BOOKS FOR “OUR GIRLS.”

THE MAIDENHOOD SERIES.

By Popular Authors.

SEVEN DAUGHTERS.

By Miss A. M. Douglas, Author of “In Trust,” “Stephen Dane,” “Claudia,” “Sydnie Adriance,” “Home Nook,” “Nelly Kennard’s Kingdom.” 12mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.

“A charming romance of Girlhood,” full of incident and humor. The “Seven Daughters” are characters which reappear in some of Miss Douglas’ later books. In this book they form a delightful group, hovering on the verge of Womanhood, with all the little perplexities of home life and love dreams as incidentals, making a fresh and attractive story.

OUR HELEN.

By Sophie May. 12mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.

“The story is a very attractive one, as free from the sensational and impossible as could be desired, and at the same time full of interest, and pervaded by the same bright, cheery sunshine that we find in the author’s earlier books. She is to be congratulated on the success of her essay in a new field of literature, to which she will be warmly welcomed by those who know and admire her ‘Prudy Books.’”—Graphic.

THE ASBURY TWINS.

By Sophie May, Author of “The Doctor’s Daughter,” “Our Helen,” &c. 12mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.

“Has the ring of genuine genius, and the sparkle of a gem of the first water. We read it one cloudy winter day, and it was as good as a Turkish bath, or a three hours’ soak in the sunshine.”—Cooperstown Republican.

THAT QUEER GIRL.

By Miss Virginia F. Townsend, Author of “Only Girls,” &c. 12mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.

Queer only in being unconventional, brave and frank, an “old-fashioned girl,” and very sweet and charming. As indicated in the title, is a little out of the common track, and the wooing and the winning are as queer as the heroine. The New Haven Register says: “Decidedly the best work which has appeared from the pen of Miss Townsend.”

RUNNING TO WASTE.

The Story of a Tomboy. By George M. Baker. 16mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.

“This book is one of the most entertaining we have read for a long time. It is well written, full of humor, and good humor, and it has not a dull or uninteresting page. It is lively and natural, and overflowing with the best New England character and traits. There is also a touch of pathos, which always accompanies humor, in the life and death of the tomboy’s mother.”—Newburyport Herald.

DAISY TRAVERS;

Or the Girls of Hive Hall. By Adelaide F. Samuels, Author of “Dick and Daisy Stories,” “Dick Travers Abroad,” &c. 16mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.

The story of Hive Hall is full of life and action, and told in the same happy style which made the earlier life of its heroine so attractive, and caused the Dick and Daisy books to become great favorites with the young. What was said of the younger books can, with equal truth, be said of Daisy grown up.

The above six books are furnished in a handsome box for $9.00, or sold separate, by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price.

LEE AND SHEPARD, Publishers,

Boston.

SEVEN DAUGHTERS.

Seven Daughters.

THE MAIDENHOOD SERIES.

Seven Daughters.
BY
AMANDA M. DOUGLAS,
Author of “In Trust,” “Home Nook,” “Katie’s Stories,” &c.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874,
By LEE AND SHEPARD,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

TO

KATE ISABELLE HIBBARD.

In thy book, oh Lord, are written all that do what they can, though they cannot do what they would.

St. Bernard.

Belvidere, N. J.

SEVEN DAUGHTERS.

CHAPTER I.

“‘How many? Seven in all,’ she said,

And wondering looked at me.”

Wordsworth.

“Another girl!”

“Seven of ’em!”

“What a pity!”

“The land sakes alive! Brother Endicott will have to buy calico by the piece for their gowns! He might get a little throwed off, or a spool of cotton extry. He, he! ho, ho! Well, children are a great risk! You don’t s’pose there’ll be a donation party right away—do you!”

“There is donation enough for the present, I think; and the sewing society will not be called upon.”

I liked that soft, silvery voice of Mrs. Whitcomb. It was just like her pretty light hair, beginning to be plentifully sprinkled with silver, and her clear peachy skin, that was just a little wrinkled. Her touch was so gentle, her motions so graceful and pleasing!

“I was only joking about it. They’ll miss her in the s’ciety—that’s what they will.”

Aunt Letty Perkins was—dreadful! a thorn in the flesh; a sort of bitter, puckery presence, as if you had just tasted an unripe persimmon.

“And it’ll be a puzzle to get husbands for ’em all. That’s the most unfort’net thing about girls.”

I suppose she meant us, not the society. My face was in a blaze of indignation. Then the door was shut, and I went on with my dusting.

It was a sunny April morning, and a pair of swallows were twittering about the windows.

Another girl and there were seven of us. Some one in the parish had said that Mrs. Endicott would always be sure of a Sunday school class, for she could fill it up with her own children. I couldn’t help wishing that there was just one boy among us, even if it were that wee bairnie they had been discussing. Boys are nice—in some ways.

I don’t know that I should have modified my opinion so suddenly but for two things. My eye happened to fall on my pretty pearl paper-cutter, that had been sent to me at Christmas. On one side of the handle was my monogram, done in scarlet and gold, on the other a little trail of blue forget-me-nots. A few weeks ago Harry Denham had been in spending the evening with us,—that means Fan and I, the elders. He and Fanny were having a little scrimmage, and, in a half tragic manner, he seized my pretty gift, pretending to arm himself with a dagger, and, somehow, in the melee, the poor thing snapped in twain.

