What Two Children Did by Charlotte E. Chittenden

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"The saints be praised," said Mrs. Flaharty, fanning herself with her
apron.

Then Ethelwyn came forward. "This is my poem," she said, bowing to the
audience.

"A little girl lived way down East,
She rose and rose, like bread with yeast,
She rose above the tallest people,
And far above the highest steeple.
She kept right on till by and by
She took a peek into the sky--"

"Oh, what did she see?" asked Elizabeth, interested at once.

"That you can guess," replied the poet with dignity. "Mother says she
likes poems and pictures that you can put something into from your own
something or other, I forget what--you let folks guess about it."

"My sister is smart," complacently remarked Elizabeth to Nan, who had
just come over.

"So am I, then," said Nan, not to be outdone. "I can make up beautiful
poems."

"Let's hear one."

So Nan came forward, bowed profoundly and began:

"I have a little kitty,
Who is so very pretty,
Tho' growing large and fat,
I fear she'll be a cat.
One day, my sakes, she saw a dog,
Her tail swelled up just like a log;
He barked, she spit,
She does not love dogs, not a bit."

"What color is she?" asked Ethelwyn.

"That is left for your guessing part," said Nan promptly.

Mrs. Flaharty now reluctantly arose.

"It's a trate to hear ye," she said, "but I mus' git troo, and go home.
There's a spindlin' lad named Dick nex' door but wan to where I live,
that can walk only wid a crutch an' not able to do that lately. He'd be
cheered entoirely wid your rhymes an' tales."

"O, maybe mother'll take us to see him this afternoon. We'll ask her.
She's intending to go down that way herself, I know, and she'll be so
good to Dick; she just can't help it," said Ethelwyn, and at once they
dashed off to see, leaving the saucepan crown rolling down the yard, and
their gingham aprons lying on the steps.

_CHAPTER VI_
_A Plan_

It's nice to get gifts,
But better to give:
For giving leaves always a glow
That warms up a part
In every heart;
The joy of it never can go.

There was woe in Ethelwyn's heart and pain in her throat, and the woe
was on account of the pain; for Elizabeth and her mother had gone to
town to arrange things for Dick, who was to be taken to the hospital,
where he was to undergo an operation that would, in all probability cure
him. And now Ethelwyn, ever desirous of being at the head and front of
things, had taken this wretched cold and could not go.

Very shortly after Mrs. Flaharty had told them about Dick, their mother
had taken them to see him. His home was a long way from their cottage,
where the fisher people lived, and the sights and smells in the hot
summer air were hard to bear even for those who were well. Poor little
Dick, lying day after day on his hard bed, with no care except what the
kind-hearted washerwoman could give him, felt that life was an ill thing
at best, and he was fast hastening out of it, with the assistance of ill
nutrition and bad ventilation. Dick's own mother and father were dead,
and his stepmother, a rough-looking creature, when she remembered him at
all, looked upon him as a useless encumbrance, and by her neglect was
making him very unhappy.

Ethelwyn and Elizabeth, quite unused to suffering of this sort, sat
soberly by, during their first visit, and watched their mother bending
tenderly over the feeble little invalid, and ministering to his needs.

In a week's time they had changed things marvelously. The stepmother
had, for a sum that meant a great deal to her, relinquished all claim
upon Dick, so he was placed in the care of a sewing woman, who, by
reason of rheumatism in her fingers, could not sew any more; and she
filled the starving sore spot in her childless heart with a loving
devotion to Dick. The sum paid her for this care kept them both in
comfort, and Dick, with flowers and birds about him, and with wholesome,
dainty food, gradually lost his gaunt, hunted look and began to take a
fresh hold of life.

The doctor attending him gave it as his opinion that in one of the city
hospitals the little fellow might be cured, and it was to see about this
that Elizabeth and her mother had gone to town.

The night before they were all in their sitting-room, talking it over.
Aunty Stevens, who was greatly interested, had brought her knitting and
joined them.

"It would be a lovely work," said Mrs. Rayburn, thoughtfully looking at
the fire, "to make a home for Dick and many such poor little weaklings,
somewhere up on these heights where, with fresh air and good,
well-cooked food, they could have a fighting chance for life."

"There's our money," said Ethelwyn, cuddling her hand in her mother's.
"Let's make one with it."

"Would you like that?"

"Yes, indeed we should," they answered in a breath.

"But it would take a great deal of money, and instead of being very rich
when you grow up, and being able to travel everywhere and have beautiful
clothing and jewels, you might have to give up many things of that
sort."

"But," said Elizabeth, climbing up into her mother's lap, "isn't doing
things for poor children like Dick, better than that?"

