Part 4

"I should not like to work on Christmas day, because I do not think it would be right, unless the work were very necessary indeed," replied Ethel; "and I am sure mother would not like to have me do so; but I would not mind it on other days."

Mr. Beckford smiled. "Your mother is very particular," he remarked.

"Yes, sir, about such things. When we lived in the large house, she always managed so that the servants need have just as little work as possible upon Christmas day and Sundays."

"It is a good principle," said Mr. Beckford. "But to proceed to business. The little colored books have been so popular that I have decided to get out another edition for New Year's. Now, if you are willing to work in play time, so as to get the pictures done by—say Wednesday noon, I will pay you in advance—a thing I seldom do—and trust to your honesty not to disappoint me: then you can buy your chair, and still have some money left."

Ethel considered a little. She had intended to do a good many things during holidays—and she had specially reserved some interesting reading till that time. If she bought the chair, that must be given up; and then perhaps her parents might not like to have her make such an arrangement. Finally, like a wise child, she resolved to ask advice.

"Will you please wait till I can ask father, Mr. Beckford? I can run down to his office now, and then I will come up to your store and tell you."

Mr. Beckford approved, and Ethel hastened to her father's office, considering herself happy in finding him disengaged. She explained the matter to him in few words.

"If you make this bargain, my dear, you know you must fulfil it exactly," said her father. "I am afraid you will find it rather dull working in holiday time, especially as the novelty is worn off, and you have spent the money beforehand."

"Yes, father, I know that; but then I want mother to have the chair so much that I shall not mind it, and I will be sure to get them done in time. You know she was always so fond of that chair. May I, father?"

"I think I may venture to say yes," said her father; "and I am glad to see you so unselfish, my dear. I think that will give your mother more pleasure than a great many chairs."

Ethel felt deeply humbled by her father's praises, and resolved that she would tell him the whole story of the gold piece upon the first opportunity. "You won't tell mother?" she asked. "I want to surprise her with it."

Mr. Fletcher promised, and Ethel hastened up to Mr. Beckford's store, feeling very happy. Mr. Beckford had the drawings all ready for her.

"How much can you afford to give for your chair?" he asked.

"The first one that I looked at cost twelve shillings," replied Ethel, "and I thought I could spare that much."

"Then if I pay you twelve shillings more, you can procure the chair, and yet have something to spare. Can you earn so much?"

Ethel thought she could, as there would be no school.

And Mr. Beckford put the three half-dollars into her hand, saying, as he did so, "It is a pleasure to me to pay you this money, because I am perfectly sure you will be honest about it."

"Mr. Beckford would not say so if he knew—" thought Ethel, and she almost wished to tell him the whole story; but shame or shyness kept her silent.

She bought the chair, and arranged that it should not be sent home till after seven o'clock, when she knew that her father and mother would be gone to evening service, while she would be at home with the boys. She finished her other shopping with a great deal of pleasure, making her money stretch far enough to buy something for her father and the boys, a pretty book for Abby, and a carved ivory case containing a yard measure for Aunt Sally, whom she had heard lamenting the mysterious disappearance of hers a few days before.

"Well, my daughter, you have made a long morning of it," said her mother, as she entered the house. "Did you find what you wanted?"

"Oh yes, mother, just exactly what I wanted, and I had four shillings left. How nice it seems to spend money that one has earned, doesn't it?"

"Yes, my dear, it is very pleasant. But I have been busy as well as you: see here—" And opening the parlor door, she showed Ethel the room beautifully decorated with evergreens, mixed with the red berries of the mountain ash.

"O mother, how pretty—how very pretty!" exclaimed Ethel. "It looks almost as pretty as the drawing room in the old house. But it will look prettier yet when—" she caught herself up, finishing her sentence in quite another way. "I think we shall have a pleasant Christmas after all, mother."

"I think so too, my darling—and Ethel, if you do enjoy Christmas, I hope you will not forget to thank the Giver of that and all your other pleasures."