Hal was very sorry. Then he had such great, beseeching brown eyes, that when he turned them so appealingly to me, I pitied him more than I did myself. It was very foolish, I know. I ought to have scolded. I should have said,—

“You great, rough, careless boy! now see what you have done! I wish you would never come here again!”

“I can get it mended, I know. There is some beautiful white cement used for such articles. O, Rose, I am so sorry! I’d get you another one, only it wouldn’t be it.”

“Never mind,” I said, meekly, with a wonderful tendency towards tears, though whether they would have been for Harry, or the knife, or myself, I could not exactly tell.

So he had it mended, and it looked as good as new. But little Frank Mortimer came to call with his mother, and brought it to grief again.

The other event that reconciled me to the advent of my little sister, whom I had not yet seen, was Tabby, who sprang up on the window sill, with her cunning salutation, like three or four n’s, strung together in a prolonged musical fashion, not quite a mew. I don’t want you to think the word back there was meant for a pun, for it wasn’t. I’ll tell you in the beginning that I am not a bit bright, or sharp, or funny. I have even heard jokes that I did not see the point of until the next day.

Tabby is just as beautiful as she can be. A Maltese cat, with a white nose and two white front paws. She is very cunning, and knows almost everything within the domain of cat knowledge. If there is one thing I do love better than another, in the way of pets, it is cats. A clean-faced, sleek cat, sitting on the hearth-rug before the grate, is enough to give the whole household a feeling of contentment. Then the kittens are always so funny and frolicksome!

“Tabby,” I said, as she arched her back and rubbed her head against my sleeve,—“Tabby, you wouldn’t be half so happy if there was a boy in the house. He would lift you by the tail, turn your ears back, put walnut shells on your feet, and make you dance on your hind legs. Then he would be forever tormenting your kittens. Boys are bad naturally. Maybe they are born so, and can’t help it,” I continued, reflectively. “I suppose they do have a good deal more of the old Adam in them than girls, because, you see, we inherit Eve’s propensity to curiosity; but then boys are fully as curious—aren’t they, Tabby? and as full of curiosity!”

“Yes,” answered Tabby.

She says it as plainly as you do. In fact, we sometimes hold quite lengthy conversations.

“So we don’t care—do we? If Aunt Letty Perkins would not make such a row about it! How would she like to have a lot of boys, I wonder?”

Tabby shook her head sagely, and scratched her left ear. I knew she felt just the same as I did.

I finished the parlor, and shut down the windows. Then I went to papa’s study, took the ashes softly out of the grate, and laid another fire, in case the evening should be cool, picked up papers and magazines, and dusted with the very lightest of touches. It was my part of the work to look after the study. I was so glad to be able to suit papa!

Just then the door opened. It was papa himself, fresh from a walk. I think him ever and ever so handsome, though sometimes I wish he was not quite so thin. He is rather tall, has a fine chest and shoulders; but it is his sweet, dear old face that I like so much. It’s a little wrinkled, to be sure, and may be his mouth is a trifle wide. I never considered it any defect, however, for he shuts his lips together with such a cordial smile! He has lovely deep-gray eyes, and his hair, which was once a bright brown, begins to be toned with silvery threads, as well as his soft brown beard, which he wears full, except a mustache.

“O, papa!” I cried, clasping my arms around his neck, “are you very sorry?”

“Sorry for what, my daughter?” And he looked a good deal surprised.

“That we haven’t a boy. There are so many of us girls!”

“My dear, I have always had a great fancy for little girls, as you know. And we take whatever God sends. She is very pretty.”

“O, you dear, blessed papa!”

“You will have to be the mother now, for a little while, Rose. You must try to manage the children nicely.”

“Indeed, I will do my best. Papa, do you not believe that I could go in and see her? Aunt Letty Perkins is there.”

“O, how could Mrs. Whitcomb! Yes; come along, child.”

I followed him to the sitting-room. The Rectory was a great, rambling old house, with a wide hall through the middle. Back of the parlor, quite shut off, indeed, were the dining-room and the two kitchens; on the other side, study, sitting-room, nursery, and mamma’s sleeping apartment.

Mamma’s door was shut. Mrs. Whitcomb was wise enough to keep guard over that. There was a little fire in the Franklin stove, and before it sat Mrs. Perkins, though everybody called her Aunt Letty. Her feet were on the fender, her brown stuff dress turned up over her knees, her black alpaca skirt not quite so high, and a faded quilted petticoat taking the heat of the fire. She always wore substantial gray yarn stockings in the winter, and lead-colored cotton in summer, except on state occasions. Her bonnet was always a little awry, and the parting of her hair invariably crooked. I’m sure I don’t know what she did, except to attend to other people’s affairs.

Mrs. Downs was beside her, a helpless-looking little fat woman, who, Fan declared, looked like a feather pillow with a checked apron tied around it. She was always out of breath, had always just left her work, and was never going to stay more than a moment.

“O, brother Endicott!” exclaimed Aunt Letty, reaching her hand out so far that she nearly tipped her chair over; “I s’spose you ought to be congratyourlated.” (She always put your in the word, and always said equinomical, regardless of Noah Webster.) “What does the Bible say about a man having his quiver full of olive branches? or is it that they sit round the table? now I disremember. I don’t go much according to Old Testament. It was well enough for them heathenish Jews and the old times; but I want the livin’ breathin’ gospel. What you goin’ to call her?”