"There's no doubt about it," said their mother, her eyes shining as she
kissed the tops of the two round heads now cuddled on her shoulders, in
what Beth called her "arm cuddles."

"Well, we don't mind then, do we, sister?"

"No indeed," said sister promptly, kicking her foot out towards the
fire. "Dresses are a bother, and always getting torn, and traveling
makes you very tired, only the luncheon's nice. But I'd lots rather
build a home."

"Let's see," said mother, "if you are as ready to give up something now.
Elizabeth's birthday is next week and Ethelwyn's next month. I had
thought we might take a short yachting trip,--all of us, Nan, Aunty
Stevens--"

"O, mother," they cried, turning around to hug her.

"Then there is a doll in town that can walk and talk. Beth, deary, you
choke me so I can't talk;--and a camera for sister. Would you mind
giving up these things to help pay the hospital expenses, or to buy a
wheel chair or some comfort for Dick?"

Down went the heads again, and dead silence reigned except for the
crackling of the fire and the clicking of Aunty Stevens' needles.

"May we go away and think it over?" said Ethelwyn soberly.

"Yes."

So they slid down and disappeared to think it out alone, as they always
did when obliged to settle questions for themselves. Ethelwyn went
outdoors, and crawled into the hammock on the porch. The wind blew
mistily from the sea and was heavy with dampness and cold, but the child
paid no attention to that; she was so busy thinking. Surely, she
thought, there was money enough for Dick and the others without giving
up her camera and the sea trip. She had longed for a camera all summer.
Nan had the use of her mother's and had taken their pictures in all
places and positions, and she did so wish for one. But then, there was
poor Dick, how uncomfortable he had looked.

Elizabeth, meantime, went to the bedside of her beloved doll family.
They were lying serene and placid, exactly as she had placed and tucked
them in at bedtime, with her own motherly hand, and the memory of Dick
lying racked with pain on the comfortless bed where she had first seen
him, almost decided her at once. But a doll that could walk and talk,
though, would be lovely.

"But then, darlings," she said, after a little, "you might think I would
love her better than you, and you are such dears, you don't deserve
that."

So Beth kissed them all with fervor, her mind quite made up.

While they were away, Aunty Stevens said, "Isn't that a pretty hard
test?"

The children's mother shook her head thoughtfully at the dancing fire.

"I hope not," she said. "I don't wish them to do things now that they
will repent of afterwards. But it seems to me that if they are trained
now to be unselfish, they will always be so. Don't you think, dear Mrs.
Stevens, that the whole trouble with the world is its selfishness?"

"No doubt at all about it," said the older woman, nodding emphatically
over her flying needles.

"Then if the world is to be made better, and rid of this, which lies at
the bottom of all the crime, sin and unhappiness, the younger ones of us
will have to be taught to sacrifice, at least some luxuries, to help
give less fortunate ones the necessities of life," said Mrs. Rayburn,
getting interested, and talking fast and earnestly.

"How I hate the expression 'Look out for number one,' It's such teaching
as this, that makes human beings so forgetful of others," she went on
after a little pause, "and the modern socialist only seems to be trying
to exchange one set of selfish, grasping rules for another of the same
sort. So the world will go on, until the laws are again based on the
teaching of our Lord, and Christian socialism will prevail."

"Yes, you are quite right, but what are you among so many?" asked Aunty
Stevens, smiling across at her friend.

Mrs. Rayburn's cheeks flushed. "Yes, I know," she said. "I suppose it
looks as though I alone were trying to reform the world; but I am not. I
am only one little atom trying to teach still smaller atoms that they
must do their share."

"Was it not in 'Bleak House' that that exceedingly unpleasant personage
used to give away her children's pocket money? And the black looks she
received from them when she was not looking, were something dreadful."

"Well," said Mrs. Rayburn, laughing, "I hope you don't think the cases
are parallel."

"No indeed, I don't. I was trying to say, I think you are right because
you go at it in the right way, and let them choose. Then, because they
love and have perfect confidence in you, they will be pretty likely to
choose the right way."

"People so often say, 'Let children have a good time,' but interpreted,
from their point of view, a good time, means a selfish time. That is
selfish enjoyment, but it might be good occasionally to put to the test
the truth that it is more blessed to give than to receive."

Elizabeth now came in with her baby doll in her arms. She soberly
climbed up again into the blessed fold of her mother's arms.

"I'd just as lief Dick would have it as not, momsey, for I've my heart
chock full of dolls now, and it will be so good to have Dick and others
well and comfyble."

Ethelwyn came a moment later.

