“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.

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Mildred&apos;s New Daughter

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