Papa smiled, at the absurd transition, I suppose. Fan said Aunt Letty had only one resemblance to a dictionary—she changed her subjects without any warning.

“Would Keren-happuch do?” papa asked, with a droll twinkle in his eye.

“O, now, Mr. Endicott!”

“It’s a nice little thing,” put in Mrs. Downs. “Favors its mar I think.”

“Come and see it, Rose.—May we, Mrs. Whitcomb?”

“O, yes, indeed,” with her sweet smile.

She led me to the corner of the room, between the stove and mamma’s door. There, on two chairs, was a tiny bed, and under the blanket a tiny baby with a broad forehead, black, silky hair, a cunning little mouth, but no nose to speak of. Yet she was pretty. I thought I should like to squeeze her to a jelly, and cover her with kisses, though I don’t know as that would be orthodox jelly-cake for any but a cannibal.

Papa glanced at her with a tender smile, then sighed. Perhaps he was thinking of the long way the little feet would have to travel. It is a great journey, after all, from the City of Destruction to the New Jerusalem. Something in the baby-face brought to mind Christiana and the children.

“Great pity ’tisn’t a boy,” persisted Aunt Letty.

“O, I don’t know about that. They are so handy to take one another’s clothes,” said papa, humorously.

“To be sure. But yours could be cut over,” returned the literal woman.

“I am afraid that I shall always need mine to the last thread. I have lost the trick of outgrowing them. O, have you heard that Mrs. Bowers’s sister has come from the west? Arrived last evening.”

“Land sakes alive! Why, I guess I’ll run right over. Sally and me was thick as peas in our young days. And her husband’s been a what you call it out there, senate, or constitution, or something.”

“Member of the legislature,” corrected father, quietly.

“O, yes. Some folks do get along. There’s the middle of my needle. I should knit there if the house was afire!”

She brushed down her skirts, put her knitting in her satchel, jerked her shawl up, and pinned it, and settled her old black bonnet more askew than ever. Mrs. Whitcomb kindly pulled it straight for her.

“Thank’ee. If you want any help, Mrs. Whitcomb, send right straight over. Ministers are always the chosen of the Lord, and I feel as if one ought to come at their call.”

“I am much obliged,” returned Mrs. Whitcomb, in her quiet, lady-like way.

Mrs. Downs took her departure at the same moment. There was a great bustle, and talking; but father finally succeeded in getting them to the porch. When Aunt Letty was safely off the steps, she turned and said,—

“I’m glad you are so well satisfied, Mr. Endicott. It’s a sure sign of grace to take thankfully what the Lord sends.”

“O, dear,” said papa, with a sigh; “I am afraid I don’t give thanks for quite everything. ‘Tribulation worketh patience.’ But didn’t those women almost set you crazy? If I thought another sermon on bridling the tongue would do any good; I should preach it next Sunday.”

Mrs. Whitcomb smiled and said, in her cool, silvery voice,—

“It takes a great deal of powder and shot to kill a man in battle, and it takes a great deal of preaching to save a soul.”

“Yes. I get almost discouraged when I find how strong the old Adam is in human souls.”

I looked at papa rather reproachfully; but just then he opened the door of mamma’s room, and called me thither.

Mamma was very sweet and lovely. She kissed me many times, and hoped I would prove a trusty house-keeper, and see that papa had everything he needed, especially to notice that his cuffs and handkerchiefs were clean, and that he was in nice order on Sunday.

“And—did I like the baby?” She asked it almost bashfully.

“It is just as sweet as it can be. I only wish it was large enough to hold and to carry about.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Years afterwards I knew what that meant.

I went out to the kitchen to see about the dinner. We never had regular servants like other people. It was the lame, and the halt, and the blind, and the ignorant, metaphorically speaking. Papa brought them home and mamma took pity on them. Now it was Becky Sill, a great, overgrown girl of sixteen, whose intemperate father had just died in the poorhouse, where the three younger children—boys—were waiting for a chance to be put out to the farmers.

“Look at this ’ere floor, Miss Rose! I’ve scrubbed it white as snow. And I’ve been a peelin’ of pertaters.”

“This floor is sufficient, Becky; and peeling, and potatoes.”

“O, law, you’re just like your mother. Some people are born ladies and have fine ways. I wasn’t.”

“You have been very industrious,” I returned, cheerfully; and then I went at the dinner.

The hungry, noisy troop came home from school. What if they were all boys!

Do you want a photograph of us? I was past seventeen, not very tall, with a round sort of figure, and dimples everywhere in my face, where one could have been put by accident or design. My skin was fair, my hair—that was my sore point. I may as well tell the truth; it was red, a sort of deep mahogany red, and curled. My features were just passable. So, you see, I was not likely to set up for a beauty. Fan was sixteen, taller than I, slender, blonde, with saucy blue eyes and golden hair, and given to rather coquettish ways. Nelly was fourteen, almost as tall as I, with papa’s gray eyes,—only hers had a violet tint,—and mamma’s dark hair. Daisy was next, eleven, and on the blonde order. Lily, whose name was Elizabeth, and Tim, aged seven. Her real cognomen was Gertrude; but we began to call her Tiny Tim, and the name, somehow stuck to her. What a host of girls, to be sure!