"It's all right, mother," she said, also climbing up to her place. "I
can make pictures with a pencil more easily than I can bear to think
that Dick needs my camera money, I'll be glad to do it, mother."

But Ethelwyn's voice was hoarse, and the next morning she was not well
enough to go to town.

_CHAPTER VII_
_The Secret_

Such fun to have a secret!
To tell one too is fun.
But then there is no secret
That's known to more than one.

Ethelwyn had intended to have a most unhappy day, so after her mother
and Beth went, she lay face down in the hammock with a very damp ball of
a handkerchief squeezed up tightly against her eyes. But by and by she
heard Aunty Stevens calling her. "Here I am," she answered, at once
sitting up.

"Do you feel well enough to help me make some apple pies?" Ethelwyn
rolled out of the hammock, and ran into the kitchen in a trice.

"O if you only knew how I love to cook, Aunty Stevens," she cried. "And
nobody will hardly ever let me. I can make the bestest cookies if any
one else just makes the dough. So if you don't feel just prezactly well,
you can sit in the rocking-chair, and I will do it all."

"Thank you, deary, but I'm feeling pretty well to-day, so we will work
together. Let me tie this apron around you."

Then Aunty Stevens brought out the dearest little moulding-board and
rolling-pin, and drew out of a corner a small table.

"O isn't everything about this just too cunning? Did these used to be
Miss Dorothy's?" said Ethelwyn in a rapture, Mrs. Stevens nodded.

"Here's your dough, dear. Now roll it out to fit this little plate."

This took time, for it persisted in rolling out long and slim, and not
at all the shape of the plate, but at last it was fitted in.

"Now what comes?" said the little cook, lifting a red and floury face.

"A thick layer of these apples--no, just a layer of sugar and
flour--then the crust won't soak. Now the apples. Sugar them well. Put
any of these spices on that you wish."

"I like the taste of cinnamon, and spice-oil, but nutmegs are so cunning
to grate. I b'lieve I'll put 'em all in," said Ethelwyn, critically
studying the spice shakers.

"Now dot the apples over with butter, a dash of cold water, and a
sprinkle of flour. Now roll out your top crust. Cut little slits for it
to breathe through; pinch the two crusts together, after you have wet
your finger and thumb in cold water. There! now it is ready to go in the
oven."

"O isn't it sweet?" said Ethelwyn. "Nobody can cook like you, Aunty
Stevens. Nobody. I think it's a great--great appomplishment."

"Thank you, dear. Now sit down, and when I have cleaned up things a
little, we'll go out on the west porch, and I am going to tell you
something. I have saved it for a secret for the little girl who couldn't
go to town to-day, but who gave up her birthday presents for the sake of
others."

"O goody," said Ethelwyn, beaming with joy. "Next to cooking, I love to
hear secrets. And would you mind telling me a thing or two, I have been
thinking about lately? I have been meaning to ask mother about it. You
know in church we say we believe in the resurrection of the body. Well,
what do you s'pose," leaning forward impressively--"becomes of the
bodies the cannibals eat?"

"Well, Ethelwyn," said Mrs. Stevens with a gasp. "I suppose it's no
harder than to resurrect them from anywhere else."

"O yes, I should think so," said Ethelwyn earnestly, "because they'd get
dreadfully mixed up in themselves. But never mind. I suppose the Lord
can manage it."

Aunty Stevens and she then went out on the porch that faced the sea.

"O now I'm going to hear the secret," said Ethelwyn, sitting down on the
arm of the chair. "And my own pie is in the oven baking. Aren't we
having a good time, Aunty Stevens?"

"Yes, we are," said Aunty Stevens, hugging her. "And now I am going to
tell you. I'm afraid, deary, that I have been a very selfish woman. When
my husband died, I felt as though I had nothing to live for but Dorothy,
and when she too went away, I felt that there was no use in living. The
other evening when I heard you all planning for others, it occurred to
me to be ashamed, for here is this house, and I am all alone in it. Why
it's the very thing for a children's rest and training school."

"O Aunty Stevens," said Ethelwyn, getting up close to hug and kiss her.

"I can give the cottage, and I can manage it, and your money can fit it
up, and hire teachers."

"Yes, sir," said Ethelwyn, wildly excited. "You can teach them to make
pies like mine--"

"Yes, they can be taught to do all sorts of things about a house--"

"And Dick?"

"He shall be the first one."

"And his 'dopted aunt?"

"Yes, indeed. She can help in many ways."

"O this is lots better than going to town. I just wish I could tell
mother and Beth. Seems to me I can't possibly wait."

"I see Nan coming. Suppose 'Vada should take you two down to have your
luncheon on the beach."