"I have a great deal to be thankful for—more than you know of, mother," replied Ethel in a low voice. "I will tell you after to-morrow. I would tell you now—only—"

"I can trust you, Ethel," said her mother. "Now go and put your parcels away before the boys come in: I think your presents will make them very happy."

When Ethel reached her room, she bolted her door, and remained alone for some time. When she came down again, her mother perceived that she had been crying, but her face was so full of peace and quiet contentment, that she would not run the risk of disturbing it by asking her any questions.

Ethel had carried her sins, her temptations, and her thankfulness to the foot of the Cross, and she felt that she had there received forgiveness for the past, and strength for the future. Her late experience had taught her that when left to herself, she was not only no better, but it seemed not half as good as the people she had been looking down upon for two or three days, and she had learned a lesson of humility and self-distrust destined to be the beginning of a new spiritual life in her soul.

The chair came at eight o'clock while her parents were in church, and just after the boys had gone to bed, and was safely housed for the night in a closet opening from the hall. Something else came too—namely, an invitation from Mrs. Sarah Bertie to the whole family to spend Christmas evening at her house, "to meet a very few friends."

When Mrs. Fletcher returned, she decided that Aunt Sally's invitation must be accepted as a matter of course, and Ethel went to bed very tired but very happy, and expecting a pleasant Christmas day.

Chapter Fourth.

ON Christmas morning Ethel was awakened just as the church clocks were striking six. She jumped up at once, and lighting her candle, and partly dressing herself, she went down stairs to dispose her presents in the dining room.

"How cold it is!" she said, shivering, after she had finished her arrangements.

Just then her eye fell upon the basket of kindlings and charcoal set ready for morning use.

"I mean to make the fires," she continued, "and then it will be nice and warm for father and mother when they come down."

No sooner said than done. Her hands defended by her dusting gloves, she cleaned out the grate, got the fire going, and filled the tea-kettle. Then she lighted the dining room fire, which being of wood, was quickly despatched, and all being finished, she hastened up-stairs, and shut her own door just as her father opened his.

"Merry Christmas, papa!" she cried out, after he had reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Thank you, my dear, the same to you. But what is this? The witches have been busy here, I think: or was it a little Christmas fairy which did my work before I was up? I think the fairy had better come down and get warm!"

"She will, papa, as soon as she gets her shoes and stockings on. It is so cold now-a-days, that fairies have to wear something warmer than rose-leaves."

Ethel finished her dressing and ran down as quickly as she could, to enjoy her mother's first sight of the present.

"What is here?" asked Mrs. Fletcher, the chair catching her eye the moment she entered the room. "It is, indeed, my own dear little chair; but where did it come from? I never expected to see it again."

"A fairy brought it," said Mr. Fletcher, "and the same fairy has kindly made my fires for me this cold morning. Seriously, my dear Amber, Ethel discovered your favorite seat in a shop, and repurchased it with a great part of her earnings and some of her holiday time, for I understand she has to work two days yet to finish paying for it."

"So this was your secret!" said Mrs. Fletcher, kissing Ethel. "My dear child, you could not have found any present that I should value so much."

"That was not all the secret, mother," said Ethel. And she told her father and mother how she had been tempted to spend the money that was not hers, and what had saved her from doing so. "You don't know how ashamed I felt, mother," she concluded, "when Mr. Beckford praised me for being honest."

"I dare say!" said her mother. "You ought to be very thankful, my darling child, that God has mercifully kept you from so great a sin."

"Indeed I am, mother; I shall always think of it when I look at that chair. Suppose I had bought it, and then Mr. Beckford had come after the money, what should I have done? But I hope I shall never be tempted in that way again."

"That is, perhaps, rather too much to expect," said Mrs. Fletcher. "We must always be subject to temptation as long as we live in the world, but you may safely hope that God will give you strength to overcome, as He has at this time."

The entrance of the boys here interrupted the conversation, and Ethel had the pleasure of hearing them say, as they pulled out the contents of their stockings, that their presents were just what they wanted.