“Papa,” I said that evening, going to the study for a good night kiss, where he was writing in the quiet,—“papa, are you sorry to have so many girls?”

I had been exercised on the subject all day, and I wanted to dispose of it before I slept.

“Why, my dear! no;” with a sweet gravity.

“But, papa,”—and I stumbled a little,—“it isn’t likely that—that—we shall all—get married—”

I could not proceed any farther, and hid my face on his shoulder.

“Married! What ever put such an absurd idea into your head, Rosalind? A parcel of children—married!”

I knew papa was displeased, or he would never have called me Rosalind.

“O, dear papa, don’t be angry!” I cried. “I was not thinking of being married, I’m sure. I don’t believe any one will ever like me very much, because my hair is red, and I may be fat as Mrs. Downs. And if I should be an old maid,—and I know I shall,—I want you to love me a little; and if I’m queer and fussy, and all that, you must be patient with me. I will try to do my best always.”

“My dear darling! what a foolish little thing you are! Some of the old women have been talking to you, I know. I shall certainly have to turn the barrel upside down, and find the sermon on bridling the tongue. You are all little girls, and I will not have the bloom rudely rubbed off of my peaches. There don’t cry about it;” and he kissed my wet face so tenderly that I did cry more than ever.

“My little girl, I want us to have a good many years of happiness together,” he said, with solemn tenderness. “Put all these things out of your head, and love your mother and me, and do your duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call you. I want you to be like Martin Luther’s bird, who sat on the tree and sang, and let God think for him. And now, run to bed, for I wish to finish this sermon while I am in the humor.”

I kissed him many, many times. I was so sure of his sweet, never-failing love. And I suppose fathers and mothers never do get tired of us!

CHAPTER II.

It was a bright June morning. The windows were all open; the birds were singing, and the air was sweet with out-of-door smells. Waving grasses, hosts of flowers, rose and honeysuckle out on the porch in the very height of riotous living, each trying to outbloom the other.

We were at breakfast. We never had this meal very early at the Rectory. On summer mornings papa loved to get up and take a stroll, and botanize a little. Mamma rose, looked after Becky, and took a quiet supervision of us all. I helped dress the three younger children, for Fan usually had some lessons on hand, as she was still in school. By the time we were ready papa would be back. Then we sang a verse or two of a hymn, said the Lord’s prayer together, and papa pronounced the greater benediction over us. It was so short, simple, and enjoyable! Somehow I do not think children take naturally to prayers, unless they are rendered very sweet and attractive. We were allowed sufficient time to get wide awake before coming to breakfast. Mamma was at the head of the table again, looking as sweet as a new pink. Papa’s place was at the foot. Fan and I sat opposite each other, about half way down. She poured the water and the milk. I had the three younger children on my side, and spread their bread or biscuits for them. I used to think of Goethe’s Charlotte, only she had brothers as well as sisters.

It was nearly eight o’clock. Lemmy Collins came up with the mail. There had been a shower the evening before, and none of us had gone for it.

“Ah!” exclaimed papa, “we are bountifully supplied this morning. One for Nelly, two for mamma, and two for me.”

“O, what elegant writing!” said Nell, leaning over to look at papa’s.

“Yes;” slowly. “I cannot think;” and papa fell into a brown study.

“Why don’t you open it?” asked bright-eyed Daisy; “then you won’t have to think.”

“To be sure, little wisdom!” and papa smiled. “I will look over this thin one first, though.”

That was only an invitation to a meeting of the clergy. We were all watching to see him open the letter par excellence. He took out his penknife and cut round the seal, which he handed to Tim.

“W—h—y!” lengthening the word out indefinitely. “From Stephen Duncan!” Then he read on in thoughtful silence, now and then knitting his brows.

Mamma’s letters were from an aunt and a cousin, with some kindly messages for us all.

“Girls,” said father, with a sudden start, “would you like to have some brothers large enough to keep their hands and faces clean, and strong enough to help you garden?”

“Boys are a nuisance!” declared Nell.

“Well, I have an offer of two. One is something of an invalid, though. My wards, I suppose, for that matter; though I have never considered myself much of a guardian, since Stephen was old enough to look after the boys. Then I always thought their uncle, James Duncan, was annoyed at my being put in at all. It seems he died very suddenly, a month ago, in London. Stephen has to go over and settle his affairs, and he wants me to keep the boys. Rose, pass this letter up to your mother.”

“How old are they?” asked Fan.

“Well, I can’t say. Louis is ready to enter college, but has studied himself out, and will have to go to the country. Stuart is—a boy, I suppose. I have not seen them since their father died.”

“Poor boys!” said mamma. “And Stephen is coming. Why, he will be here to-morrow afternoon. This letter has been delayed on its way;” and mamma glanced at the date and the postmark.

The children were through, and we rose from the table. There was a perfect hubbub of questions then. Lily swung on father’s arm, while Tim took a leg, and they were all eagerness to know about the brothers.

“Mamma will have to consider the subject,” he said. “Come, let us go out and look at the flower-beds. I dare say the rain brought up a regiment of weeds last night.”