"The pie, too?"

"Yes, and other things, if your throat is better, so you can go."

"O it's all well, cured with joy, I guess. Anyway mother said I might go
outdoors, you know. It was the noise and smoke in town she thought would
hurt me."

So they went off on their picnic, and did not come home until time to
dress for the train that was to bring back Mrs. Rayburn and Beth.

"Well Ethelwyn," said Aunty Stevens, meeting her, "how was the picnic?"

"The picnic as far as the pie, and other eating were concerned, was
perfect, but Nan was a trial sometimes," said Ethelwyn, sighing deeply;
"she said she couldn't possibly go home, 'count of her mother having a
headache as usual, and she was as cross as a bear. I had my hands pretty
full with that child. She does not give in to me like my sister--I will
say that." And Ethelwyn again sighed deeply, as she walked into the
house for her bath and toilet.

When the train stopped, and Elizabeth appeared, Ethelwyn and she rushed
at each other, and both began to talk at once.

"I've a secret that will make your eyes stick out--then I made a pie--"

"I saw the doctor that makes bone people. There was one for a sign at
the pittalhos where we were--"

"Hospital, child."

"And he was undressed, even from out of his skin; you could, see clear
through him. I was scared, because I thought that the doctor would make
mother and me into one, but he was nice and said he'd cure Dick. We saw
his bed all white--"

"Wait till you know the secret. I saved you a piece of pie--Nan wanted
it--"

"I rode up in an alligator--"

"Elevator."

"And a man at the pittalhos said, 'where did I get those dimple holes,'
and I said prob'ly they wasn't fat enough to stuff it all--he laughed
though at that."

And so they chattered on until they reached home.

_CHAPTER VIII_
_The Reward_

To help the sorry, hungry poor,
Or ease a burdened one,
Begins to bring the answer, when
We pray "Thy Kingdom come."

It all unfolded like a beautiful flower, and every one was interested in
getting ready the Children's Rest and Summer Training School, which was
to be the name of the cottage. In the midst of it all, Mrs. Stevens one
day received from Japan a long and happy letter from Dorothy and her
husband; and a mysterious box, which was smuggled away for the birthday,
came for the children.

Dick was getting better every minute, and was looking forward with eager
delight to the time when he should go to the Rest, well and strong.

In the Rayburn sitting-room one evening, the children were looking over
a portfolio of photographs.

Aunty Stevens as usual was knitting, and laughing with them over the
pictures.

Ethelwyn was showing them, for she had seen them before.

"This is Beethoven," she announced, holding up one of the great masters.
"He isn't very pretty, but I s'pose he made up in being clever."

"He is sort of kind-looking," said Beth, who always liked to say
something nice about every one.

"He is better than pretty," said Ethelwyn. "He's a very good musician.
He can play the piano."

"Where does he live?"

"Paradise, I think. Mebbe not, though."

"I'm sorry for his folks."

"This is Handel."

"What of?" and Nan got up to look.

"Not a dipper-handle, but a man of that name. He could play too."

"He looks kind of like a woman--look at his hair."

"That is his wig."

"Was he a bawheady?" and Beth got up to look more closely at the man who
was afflicted like her beloved doll.

"I s'pose he must have been. But it doesn't show like your doll's," said
Nan.

"This is a bust of Diana."

"Where is she busted?"

"All but her head and shoulders."

"Who did it?"

"A man I guess. This is the 'Kiss of Judas.'"

"Oh, isn't Judas mean-looking?"

"Looks like a bug thief." This from Beth.

"Burglar, child," said Nan.

"Bug thief is what I meant," said Beth with dignity, for she didn't
propose to be corrected by Nan or sister. Then she walked over to her
mother. "Are you very old, mother?" she asked. "I've been meaning to
ask. Are you a hundred, or eleven, or is that your size shoe?"

"Elizabeth Rayburn!" said Ethelwyn, dropping the photographs and coming
over to her mother, followed by Nan. "Our mother isn't old at all!"

"No I know she isn't, only she must be toler'bly old, to know so much
goodness."

"I'm just old enough to love you," said their mother, laughing and
hugging them all three at once in a way she had.

"I've some money in the bank," said Nan presently. "I've been thinking
what I'd buy for the Rest, and I've 'bout decided on a feeble chair."

"Goodness me! I shall never sit in it, if it's feeble, Nan," said Aunty
Stevens, laughing.

"No, _for_ the feeble," corrected Nan. "I want my mother to give
something too; she has some money, and I believe if she would give it
for my brother's sake, she would feel better and wouldn't cry so much.
Perhaps she will."