"Now if we could only have the school-children," she thought, "I wouldn't ask any more: but we cannot, and so I won't make myself uncomfortable with thinking about it."

All the family went to Church, of course, and as they entered the porch they met Abby, who was waiting to give a Christmas greeting to Ethel. The two families sat near each other, and after the sermon and offertory (for which Ethel had a ten-cent piece ready) the two girls walked away together.

"Have you had any presents, Ethel?" asked Abby.

"No," replied Ethel, "you know I told you that I did not expect any. But I have got one for you, Abby. I hope you will like it."

"I am sure I shall," said Abby, squeezing her hand. "It was very good of you to spend your earnings for me, and I shall think a great deal more of it on that account. I have one for you too, but I thought I would keep it till this evening. You are invited to Aunt Sally's, I suppose."

"Of course!" said Ethel. "We are all going."

"Was she very angry when she found out about your earning money?" asked Abby. "I was afraid she would be so vexed that she would not give you any Christmas present."

"She was angry at first," replied Ethel, "but she got over it. I do like her, after all, Abby; she is so straightforward. I don't mean about talking," she continued, seeing Abby laugh: "she is rather too straightforward about that sometimes; but in things like this, for instance. She wanted me to give it all up, but as soon as I told her that I had made a bargain, and ought not to give it up, she agreed with me directly. She made me a tempting offer too;" and she repeated her aunt's proposition.

"You are a good girl, Ethel," said Abby, sighing. "I wish I was."

"I am sure you are quite as good as I am," returned Ethel, now really feeling what she said. "You are a great deal more good-natured, and I am sure you are a better scholar. But don't let us talk about ourselves—tell me what presents you had."

The girls chatted merrily all the way home, and Ethel enjoyed the walk very much. Some apple pies had been made, and Uncle George's turkey got ready for roasting the day before. And now Ethel, having taken off her church dress, busied herself in washing the potatoes and other vegetables, and in setting the table: for they were to have rather an early dinner, Aunt Sally having particularly requested them to be at her house as early as half-past six o'clock.

The turkey and apple pies turned out exceedingly well, and Mr. Mortimer's preserved ginger was declared excellent by all but little Sidney, who complained that it bit him, and declared a preference for apple-sauce. Then all set to work to clear away the dishes, and put the house in order previous to dressing.

And the appointed hour found them at Aunt Sally's, the first of the guests except Mr. Simonton. There was a noise in the kitchen which rather surprised Mrs. Fletcher, who knew her aunt to be a strict disciplinarian in all such matters. But Mrs. Bertie did not seem to be at all disturbed by it.

It was nearly half-put seven when Mrs. Coles arrived, and as she sailed into the drawing room, rustling in flounced brocade and resplendent in ornaments, she was met with a sharp reproof from her aunt for being so tardy.

"When I say half-past six, I mean half-past six," she replied to her niece's excuses. "I don't mean seven nor eight. As to staying to dress, you would have looked much better in my opinion if you had not dressed so much. And that child, Abby, in pink silk! I thought you had more sense."

"I told you so, mother!" said Abby in a whisper. "I knew Aunt Sally would not like it. It looks just as if we were trying to outshine Cousin Amber and Ethel."

If such were the case, neither Cousin Amber nor Ethel was disturbed at it. Ethel was fast learning wisdom by the things she suffered, and was in fair way of becoming as philosophical as could reasonably be expected of a little girl of twelve years old.

"Well, we are all here at last," said Mrs. Bertie finally, after she had smoothed her ruffled plumes a little. "Now, Mr. Simonton, do your part."

Mr. Simonton smiled, rubbed his hands, bowed his old-fashioned bow to Mrs. Bertie, and glided from the room, and the company looked at each other, while Mrs. Bertie stood fanning herself in silence. It was evident that something rather unusual was going on.