Fanny went to put her room in order; Nelly had some buttons to sew on her school dress, and followed mamma to the nursery. Becky came in and helped take the dishes to the kitchen; while I went to my chambers up stairs.

I hurried a little, I must confess. Then I bundled the youngsters off to school, and ran into the nursery. Mamma was washing and dressing baby.

“What about the boys?” I asked. “Will they really come? Should you like to have them?”

“Perhaps it would be as well for you to read the letter, Rose. You are old enough to be taken into family council. It seems so odd, too! Only last evening papa and I were talking about—”

Mamma made so long a pause that I glanced up from the letter, having only read the preface, as one might say. There was a perplexed look on the sweet face.

“What is it, mamma?” and I knelt beside her, kissing baby’s fat cheek.

“My dear, I resolved long ago never to burden my girls with cares and worries before their time. And yet, it would be so delightful to have you for a friend! A clergyman’s wife has to be doubly discreet on some points. Now, if I was to say to two or three good friends in the parish, ‘Our circumstances are somewhat straightened by the recent expenses,’ they would, no doubt, seek to make it up in some way. But I have a horror of anything that looks like begging.”

“O, yes, mamma. Aunt Letty Perkins wondered, the day after the baby was born, if there would not be a donation visit.”

Mamma’s sweet face flushed.

“We have managed so far,” she said; “and everything has gone very pleasantly. Papa is well loved, and we have a delightful home. This great old house and garden are worth a good deal. But I am wandering from my text into byways and highways. I feel that I should sometimes like to have a friend to talk to who would be a sort of second self—”

“O, mamma take me!” I cried.

“I have always wanted to be like an elder sister to my girls as they grew to womanhood.”

I wanted to cry, and I was resolved not to. Mamma’s tone was so sweet that it went to my heart. But to stop myself, I laughed, and exclaimed,—

“Fan would say that your hands would be pretty full if you were going to be a sister to each one of us. Or you would have to be divided into infinitesimal pieces.”

“And fourteen girls might not be desirable, if their father was a clergyman,” she answered, smilingly.

“So, let us be the best of friends, mamma, dearest, and you shall tell me your troubles. It is being so poor, for one, I know.”

“Yes, dear. Poverty is not always a delightful guest. Last evening we were resolving ways and means, and papa proposed to give up the magazines, and be very careful about his journeys. But I cannot bear to have him pinch. And, you see, if we took these boys, the extra living would not cost us anything to speak of. Ten weeks would be—two hundred dollars.”

“O, mamma!”

“It is right that I should consult you about the work. It will make your duties more arduous. Then taking strangers into your family is never quite so pleasant. But go on with the letter. We will discuss it afterwards.”

I felt drawn so near to mamma by the talk and the confidence, that at first I could hardly take the sense of what I was reading. But I will tell you the story more briefly.

Papa and Mr. Duncan had been very dear friends for many years; in fact, I believe, since papa’s boyhood. When Mr. Duncan died he left papa a small legacy, and some valuable books and pictures, besides associating him with his brother in the guardianship of his three boys. Mr. James Duncan, who was an exceedingly proud and exclusive man, seemed to resent this, and treated papa rather coolly. Their business was done in writing, and papa had never seen his wards since their father’s funeral.

Stephen had spent one summer at our house when he was quite a boy. It seemed now that he preserved the liveliest recollection of my mother’s kindness and care, and desired very much to see my father. The taking of the boys he asked as a great favor, since he would have to spend all the summer in England; and he appeared to feel the responsibility of his brothers very keenly. It was such a nice, kind, gentlemanly letter, evincing a good deal of thoughtfulness, and respect for papa; and even where he spoke of the terms, he did it with so much delicacy, as if he were fearful that it would not be sufficient compensation, and proposed to come and talk the matter over, as he should, no doubt, need a good deal of advice from papa in the course of the next few years.

“What a good, sweet letter this is, mamma!” I said. “It makes me think of papa.”

“Yes; I liked it exceedingly. Papa is greatly interested with the plan. He thinks it will help us to straighten up matters, so that we can begin next fall quite easy in our minds. The only other thing he could do would be to take some boys to prepare for college. That is very wearing. In this we could all help.”

“I hope the boys will be nice,” I said, with a little misgiving.

“They will be out of doors a great deal, and certainly ought to behave like gentlemen, since they have been at the best of schools. You will have to keep their room in order; there will be rather more in the way of cooking and deserts; but Fanny must help a little during vacation. You see, baby is going to take up much of my time. But if I thought it would be uncomfortable for you girls—”

“O, mamma, it will only last such a little while, after all! And the two hundred dollars—”

“We must not be mercenary, little one.”

Before we had finished, papa came in again. We were all on the boys’ side, I could plainly see.

The next morning I aired the large spare room, brought out fresh towels, and arranged some flowers in the vases. There was matting on the floor, a maple bureau, wash-stand, and bedstead. The curtains were thin white muslin, with green blinds outside, which gave the apartment a pretty, pale tint.

I didn’t mean to put the two boys in this room when they came. There was another, opposite, not quite so nice, plenty good enough for rollicking boys.

Papa went over to the station for Stephen.—Mr. Duncan, I mean. I wondered why I should have such an inclination to call him by his Christian name—a perfect stranger, too. But when I saw him I was as formal as you please.

