some
high words, and then an unmistakable blow, followed by a struggle and a
fall. Papa went up stairs.

“Boys,” he said, with severe but simple dignity, “are you brothers,
and must you quarrel? If you have no respect for yourselves, I implore
you to have a little for my house, that has hitherto been the abode of
harmony. I will not have it.”

The combatants paused, and glared at each other with angry eyes.
Stuart had come off victor, for it was Louis who had fallen. He was
deadly white now, with a blue line about the mouth.

“I won’t be struck as if I was a child,” exclaimed Stuart, with fierce
determination; “and he struck me.”

“I told you to let that brush alone,” said the other, sullenly. “Your
own was there.”

“Stuart, go in the room opposite and finish your toilet. I shall expect
an apology from you both when you come down stairs. Breakfast is ready.”

It seemed as if we were to have neither of them; but when the meal was
about half over Stuart entered the room. His face was flushed, and his
eyes were still sending out fiery rays; but he went straight to papa.

“Mr. Endicott,” he said, making an effort to steady his voice, “I am
truly sorry that I should have been so rude and ungentlemanly in your
house. I ask your pardon.—And yours, Mrs. Endicott.”

“I pardon you on condition that a similar event never happens, while
you are here, at least. You are both too old to fall into such
rough-and-tumble school-boy fights.”

Mamma held out her hand to him as he passed her. He blushed deeply,
but seized it with a thankful eagerness. After that our meal was very
silent.

Ann went up stairs to see if Louis would have any breakfast.

“Sure, he’s crosser than two sticks when the fire is kindlin’. He
doesn’t want sup nor bite; and if he did, it’s little he’d get from me.”

So mamma judged that it was best to pay no further attention to him. He
did not even come down at noon; and then Stuart found that his door was
locked.

Quite late in the afternoon I was hurrying through the hall, when he
opened his door suddenly. His hair was tumbled, his cheeks scarlet, and
his eyes wild and staring.

“For God’s sake, get me a drink of water!” he cried, hoarsely.

I took it up to him, and knocked; but there was no answer. I made some
ado opening the door, and walked in rather timidly. He was laughing and
talking incoherently but clutched at the pitcher of water and drank
great, desperate swallows. Then he sank back on the bed exhausted.

I ran to mamma in affright.

“Louis Duncan is sick and out of his mind!” I cried. “O, mamma, I am
sorry they came. We shall have our hands full of trouble.”

She went to the room with me. He did not appear to know either of us,
and we could not rouse him to any coherency.

“It is a fever. The doctor must be sent for immediately. Tell Nelly to
go. And, Rose, we must arrange the other room, and take him over there,
since it may be a long illness. Well, we must have patience. God knows
what is for the best.”

I soon had everything in order. Papa coming in, he partly led and
partly carried Louis to the best room. Mamma bathed his head and put
some draughts on his wrists and his feet. Now he lay quietly, with his
eyes half open, breathing heavily.

Dr. Hawley called just before supper.

“A bad case,” he said, gravely, “a bad case! Why, the fellow is worn
to skin and bone already, and looks as if he had had the jaundice for
the last month. But we will do our best. He may be stronger than he
appears.”

Stuart felt pretty sober that evening.

“I suppose I ought not to have stirred him up so this morning,” he
said. “But it is such fun! And it was all about a trifle. I used his
hair-brush; and he is as particular as any old maid. Then I tormented
him a little, and he seized the brush and gave me a box on the ear,
which I won’t take from any one without a row. I am not a baby. And
it was awful mean of him! And so we clinched. But he has been in a
dreadful temper for the last month. He was mad because Stephen wouldn’t
let him go to Lake George with a lot of fellows.”

“It was fortunate that he did not,” returned mamma. “And, Stuart, I
hope, in the weeks to come, you will learn your duty towards him. God
has not given you this tie for you to disregard so utterly.”

Stuart looked at her with wondering eyes, but made no answer.

“Our first experience with boys seems to be rather trying,” said Fanny,
as we were going to bed that night. “I hope and pray that he may not
die—and in our house!”

I thought of what Stephen had asked of me.




CHAPTER V.