Part 2

"But how did the failure of others affect father?" asked Ethel. "I don't understand."

"Think a little, and perhaps you will," replied her mother.

"I see," exclaimed Ethel, after some consideration. "Father sold goods to the merchants, and depended upon the money he got from them, to pay for his materials and his work. Then if the merchants did not pay him, of course he could not pay the people that he owed, and that made him fail."

"Quite right," said Mrs. Fletcher. "I see you are learning to think. There is another way yet of failing. A man may buy a great quantity of some kind of property—bank stock or railroad stock, for instance—expecting it to rise so much in value that he will be able to sell it for a great deal more than he gave. Then if it goes down instead of rising, what becomes of him?"

"He loses his money," said Ethel.

"Yes, not only what he has spent, but what he expected to make. This is called speculation, and has ruined more people than I can tell you. This was just what Mr. Coles did. Now if the speculator treats the money he intended to make as though it were already in his pocket, and runs deeper and deeper into debt on the strength of it, you can easily see what disastrous consequences must follow, not only to himself, but to every one who has trusted him."

"Of course," said Ethel, "they would lose their money. But you have not yet told me what makes the difference."

"I am just coming to that. When your father found that he was not going to meet his obligations, as it is called—that is, to pay what he owed for goods and other things—he informed his creditors of it. He told them how much property he had, and that he should put it into the hands of assignees—gentlemen who would manage the matter and divide the property among the creditors, so that each might have an equal proportion. That was the reason that the house and all the things were sold, in order that the money might go in with the rest of the property to meet the debts. But after all there was only enough to pay about seventy cents on the dollar, as it is called—that is, if your father owed a man a dollar, he could only pay him seventy cents."

"That seems a pity, after selling all the things," said Ethel. "What did the creditors do then?"

"They very generously and kindly signed a paper, saying that they were satisfied that your father had done all in his power to satisfy them, and that they would be contented with what he had paid. This paper was called a release."

"That was very good of them," said Ethel, brightening up. "So father does not owe any thing now?"

"Think a little, Ethel. Does he not owe the other thirty cents? Suppose you were one of the creditors who had signed the release. Would you not feel that you ought to be paid, if the debtor ever became able to do so? And if you were the debtor, would you not feel that you were all the more bound by the kindness of your creditors to pay them the rest of the debt if you possibly could, even though the law did not compel you to do so?"

"I should, to be sure," admitted Ethel.

"Well, that is just what your father and myself are trying to do. I had a little property left me by my father—about a thousand a year—and we are endeavoring to live upon your father's salary, that this money may be left to accumulate till it becomes enough to pay the debt.

"Now for the other side. Mr. Coles, as I told you, got into debt by speculation, and failed about the time that your father did. But when the creditors came to look into the matter, it seemed that he had so disposed his property that it did not appear to belong to him at all, but to his wife and her brothers. So their house and furniture could not be sold as ours was, and the creditors got nothing at all. But Mr. Coles enjoys the use of the property just as he did before, though he can hardly go into the street without meeting some one that he owes; while your father, if he sees one of his creditors, can at least think—'I have done, and am doing all I can to satisfy you.' Now which would you rather be—Mr. Coles in his large house, or your father in this small one?"

"I would rather be father, a thousand times," said Ethel with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes; "even if I never made a present or had one to the end of my days. It is just as mean as stealing. I should not dare to look any one in the face. I wonder if Abby knows any thing about it? I guess if she did, she would not feel quite so much pride in her spending money and her new frocks."

"No doubt she is entirely ignorant of it," said Mrs. Fletcher, "and it would be the height of cruelty to tell her. Remember, Ethel, I have not told you this to make you feel as though you were a great deal better than your neighbors, but only that you may see the reasonableness of the strict economy we practise, and why we cannot afford ourselves the luxury of giving presents."

"I see it now, mother, and I don't care any thing about presents; but then the poor school-children. How much money would it take for the tree?"

"Ten dollars at the very least," replied her mother. "It has usually cost much more."

"And could not we spare as much as that, if we children did not have any presents at all?"

"No, my dear, it is not to be thought of," replied her mother kindly, but decidedly. "We must have regard to appearances, sometimes, as well as to reality; and your father's creditors might well think it strange for him to be making parties for school-children in his present circumstances. Now are we quite at the bottom of the trouble?"