As tall as papa, and somewhat stouter, with a grave and rather impressive air, eyes that could look you through, a firm mouth, that, somehow, seemed to me, might be very stern and pitiless. He had a broad forehead, with a good deal of fine, dark hair; but, what I thought very singular, blue eyes, which reminded you of a lake in the shade. His side-whiskers and mustache gave him a very stylish look, and he was dressed elegantly. Poor papa looked shabby beside him.

Mamma and the baby, Fanny and I, were on the wide porch, while the children were playing croquet on the grassy lawn, though I do so much like the old-fashioned name of “door-yard.” Papa introduced him in his homelike, cordial fashion, and he shook hands in a kind of stately manner that didn’t seem a bit like his letter.

He came to me last. I knew he did not like me. I think you can always tell when any one is pleased with you. He studied me rather sharply, and almost frowned a little. I felt that it was my red hair. And then I colored all over, put out my hand awkwardly, and wished I was anywhere out of sight.

“And all the small crowd out there,” said papa, in so gay a voice that it quite restored me to composure.

“Really, friend Endicott, I was not prepared for this.—Why, Mrs. Endicott, how have you kept your youth and bloom? Why, I am suddenly conscience-smitten that I have proposed to add to your cares.”

“You will feel easy when you see the inside of the house. There is plenty of room, plenty;” and papa laughed.

“You had only a small nest when I visited you before,” Mr. Duncan said to mother. “But how very lovely the whole village is! I am so glad to find such a place for Louis. I hope my boys will not worry you to death, Mrs. Endicott, for, somehow, I do not know as I can give up the idea of sending them here, especially as Mr. Endicott is their guardian. I think it will do them both good to be acquainted intimately with such a man.”

It was all settled then.

“I have wished a great many times that we had a sister for Louis’s sake. Oddly enough, my uncle James’s children were all boys, and Louis is very peculiar in some respects. It is asking a great deal of you. I understand that well, and shall appreciate it.”

I knew that I ought to look after Becky and the supper; so I rose and slipped away.

“Two boys,” I said to myself. “I do not believe that I shall like them;” and I shook my head solemnly.

CHAPTER III.

I went out to the kitchen and advised a few moments with our maid of all work, and then began to arrange the supper table. The visitor must sit next to papa, of course, but not on my side of the table. I did not mean to have him any nearer than I could help; for, if he disliked red hair, I would not flirt it under his eyes. Or, suppose I placed him next to Fan! She was so carelessly good natured that he would not be likely to disturb her thoughts.

Mamma took the baby to the nursery, and then came in to give an approving look. I placed the two tall vases of flowers on the table, and it did present a very pretty appearance.

“We are all ready now,” she said. “Call papa.”

I rang the bell, and the children came trooping in, papa and Mr. Duncan bringing up the rear. Fan glanced at the places, and looked pleased, I thought.

“Here Mr. Duncan,” she said, with a pretty wave of her hand; and he took the proffered seat, giving me a quick glance, that brought the warm blood to my cheeks.

We had a merry time; for, after all, strangers were no great rarity; and we were always merry in our snug little nest. It was said through the parish that every one had a good time at our house; and Mr. Duncan appeared to be no exception. When we were almost through, we began to say verses, each one repeating a passage of Scripture commencing with the same letter. We caught Mr. Duncan right away. He commenced two or three before he could hit upon the right beginning.

“You see, I am not very ready with my wits,” he said, laughingly.

Lily, Daisy, and Tim always had a romp with papa afterwards; but my duties were not ended until they were snugly tucked in bed. You see, we could not afford nurse-maids and all that on papa’s salary. But then, frolicking with them in bed was such a delight that I never minded the knots in their shoestrings, and the loads of trash that had to be emptied out of their pockets, to say nothing of mischief and dawdling, and the heaps of dresses and skirts lying round in little pyramids. Now and then I would make some stringent rules: every child must hang up her clothes, take care of her shoes and stockings, and put her comb and hair-ribbon just where they could be found in the morning. But, somehow, the rules were never kept. I suppose I was a poor disciplinarian.

I went down stairs at length. Mr. Duncan was pacing the porch alone. Papa had been called to see a sick neighbor. Mamma was listening to poor old Mrs. Hairdsley’s troubles, told over for the hundredth time, I am sure. She was a mild, inoffensive, weak-eyed old lady, living with rather a sharp-tempered daughter-in-law. Fan was out on an errand of mercy also.

“What a busy little woman you are!” he said. “I am glad to see you at last; and I hope no one will fall sick, or want broth, or be in trouble for the next fifteen minutes. I suppose clergymen’s houses are always houses of mercy. I begin to feel conscience-smitten to think that I am adding to the general burden. What will you do with two boys?”

“I cannot exactly tell,” I answered slowly, at which he appeared a good deal amused, though I did not see anything particularly funny in it.

“I think I would like to come myself, if I were not going ‘over the seas.’ What would I be good for? Could I do parish visiting?”

“Yes; and teach the Sunday school, and go around with a subscription list, and—”

“O, the subscription list finishes me. I should stop at every gate, and put down a certain amount, and pay it out of my own pocket. Begging I utterly abhor.”

“But if you had nothing in your pocket? If your neighbors were richer than you, and if you were trying to teach people that it was their duty to provide for the sick and the needy?”

