Part 4

Perhaps Mr. Mortimer thought of it too, for he said: "Is that all, Miss Ethel? We have some very nice preserved ginger, such as your mother likes: shall I send a jar of it?"

"No, thank you," said Ethel blushing. "We cannot afford such things now," she added quite bravely.

"The times are hard, really quite hard," remarked polite Mr. Mortimer. "We do not sell nearly so much of such goods as we did last year. Won't you take an orange, Miss Ethel? I know you are fond of oranges."

Ethel had known good Mr. Mortimer ever since she could run alone, so she had no hesitation about choosing an orange from the basket that he handed her.

As soon as she left the shop, he called to the porter: "David, you carry these things directly up to Mrs. Fletcher, and carry a jar of that ginger. Say Mr. Mortimer sends it with his respects to Mrs. Fletcher. Come, look alive, will you?"

Meantime Ethel proceeded on her way, and having finished all her errands, she turned towards the shop, where she had seen the chairs, only stopping now and then to ask the price of some article at a door or window. It was a very large establishment where the chairs were kept, and there was a fine assortment of them. The little stained willow chairs which had at first pleased her so much, looked cheap and ordinary by the side of the carved rosewood, mahogany, and walnut; and chintz covers were hardly to be thought of while looking at brocatelle and velvet.

She looked from one to another, and finally found one which exactly resembled her mother's. She inquired the price.

"That is a second-hand chair, Miss," replied the shopman. "It was originally very expensive, but it has been used some, and I will let you have it for three dollars."

Second-hand! Then perhaps it was the very same chair. She turned it up to look at the bottom, and there, sure enough, was her mother's name—Amber Fletcher—written by her father's own hand.

"How glad and surprised she would be to have it back again," she thought. "She said she missed it more than any other piece of furniture in the house."

Her hand was already in her pocket, when the shopman was called into the next room, and he excused himself, promising to return in a few minutes.

Left alone, Ethel walked round the chair, viewing it first in one light, and then in another, till she actually made up her mind to spend for it the gold piece, which, after all, was not hers to spend.

Priding herself upon her own and her father's honesty, she was just about to do a mean and dishonest thing, when she was saved from it by an accident. An accident! Let us rather say a Providence, for though Ethel had come out without praying for herself, that she might not be led into temptation, yet a devout father and mother had prayed for her, and who can doubt that their prayers were answered?

The shopman had gone into the next room, as we remarked, to attend to other customers, and Ethel was roused from her meditations by hearing him say, "Yes, ma'am, it is second-hand, but just as good as new. It was made to Mr. Fletcher's order, and he was universally allowed to have the best taste in furniture of any gentleman in town."

"Did the Fletchers sell their furniture? I was not aware of that," said the lady, apparently speaking to a companion. "I suppose it was an honest failure, then?"

"Oh, perfectly so, perfectly so," said another voice, in which Ethel at once recognized Mr. Beckford's measured tones. "Mr. Fletcher is an honorable man—most honorable—a credit to the Church and the State; and from what I have lately seen of his daughter, I should judge he was bringing up his children to tread in his steps. An excellent child, ma'am—an excellent child."

Ethel's face crimsoned till it was of a deeper hue than any of the chairs. Here was Mr. Beckford speaking of her in the warmest terms of praise, at the very time when she was about to cheat him. Yes, cheat was the word. Ethel now saw, through all her own sophistry, the true nature of the act she had been meditating. She looked at the little chair again, but it was with very different feelings.

"I learned my Catechism sitting on a stool by the side of that chair," she thought; "and how many times mother has heard me say my prayers when she was sitting in it! Oh, how could I ever think of doing such a mean, wicked thing! It would be as bad as what father explained to us last Sunday—robbery for burnt sacrifice. And I have been thinking myself so much better than poor dear Abby, just because she ran in debt for some things, while I was going to get what I wanted by downright stealing."

All these reflections passed through Ethel's mind while Mr. Beckford and his friend were concluding their bargains in the outer room. As they turned to go out, Ethel had made up her mind what to do.

"Mr. Beckford," said she, going to the door, "will you please to come here?"

Mr. Beckford did as she desired.

"You paid me too much money last night," she continued, hastily producing her piece, as though afraid her courage might fail. "You gave me this quarter-eagle instead of a quarter of a dollar, and I did not see it till I got home."

She placed the coin in his hand, feeling as much relieved as though she had dropped a burden of a hundred pounds.

"Oh yes," said Mr. Beckford, putting the gold piece in his pocket and producing the proper change, "I missed it last evening, and intended to call in the course of the day and inquire about it, for I felt quite sure I must have paid it to you."

Ethel felt as though a pit of destruction had yawned at her feet and closed again. "Oh, if he had come after it and I had spent it," said she to herself, "what would have become of me?"

"I am much obliged to you for saving me the walk, however," Mr. Beckford continued. "What do you see here that pleases you?"

"Oh, this chair, sir," answered Ethel, blushing more and more, but feeling immensely relieved in the midst of her shame; "it used to be my mother's, and I was wishing I could buy it back, but I shall not have money enough to do that and get the other things that I want."

Mr. Beckford was slow of speech, but quick of sight and apprehension; he had wondered at Ethel's confusion, and now at once the whole matter came to his mind.

"Well, well, my dear young lady," he said soothingly, "times will change. A man of your father's integrity cannot but do well. 'I have been young and now am old, yet saw I never the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.'" He considered a little, and then asked—"How much money have you?"

"I have four dollars and a half, sir; but then I want to buy other presents, and some gloves for myself, so I must get something else for mother."

"Would you be willing to do some work in holiday time—say on Christmas day, for instance," asked Mr. Beckford, "supposing that I should pay you in advance?"

"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.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

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!"

[Illustration: "It is, indeed, my own dear little chair; but where did it come from? I never expected to see it again." CHRISTMAS EARNINGS.]

"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.