"Not quite, mother," said Ethel. "I was vexed at something that happened at Aunt Sally Bertie's." She then recounted the circumstances, saying in conclusion: "I know it was wrong to speak so to her, but I tried to make up for it by eating the cake she gave me, though I felt all the time as though it would choke me."

Mrs. Fletcher could not help smiling at the idea of Ethel's making amends for her hasty speech by the sacrifice of eating a piece of her aunt's plum-cake, but she answered quite seriously: "I am glad that you did not quarrel with Aunt Sally, my dear. She was provoking, no doubt, but you must remember that she is a very old woman, and have patience. Try to think not of her disagreeable speeches, but of the many kind things she does for us all. You will never be sorry after she is dead and gone, that you bore with her little ways."

"I don't mind what she says to me," said Ethel; "but I cannot bear to have her talk so about father. Whenever she says any thing particularly vexatious, she always makes it an excuse that she says just what she thinks, or that she is plain-hearted. Do you think that is any excuse, mother?"

"No, my dear, not at all. In the first place, we have no right to think unkind thoughts, and if we think them, the least we can do is to keep them to ourselves, that they may not annoy others. You may observe, too, that those people who pride themselves on being plain spoken, are the last to bear any plain speaking from others."

"I know that," said Ethel. "Aunt Sally will hardly bear a word from any one, though she did not seem to be angry with me this afternoon. She called me Miss Fire-cracker, but she said she liked my spirit."

"It is not very easy to calculate what she will say or do at any time," said Mrs. Fletcher. "Now, if you please, my dear, you may set the table for tea. I am going to make some of those little warm biscuits you like so much."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Second.

ETHEL'S mind was restored to its equanimity by this conversation with her mother. But it suffered something of a relapse, when Abby called next day according to promise, for her cousin to go out shopping, and she was obliged to say that she had no money, and was not to have any.

"It is too bad," said Abby, sympathizing with her cousin's disappointment. "I am glad we are not poor. I should not like to work as you do, and to go without every thing that I wanted."

Ethel felt a little vexed at this speech and answered hastily: "I would rather be as poor as we are, Abby, and wash dishes to the end of my days, than to be as rich as some folks and to be dishonest."

"Of course!" rejoined Abby, who fortunately was not very apt at taking a hint. "But, Ethel, all rich people are not dishonest."

"No, of course not," said Ethel, remembering her mother's caution, and blushing to think how near she had come to revealing a secret. "But I have no money, Abby, and I cannot get any, that is the long and the short of it."

"You might go with me, at any rate, and help me pick out my things," urged Abby. "Come do, Ethel, you know I always like your taste better than mine."

Ethel hesitated. She did not feel as though it would be very pleasant going round to the shops where she was accustomed to deal, and purchasing nothing, while her cousin was spending her money freely; but on the other hand she did not wish to disoblige Abby, of whom she was really very fond, notwithstanding a jar now and then. Finally she resolved to consult her mother.

"I think you had better go, my dear," said Mrs. Fletcher. "Abby is always ready to do any thing for you, and you may as well learn first as last to say boldly, 'I cannot afford it.' That little lesson once learned, will save you worlds of trouble."

With all her resolution, fortified by the recollection of the cause of her father's poverty, Ethel did not find the day a very pleasant one. Abby's ten dollars seemed to buy more and prettier things than any ten dollars had ever done before, and when it was gone, she did not scruple to run into debt for several articles she wanted to complete her gifts.

To Ethel's remonstrances, she answered gayly: "Oh, my father won't care. He don't mind our making a bill now and then."

"No wonder, since he never means to pay them," thought Ethel.

She had always been a little in the habit of looking down upon her cousin in her secret soul, and the feeling had grown a good many degrees stronger before they parted. She walked home, feeling considerably uplifted in her own esteem, as though it were a great merit in herself that her father was an honest man, while, at the same time, she could not help wishing that honesty had been made rather more compatible with convenience.

As Ethel turned towards home, she ran against a girl of her own age, who was coming round the corner, walking very fast. "Why, Bessy, what makes you in such a hurry?" she exclaimed, recognizing a favorite schoolmate. "You are fairly out of breath."