“Why, what a little preacher you are! Let us go out in the moonlight. What a lovely night! Suppose we walk down to meet your father. He said he should not stay long.”

I could think of no good excuse to offer; so we sauntered slowly through the little yard and out to the street, both keeping silent for some time.

“Miss Endicott,” he began presently, “I wish I could interest you in my brothers. You have such a quaint, elder-sister air, that I know you would have a good influence over them; though they may not prove so very interesting,” he went on, doubtfully. “Louis is nervous, and has been ill; and boys are—well, different from girls.”

I was not such a great ignoramus. I suppose he thought, because we had a houseful of girls, we knew nothing whatever of boys; so I answered, warmly,—

“The parishioners sometimes come to tea with two or three boys, who think they ought to demolish the furniture as well as the supper. Then there are the Sunday schools, and the picnics, and the children’s festivals—”

“So you do see boys in abundance.”

“They are no great rarity,” I replied, drily.

“And you do not like them very much?”

“I do not exactly know.”

He laughed there. It vexed me, and I was silent.

“I think it a mistake when the girls are put in one family and the boys in another. Sisters generally soften boys, tone them down, and give them a tender grace.”

“And what are the brothers’ graces?” I asked.

“Boys have numberless virtues, we must concede,” he returned laughingly. “I think they perfect your patience, broaden your ideas, and add a general symmetry. They keep you from getting too set in your ways.”

I saw him smile down into my face in the soft moonlight, and it did annoy me. Men are always thinking themselves so superior!

“Our mother died when Stuart was a baby. She was always an invalid. But the summer I spent with your mother is such a sunny little oasis in my life, that I wanted the boys to have at least one pleasant memory. I suppose I am selfish—one of the strong points of the sex.”

“O,” I said, “I thought you were all virtues.”

“We have just about enough faults to preserve ballast. But perhaps you do not like the idea of their coming.”

He studied my face intently for a moment, from my round chin up to my hair. I remembered, in great confusion, that red-haired people were suspected of being quick-tempered.

“I am sorry. They will be an annoyance. I ought to have thought—”

“You misunderstood me, Mr. Duncan,” I began, with a tremble in my voice. “I should not have objected to their coming, even if I considered that I had a right. It will ease papa’s burdens in another way, and I am quite ready to do my part.”

“Little girl, there are a good many things that money cannot buy,” he said gravely.

I had surely done it now! How mercenary he would think us! I could have cried with vexation.

There was a silence of some minutes. I had an inward consciousness that we were not foreordained to get on nicely together.

“It is of some of these things that I would like to speak,” he began, slowly. “The boys have been to a good school, to be sure; but they never have had a home, or home training. And on some of the higher points of morals, a woman’s influence does more by its silent grace than hundreds of lectures. Will you be a little patient with their rough ways and want of consideration? I am offering you a part of my burden, to be sure; but then, with your father’s permission, I am to share part of yours. I am to stand with you to-morrow at your little sister’s christening. Believe me, that I am very glad to be here.”

Papa had intended to ask Mr. Searle, his senior warden. I was surprised at the change.

“Do you not like that, either?” and there was a tinge of disappointment in his tone.

“Excuse me. It was only the suddenness.”

“I like the claim it gives me upon all your remembrances. Then your interest need only last a little while, if you so elect, while mine stretches over a whole life.”

“There is papa!” I exclaimed, with a great breath of relief, and sprang towards him. He put his dear arm around me, and I felt as if my perplexities had come to a sudden end.

On the porch we found Fanny and mamma, and the conversation became very bright and general. Indeed, we sat up past our usual hour.

When Fan and I were up stairs she began at once.

“Mr. Duncan is just splendid! I envied you your walk, and I came back so soon that I had half a mind to run after you.”

“I wish you had been in my place. We did not get on at all. I wonder if we shall like the boys.”

“I shall not worry about them until they come.”

“But a fortnight soon passes, and then good-by to our quiet house.”

“A quiet house, with seven children in it!” and Fan laughed merrily.

“Well they are not—”

“Boys! of course. But then, boys grow to be men. And men like Stephen Duncan are charming. One can afford to have a little trouble.”

“O, Fan! how can you talk so?”

“I wasn’t born blind or dumb. I cannot account for it in any other way. Now, I dare say, Miss Prim, you are thinking of the two hundred dollars at the end of the summer, and all that it is to buy.”

“It has to be earned first.”

“We will take Mrs. Green’s cheerful view of boarders. ‘They are not much trouble in the summer, when you only eat ’em and sleep ’em.’”

I could not help smiling at the quotation.

“I wish it were Stephen instead. And how he talks of running over to England! Not making as much of it as we should of going to New York. It is just royal to be rich. Rose, I think I shall marry for money, and set a good example to the five girls coming after me; for, my dear, I have a strong suspicion that you will be an old maid.”

“O, Fanny, to-morrow will be Sunday, and the baby’s christening.”

“Dear little Tot! yes. And we must set her a pattern of sweetness, so that she may see the manifest duty of all women. So, good-night, Mother Hubbard of many troubles.”

Fan gave me two or three smothering kisses, and subsided. I tried to do a little serious thinking, but was too sleepy; and, in spite of my efforts, I went off in a dream about her and Mr. Duncan walking up the church aisle together, Fan in a trailing white dress. I awoke with the thought in my mind. But it was foolish, and I tried to get it out.