"We are all going to church to-morrow, 'cause your father is going to
preach about the Rest,--pray over it too, and mother's going to sing the
offertory, two verses, if the sermon's too long, and three if it isn't.
You tell your father that, for singing is much more interesting than
preaching any day."

"Ethelwyn!"

"Why it is, mother."

"I'll tell father, but he is likely to go on a long time when he is once
started," said Nan.

"If I don't go to sleep, I'll be sure to wiggle," said Beth.

But they all went to sleep.

Ethelwyn sat in the choir seats close to her mother; while Elizabeth
sat below with Aunty Stevens. Nan sat quite near them and sweetly smiled
at Elizabeth.

"How do you feel?" she asked in a shrill whisper. "Wiggly? I told father
not to preach very long, but there is no telling. Mother has some gum
drops for me if I wiggle."

"Don't you think you will then?" asked Beth.

But Nan's mother stopped further disclosures by turning her daughter
around, and setting her down with emphasis on the other side of her.

Fortunately they all three fell asleep in the early part of the sermon
and did not wake up until Mrs. Rayburn began to sing. At the first note
Ethelwyn slipped down, and stood with her hand in her mother's. Then
Elizabeth eluded Aunty Stevens's vigilant eye, slipped out of the seat
and walked up and stood on the other side, her head raised looking into
her mother's face, and to their great delight the three verses were
sung.

_CHAPTER IX_
_Once a Year_

Birth days,
Earth days,
Seem very few;
Year days,
Dear days,
When life is new.

By constant and hard work, the house was ready for occupancy on
Ethelwyn's birthday.

Two or three days before it was finished, Nan's mother came over, the
melancholy look on her face somewhat lifted. She brought with her the
deed of the land adjoining the cottage and sloping down to the sea. This
land she at once undertook to have equipped for a playground with
swings, tennis courts, a ball ground and all the things that delight
young hearts.

"It is for Philip," she said simply. "I have put his money into it, and
perhaps, by looking a little after homeless, suffering children, I can
forget my own heartache."

"You have chosen the very best way to do so," said Mrs. Rayburn.

Nan's "feeble" chair came the night before the opening, and all three of
the children christened it, by getting in, and wheeling it over the
shining floors at a high rate of speed, thereby proving it to be
anything but feeble.

The morning train brought a bevy of pale-faced, joyless-looking waifs.

At first they were stiff and shy, but under the vigorous leadership of
Nan, Ethelwyn, and Beth, they were soon organized into a Rough Riders
Company, and slid down the banisters, and shot out into the playground
with shrill yells of delight.

Dick was general, for he was not yet strong enough to run, so he sat in
his wheel-chair, and directed the others.

"We made him general, for generals never have anything to do but boss
others; they are never killed or anything," explained Nan.

A doctor from the hospital had sent down a wagon and goat team. There
were bicycles and a hobby-horse, and boats safely fastened; so they
rode, ran, trotted, or sat in the boats, all the happy day.

Two things were almost forgotten in all the excitement. One was, that
this was Ethelwyn's birthday, and the other, that they had to go away
the next day.

In the evening, however, there was a birthday cake, with eight candles
on it. Then they had the fun of opening the box from Japan.

There was a whole family of quaint dolls for Elizabeth, labeled by
Dorothy's husband, "Heathen dolls: never baptized."

"Nor never will be, by Nan," said Elizabeth, fondly hugging them to her,
and fixing guilty Nan with a steadfast glance.

There was the cunningest watch for Ethelwyn about the size of a quarter
of a dollar.

"It's a live one, though," said its owner proudly, shaking it and
holding it up to her ear.

There was a parasol and a sash for Nan, and three Japanese costumes
complete for the "three little maids from school." These, they at once
put on. Then they all went out on the lawn, and hung Japanese lanterns
in the trees, and Nan's father set off the fireworks, which were also in
the box; so the day closed in a blaze of glory.

At last they were in the sitting-room again.

The adopted children clean and dressed in white gowns were asleep in
their dainty iron beds, and dreaming of happiness past, and to come.

Nan, her father, and mother, and Mrs. Stevens came in for a last word.

"I shall put on mourning to-morrow," announced Nan in a melancholy
voice, "for I shall be a widow. What makes you go away, Mrs. Rayburn?"

"School and business call us to town, Nan, but we shall come every
summer, and spend Christmas here, too, I hope."

"This has been the best birthday I ever spent or ever expect to," said
Ethelwyn with the air of having spent at least fifty. "It is such a good
idea to give things away instead of always getting them, but if you can
do both, as happened this time, it covers everything."

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