"O Ethel, I beg your pardon," replied Bessy, "but I was in such a hurry to get home, because Rose is waiting for me. Do come in for a minute, and see what we are doing. It is such pretty work!"

Ethel had not quite got over the habit of feeling for her little watch, and she now put her hand to the place where she had worn it, to see if she had any time to spare. She withdrew it with a sigh, remembering that the watch was hers no longer, and glancing at the church clock not far off, saw that she had nearly an hour to spare.

"Have you been buying things for Christmas, Bessy?" she asked, as she quickened her step to keep pace with those of her companion.

"Yes, that is, not exactly, but things to get things with. I will show you."

Accordingly, on arriving at the house of Mr. Beckford, she ushered Ethel into the back parlor, where at a table covered with pictures and painting materials, sat Rosa Beckford, busily engaged in coloring prints in water-colors.

"How quick you have been!" she said to her sister, after she had kissed Ethel.

"Yes, I almost ran. Is it not pretty work, Ethel?"

"Very pretty, and how nicely you do it!" said Ethel, examining the colored prints. "But what is it for?"

"I will tell you all about it," replied Bessy, seating herself at the table, after she had drawn up a chair for Ethel.

"You know, my uncle publishes a great many children's books with colored pictures. He has always employed a woman to paint them; but she is dead now, and he did not know what to do at first; but finally he asked us if we did not want to earn some Christmas money. He brought two or three for us to learn on, and showed us how, and we have worked upon them all our spare time this week. But there are a great many more than we shall be able to finish, and he wants to find some one else to take part of them. You see it does not answer to employ every one, because some would be careless and spoil them."

While Bessy was speaking, there flashed across Ethel's mind the remark her mother had made the night before: "If you want any Christmas money, you must earn it."

"Do you think your uncle would let me try some of them?" she asked. "I want to earn some money very much."

"If you could do it nicely—" said Bessy doubtfully.

"Of course she could," interrupted Rosa. "She knows more about painting than either of us. Don't you remember that she took lessons last summer?"

"Of course," assented Bessy, "I did not think of that. I am pretty sure he would, Ethel; but you can ask him, for he will be here presently."

"Let Ethel try on one of these easy ones," said Rosa, "and then she can show it to uncle when he comes."

Ethel drew off her gloves and set herself about the task with much interest. She was accustomed to the use of water-colors, and her work proceeded rapidly, so that when warned by the clock that it was time for her to hasten home, she had finished a very pretty picture. She did not like to stay longer, knowing that her mother would need her help, so she left her work with the girls, who promised to show it to their uncle when he came in.

Ethel walked rapidly homeward, building various castles in the air, and anxious to impart her scheme to her mother.

When she came in sight of the house, she saw to her vexation a carriage standing at the door.

"That is always the way," she said to herself. "I don't see why people must always come at the wrong time."

She felt a little better satisfied when, upon drawing nearer, she perceived that the carriage which had excited her displeasure was her Uncle George's rockaway. Uncle George lived in the country, and was a great favorite with the children, partly, perhaps, because his long pockets were inexhaustible store-houses of apples, pears, and chestnuts.

As she entered the house, she heard his round hearty voice saying to her mother: "I thought I would bring the turkey along, because, though not large, it is a very nice young one."

"It is quite large enough, I assure you, brother, and I am very much obliged to you," replied Mrs. Fletcher. "I only wish we had some way of repaying your kindness."

"Fiddle de dee!" said Uncle George. "Don't be talking about obligations, sister-in-law. You have done more for us than we shall ever do for you. I am going to send the young ones some apples and nuts before Christmas, and as soon as good sleighing comes, I shall come in and carry you all out to spend the day."

Uncle George stayed to dinner, but Ethel did not enjoy his visit as much as usual, for she was in a great hurry to talk to her mother about her scheme for making money. But just as she had shut the door upon Uncle George, and was returning to the dining room full of her secret, the bell rang again.

"What a bother!" said Ethel mentally, as she turned once more to the door.

Her heart beat fast when she opened it, for there stood Mr. Beckford himself, with a roll in his hand, which Ethel knew at once to be the picture she had painted. To her surprise and disappointment, however, he said nothing to her upon the subject, but asked to see her mother. Could he be displeased at what she had done? We shall see.