There was a trampling of little feet on the basement stairs, and in the closed back parlor, then a sudden cessation of noise, and finally a score of childish voices led by Mr. Simonton raised the glorious old-fashioned Gloria in Excelsis. At the same moment the folding doors were thrown open, and the eyes of the guests were greeted by an unexpected sight. Two beautiful Christmas trees blazed with colored lights and sugar ornaments, while around the larger one were grouped some twenty little children, rather poorly dressed, but all evidently in the highest spirits, and full of smiles at seeing Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, who on their part felt as if in a dream, as they recognized the familiar faces of their Sunday scholars.

Good Mr. Simonton rubbed his hands and brushed up his spruce gray whiskers, singing all the while in his splendid tenor voice, just as he did when he led the children in Sunday-school.

"There, nephew and niece Fletcher," said Mrs. Bertie, sweeping up to the table when the anthem was finished, and laying her withered hand glittering with diamonds upon the head of the nearest child; "this is your Christmas present. I felt sure that neither of you would enjoy your Christmas unless you had a parcel of poor children round you: so knowing Mr. Simonton to be superintendent of your Sunday-school, I employed him to collect these little folks together to meet you this evening."

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Aunt Sally," said Mr. Fletcher as soon as he could find his voice. "Nothing in the world could have given me greater pleasure. The thought of being no longer able to do any thing for these little ones, has been one of the bitterest things I have experienced in all my reverses. I hope—"

And here Mr. Fletcher broke down entirely, and had recourse to his handkerchief, while Mr. Simonton rubbed his spectacles and cleared his throat, and Mr. and Mrs. Coles looked on in silent amazement.

"Nonsense, nephew Fletcher," said Mrs. Sally, while the bright drops stood on her own lashes. "I have given you trouble enough in the course of my life, and I dare say I shall give you plenty more if I live, for I am rather too old to change my ways. But come, give your protégés their presents and dainties, and let them go home before it grows late, as they have already been kept longer than I intended. Nephew Coles, if you have done staring, perhaps you will be able to render some assistance."

In fact, Mr. and Mrs. Coles were to the last degree astonished. Mrs. Bertie, as we have already remarked, was at first very angry at Mr. Fletcher, and Mr. Coles had left no opportunity untried of fostering the feeling. He had relied upon the knowledge of Ethel's late business transactions to put the climax to his aunt's discontent, knowing how nervously sensitive she was to any thing which touched what she considered the honor of the family. And now to see her taking so much pains, and going to such an expense to feast "a parcel of dirty little Irish young ones—" so did Mr. Coles mentally designate these lambs of the flock,—for no other purpose than to give pleasure to this very offending nephew Fletcher—he was utterly confounded, and began to think Mrs. Bertie had lost her wits.

Mrs. Bertie, however, seemed to be in full possession of her faculties. She went around among the children, laughing and joking, inquiring their names, ages, and circumstances, seeing that all were helped, and making herself so agreeable that the children were perfectly delighted with her. Indeed, one little girl declared to her companions, as they were putting on their hoods to go home, that Mrs. Bertie was exactly like the fairy godmother in Cinderella; which speech being overheard by the girls and repeated to their aunt, greatly amused and delighted the old lady, who declared it to be the prettiest compliment she had had since she was a young girl.

No one in the world could be pleasanter than Mrs. Sally when she was pleased; and this evening she seemed resolved to be pleased with every thing and everybody. The presents were remarkably well chosen, except that Mr. Simonton made a grimace at a diamond ring, and declared that people would think he was growing a beau in his old age. Abby had a gold necklace and her mother a gold bracelet, which the latter secretly thought was not half as handsome as she expected. Ethel had a new paint-box and a complete set of Miss Yonge's books, with which she was greatly delighted.

"I have a present for you, Aunt Sally," she said modestly. "It is only a yard-ribbon, but I thought you would like it, because I bought it with my own earnings."

"Umph!" said her aunt. "What made you think so?"

"I don't know," replied Ethel, "unless it is because I should feel so myself."

"Really, Ethel, you are a rational child, all things considered. Yes, my dear, I am much pleased with it, and shall value it greatly—though mind, that is not saying that I approve of your working for money. What have you there, Abby?"