Sunday was beautiful. The air was full of fragrance; bloom of tree and shrub, pungent odors of growing evergreens, and the freshening breath of grassy fields. After a pleasant breakfast, the children were made ready for church. Sundays were always such enjoyable days with us! I don’t know quite what the charm was; but they seemed restful, and full of tender talking and sweet singing.

After Sunday school, in the afternoon, the children were catechized, and there was a short service.

Very few knew of the baby’s christening; so the congregation was not larger than usual. After the lesson, we went forward, mamma, Mrs. Whitcomb, baby, Mr. Duncan, and I. A sweet solemn service it was, baby being very good and quiet. Edith Duncan. The second name had been agreed upon in the morning, at Stephen’s request.

The children crowded around papa afterwards.

“I do not wonder that everybody loves him,” Mr. Duncan said, as we walked homeward. “And I feel as if I had a small claim upon him myself. I am a sort of brother to you now, Nelly.”

“Are you?” answered Nelly, with a roguish laugh. “I did not think it was so near a relation as that.”

“Perhaps it may be a grandfather, then,” was the grave reply.

“O, that’s splendid!” declared Tiny Tim, who had big ears. “For we never had a grandfather, you know, only—”

“Only what?”

“Your hair is not very white,” commented Tim, as if suspicious of so near a relationship with a young man.

He laughed gayly.

“I mean to be adopted into the family, nevertheless. My hair may turn white some day.”

“There is no hurry,” returned Fanny. “I doubt if Tim would be the more cordial on that account.”

“Perhaps not;” with a shrewd smile. “But you will have to give me a sort of elder brother’s place.”

“Will you really be our brother?” asked Daisy.

“I shall be delighted to, if every one will consent. Ask Miss Rose if I may.”

“You like him—don’t you, Rose?” Papa said—

“We will take him for a brother,” I returned, gaspingly, my cheeks scarlet, for fear of some indiscreet revelation.

“I have never had any sisters; so I am very glad to get you all. I hope you will treat me well, and bring me home something nice when you go abroad.”

“But we are not going,” said Tim; “and I don’t believe I could hem a handkerchief nicely enough for you.”

“Then it will have to be the other way. Let me see: seven sisters. Well, I shall not forget you while I am gone.”

Mr. Duncan went to church that evening with Fan and Nelly, and, after he came home, had a long talk with papa out on the porch. Papa had enjoyed his guest very much and I was glad of that. It had been quite a holiday time.

After breakfast the next morning, Mr. Duncan went away. He took little Edith in his arms, and walked up and down the room with her.

“I feel as if I did not want to go away,” he said, turning to mamma. “I think you must spoil everybody in this house. I almost envy the boys their summer vacation.—Ah, Miss Fanny, you see I am by no means perfect.”

Fan nodded her head rather approvingly. I am not sure but she liked a spice of wickedness.

“I shall remember your promise,” he said to me, with his good-by.

What had I promised? About the boys—was it? Well I would do my best. I should have done it without his asking.

“And in three months or so I shall see you again. Good by, little flock.”

Ah, little did we guess then how many things were to happen before we saw him again!

But the house seemed quite lonesome without him. I made the children ready for school, and then went at my rooms. If the boys should be like Stephen, it would not be so very bad after all.

There was a deal of work to be done in the next fortnight. Our maid, as usual, was called away, providentially, as Fan used to say of them at any new disappearance, and we succeeded in getting a middle-aged Irish woman, who could wash and iron excellently, but who knew very little about cooking. But mamma said there was always something lacking; and, since she was good and strong, it would do. All these matters were barely settled, when a note came, saying that Louis and Stuart Duncan would be at the station on Friday at four.

Nelly walked over with papa. I had relented a little, and made their apartment bright and sweet with flowers. I had a fancy that I should like Louis the better; he, being an invalid, was, doubtless, gentle; and I wheeled the easy-chair to a view of the most enchanting prospect out of the south window. Then, as usual, I went back to the work of getting supper. There is always so much eating going on in this world, and you need so many dishes to eat it off of! We are not flowers of the field, or fairies, to sup on dew.

“O, there they come—in a carriage!”

Tiny Tim clapped her hands at that, whereupon the baby crowed and laughed.

A hack with two trunks. A bright, curly-haired boy sprang out, and assisted Nelly in the most approved style. Then papa, and a tall, slender young man, looking old for his eighteen years.

It did not seem a prepossessing face to me. The lips were thin, the brow contracted with a fretful expression, the nose undeniably haughty, and the cheeks sunken and sallow. Stuart was so different! red and white, with glittering chestnut hair, and laughing eyes, that were hazel, with a kind of yellowish tint in them, that gave his whole face a sunny look. One warmed to him immediately.

Mamma went to the hall, and we followed; and the introductions took place there.

“Take the trunks up to the room, Mat,” said my father.

The boys bowed, and followed, Stuart casting back a gay glance. Papa took off his hat, kissed the baby, and sat down.

“I was quite shocked to see Louis,” he said, in an anxious tone. “He looks very poorly indeed. We must try our best to nurse him back to health and strength. Rose, there is some more work to do.”