Mr. Beckford was a tall thin man, slow of speech, and so wonderfully cautious that he never said or did any thing, without looking at both sides of it a great many times over. Consequently, Mrs. Fletcher had time to form more than one conjecture as to what could have brought the publisher to see her, before he finally arrived at saying—

"Your little daughter, madam, has been talking to my nieces with regard to executing some work for me, and they have shown me a specimen of her capacity."

Here Mr. Beckford made a full stop, and Mrs. Fletcher, much surprised, wondered what was to be coming next.

"I am much pleased with the specimen of her work which I hold in my hand," he resumed, after a pause of a minute; "and with your approval should be glad to give her full employment for a week or two."

Mrs. Fletcher was not entirely without false pride more than other people, and her face flushed a little.

But she had time to conquer the feeling, while Mr. Beckford slowly rolled up the paper and continued:

"I would not of course make any bargain with her without the approval of her parents."

"I will speak to my daughter, if you please," said Mrs. Fletcher.

And she went into the kitchen where sat Ethel, looking very anxious, and wondering what the conference could be about.

To her mother's question, she related what had taken place, adding: "It is such pretty work, mother, and I should like to earn some money so much. I hope you will not have any objection."

"Are you willing to have it known that you work for money, Ethel? Suppose that Abby or some other schoolmate should come in, and find you engaged in this business?"

"They need not know that I work for money," said Ethel, a little taken aback by this consideration.

Mrs. Fletcher shook her head. "That will never do, my daughter. You must not do any thing that you are ashamed of having people know. It leads to evils and mortifications without end."

"Would you be mortified to have them know it, mother?" asked Ethel.

"No, my dear. There is nothing disgraceful in earning money when we stand in need of it."

"Then I am sure I don't care," said Ethel. "I would rather earn money than run in debt as Abby does, for every little thing she wants."

"Don't be always drawing comparisons between yourself and Abby, Ethel," said her mother. "I would rather see you more humble in your own eyes. 'Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.'"

"But about the pictures," said Ethel, too much occupied with her scheme to give much heed to her mother's reproof, "Will you tell Mr. Beckford that you are willing?"

"I must consult your father, my dear. I shall make no objections if he has none."

Ethel looked a little disappointed. She wanted the bargain closed at once, and was very much afraid Mr. Beckford would employ some one else. But she knew there was no appeal from her mother's decision, and summoned what patience she could to await her father's return.

To her great joy, Mr. Fletcher heartily approved of the scheme.

"You will know something of the value of money if you earn it yourself," he said, "and you never will, till you do. I am going down town this evening, and will call at Mr. Beckford's store, and talk the matter over with him. You can go with me, if you like."

Of course Ethel wished to do so. She passed without a pang the lighted and glittering shops, which had caused her so much discomfort in the morning, though she would have liked to stop before some of the lighted windows, and speculate on what she should buy with her money.

Her father laughingly compared her to the milkmaid who counted her chickens before they were hatched.

"I hope I shall not be as unlucky as she was," said Ethel, laughing in her turn, and blushing a little. "But here we are at Mr. Beckford's. I do hope he is in!"

Mr. Beckford was in, and invited them into his private office. Ethel thought him the slowest man she had ever seen in her life, and wondered what was the use of considering so long before every word. But as all things come to an end, so did Mr. Beckford's cogitations, and the bargain was concluded.

The pictures were of two sorts, one of which required to be colored very delicately, while the others did not need so much care. For the first she was to have ten cents apiece, and for the others five cents and three cents, according to the amount of work upon them; and she was to supply her own colors.

Very happy she was when she departed with her large roll of prints securely tied in brown paper. She thought her father's marketing had never lasted so long, even when he had bought four times as much, and she could hardly spend time to admire her favorite spectacle of the lighted picture-dealer's window, so anxious was she to get home with her treasures.

The moment she had disposed of her bonnet and cloak, she got out her paint-box and set to work on one of the cheaper prints, and she had finished that and part of another, before her mother announced that it was past nine o'clock, and quite time for her to go to bed.

"Just let me finish this old woman's red petticoat, mother," she pleaded. "I do so much want to see how she will look."

"No, my dear! As soon as you have finished that, you will want to do something else just as much. Remember morrow is Sunday, and we have our necessary work to do before Church, so it will not answer to be late in the morning."