"A pin-cushion, aunt. I did not earn the money, like Ethel, but I hope you will like it."

"Thank you, my dear—it is very pretty, indeed. Did you make it all yourself?"

"No, aunt," replied Abby, honestly, disregarding her father's signs for silence. "I wanted to do every stitch of it, but mother thought it would not be pretty enough, so our sewing girl did all but the filling up. But I mean to do the next one all myself—see if I don't."

"That is right, Abby. Speak the plain truth, whatever you do. Now for the rest of the things."

Abby's present to Ethel was a pretty little silver-mounted magnifying glass, an instrument for which she had heard her cousin express a wish some time before. Mrs. Coles had no present for Ethel; and the reason was this: she had purchased a frock for Abby, but, upon examination, there were found in it several blemishes, which she knew very well would be enough to make Abby refuse to wear it; whereupon she resolved that the said frock should be her Christmas present to Ethel, who, she thought, might by this time be glad to have a new frock, even if it were not very perfect. She had sent it round to Aunt Sarah Bertie's for this purpose, but Aunt Sarah had not brought it forward. Mrs. Coles drew her aside, and inquired the reason.

"What a dunce you are, niece Coles!" was the polite reply. "Don't you see that your cousin Fletcher would be very much hurt at your giving her daughter a frock which you did not consider good enough for your own? I am surprised at you."

"Well, I don't know," replied Mrs. Coles; "I should think, when they are not above letting Ethel work for money, they need not be offended at her receiving a present of any sort of a dress. But I suppose you know best; only I shall not have any present for Ethel, that's all, and I should not like to have them think I meant to neglect the child, now that times are changed with them."

"That last remark has some sense in it," said Mrs. Bertie. "I'll manage it for you."

And returning to the company, she said to Ethel, "There was a mistake about your cousin Coles' present for you, child, which mistake was partly mine; so you must not feel hurt about it."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Fletcher, seeing that Ethel did not know exactly how to reply. "Ethel has had too many proofs of her cousin's kindness to doubt it, and she has had quite presents enough for once."

"Well," said Mrs. Coles to herself, "I am nicely out of the scrape; but, after all, I don't see why she should not have been glad of the dress."

The evening passed off very pleasantly to all concerned, especially to the children, who thought Aunt Sally had never been so agreeable before. The party broke up at an early hour, and they found themselves at home before half-past ten o'clock.

"Well, Ethel," said Mrs. Fletcher, "this Christmas, which you dreaded so much, has turned out pleasantly after all, has it not?"

"Yes, indeed, mother, though I came pretty near to spoiling it too. Was it not kind of Aunt Sally to get the school-children together to meet us?"

"It was indeed," said Mr. Fletcher. "I never experienced a pleasanter surprise in my life."

"How odd she is!" continued Ethel. "She never does any thing like any one else. I don't mean ever to get out of patience with her again, if I can help it."

"A good resolution, as regards her or any one else," said Mrs. Fletcher, smiling. "Now go to bed, and don't keep awake to read your new books."

It was rather hard for Ethel to put the new books aside on Monday morning, and sit down to the pictures, which had now become an old story, and especially difficult to say "no," when Abby, with a whole sleigh-load of the school-girls, came for her to take a ride. But the chair was before her to remind her of her debt, and Ethel persevered so steadily, that by ten o'clock on Wednesday morning they were all done and carried home.

Mr. Beckford praised her punctuality, and begged leave to present her with a new book in token of his regard.

So Ethel returned home, feeling as though the holidays were going to be as happy as any she had ever spent.

Pleasant indeed they were, though destined to have rather a sorrowful termination. As the family were sitting at the breakfast table the morning after New Year's day, a hasty ring was heard at the door, and a messenger announced the sudden death of Mrs. Sally Bertie. She had not rung her bell at the usual time, and her maid going to her room, found her dead in her bed. She must have expired some hours before, as she was quite cold, and her features and limbs were composed, as though she had passed away in her sleep.