Martha Finley - Mildred's New Daughter

The uncles then consented to put them in his care for an indefinite period, reserving the right to remove them if at any time they saw reason to be dissatisfied with the treatment they received.

“I certainly shall give you no occasion for it,” remarked Coote suavely; “as I have said, my wife and I will be as tender and careful of the little darlings as though, they were our own flesh and blood.”

“How soon will you be ready for them?” asked Mr. George Eldon.

“At once, sir, at once. And if you please I should greatly prefer to take them with me on my return this afternoon. It would save me another trip to the city, and in my circumstances that expense would count.”

“And since the change has to be made it would perhaps be as well to make it at once,” remarked Mr. Eldon thoughtfully, adding, “I hope the poor little creatures may be happier with you, Mr. Coote, than they have been with us, if only for the simple reason that the whole four will be together; for I never saw children fonder of each other than they are.”

“Nor I,” assented his brother; “and Ethel, young as she is, seems very like a mother to Harry and Nannette, poor child! I am really sorry to part with her. I’ll go up with you, Coote, explain matters to her, bid good-by to the whole four, and see them off.”

Things had gone very wrong that morning with Blanche and Harry, and Ethel was nearly heartbroken over the sore punishment meted out to them by Mrs. George. That made the news her Uncle Albert brought her much less distressing than it would otherwise have been; for how, she asked herself, was it possible things could go worse anywhere than here? And it seemed a blessing indeed that she and all three of the younger ones would be together again.

She loved Uncle Albert, clung tearfully to him for a moment when he had told her of the new arrangement, then almost cheerfully gathered together the few small possessions of herself, brother, and sisters.

By direction of the aunts the children’s trunk had been already packed with the most of their clothing, so that it was the work of but a few minutes to get everything in readiness for their hasty departure.

The little ones were almost dazed by the suddenness of the thing, and scarcely realized what had happened till they found themselves in the cars alone with their new and unknown guardian. Their Uncle Albert had gone with them to the train, and in bidding them good-by he laid a box of candies in Ethel’s lap, saying, “That is for you and your brother and sisters to eat on the way;” and bestowed a large, luscious orange on each, of the four.

Ethel threw her arms about his neck and held him tight for a moment, while her sobs came thick and fast.

“Oh, Uncle, dear Uncle Albert,” she cried chokingly, “won’t I ever see you any more?”

“Yes, yes, dear child,” he said soothingly, “I shall run up to look at you and the others one of these days, when business grows slack; and perhaps – who knows but you’ll be back with us again some day? But there, I must go now. Be good children, all of you, and Uncle Albert won’t forget you at Christmas time.”

And with a hasty caress bestowed on each of the others he hurried from the car.

Ethel dried her eyes, opened the box, gave a bit of the candy to each of the other three, then seeing that Mr. Coote was eying them as though he too would like a share, she held out her box to him, asking timidly, “Will you have a piece too, sir?”

His only reply was to seize the box, help himself to half its contents, then hand it back with a gruff, “Candy isn’t at all good for children, and if your uncle had consulted me he wouldn’t have wasted his money buying it for you.”

“Oh, dear, that man’s got most all of our candy; and Uncle Albert said it was for us,” wailed Harry, taking a peep into the half-emptied box.

“Be quiet, sir!” commanded Coote, turning a flushed and angry face upon the little boy.

“Give back that candy and I’ll be quiet enough,” returned Harry sturdily.

“What a hog of a man to be robbing those poor little children of their candy!” exclaimed a motherly-looking country woman in the next seat, apparently addressing her remark to a young girl at her side, but speaking loud enough for Coote and other near-by passengers to hear.

The train was just starting. Coote leaned over the back of the seat, bringing his mouth near to Harry’s ear.

“You keep quiet, you young dog,” he said savagely, “or I’ll pitch you out the window and let the train run over you and kill you.”

“Oh, you wicked, wicked man!” cried Ethel, with a burst of tears, putting her arm round Harry and holding him close; “if you do you’ll get hung for murder.”

“Take care, miss; it wouldn’t take long to send you after him,” was the threatening rejoinder, and Coote leaned back in his seat again, took a newspaper from his pocket, and sat looking over it while devouring with evident enjoyment the candy of which he had robbed the children.

It was a lovely day early in October, and the children enjoyed gazing out upon the landscape, so new to them, the gorgeous coloring of the forest trees particularly attracting their attention. They were close together, having possession of a corner near the door of the car, where two seats at right angles gave them abundance of room to move about and gaze their fill, now on the outer world, now at the occupants of the seats near at hand. They were pretty quiet, and disturbed no one but each other with their prattle and fidgeting.

The sun was near its setting when they arrived at their destination. They were bundled very unceremoniously out of the car and hurried along the street by Mr. Coote, who seemed in hot haste to reach his parsonage, some two or three squares distant. Poor little Nannette found it very hard – indeed quite impossible – to keep up with him in his rapid strides, though Ethel on one side and Blanche on the other were doing their utmost to help her along. And even they, without that hindrance, could not possibly have kept pace with their conductor. Nor could Harry, and he too fell behind with them, and all four were crying more or less when they reached the gate where Coote stood awaiting their coming, with a scowl of impatience upon his ugly features.

“I thought you were close behind me. You’ll have to learn to walk faster. Dawdling along is something I’ll not put up with,” he growled, snatching Nannette up roughly and carrying her into the house, the others following in obedience to the gruff order, “Come along in, all o’ you.”

A middle-aged woman – tall, rawboned, of scowling countenance and stiffly starched in manner, stood waiting in the hall.

“So you’ve brought ’em,” she said in icy tones. “Well, they’ll make trouble and work enough, but the pay will help to eke out that starvation salary of yours.”

“Take care, Sarah,” he muttered, setting down the sobbing Nannette, none too gently, upon the floor, “little pitchers have big ears, and there’s no knowing when or where they might blab.”

“Just let me catch ’em at it and they’ll not be apt to do it a second time,” she said, turning upon the trembling little ones a look so angry and threatening that they clung together in affright, tears coursing down their cheeks and their young bosoms heaving with sobs.

“Stop your crying, every one of you!” she commanded. “Come right in here and eat your suppers,” opening a door near where she stood, “and then you shall go to bed. But no. Pull off your hats and coats first and hang them here on the rack in the hall. You must learn to wait on yourselves, and that there’s a place for everything and everything must be in its place, and the sooner you learn it the better it’ll be for you; for dirt and disorder are never allowed in the house where I’m at the head of affairs. I’ll help you this time, but you’ve got to help yourselves after this.”