Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

"If you want any Christmas money, you must earn it."
CHRISTMAS EARNINGS.                                        

OR

ETHEL FLETCHER'S TEMPTATION.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF "SOPHIE KENNEDY'S EXPERIENCE,"
"SIGN OF THE CROSS," ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK:

General Protestant Episcopal S. S. Union
and Church Book Society

762 BROADWAY.

1859.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858,

By the GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION

AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the

Southern District of New York.

   RENNIE, SHEA & LINDSAY,                                    
STEREOTYPERS AND ELECTROTYPERS,          PUDNEY & RUSSELL,
 81, 83, & 85 Centre-street,                      PRINTERS,
                     NEW YORK.                        No. 79 John-street.

PUBLISHED

BY

THE RECTOR, AND SUNDAY SCHOOL

OF

ST. PETER'S CHURCH, PORT CHESTER,

WESTCHESTER COUNTY, N. Y.

CONTENTS.

Chapter First.

Chapter Second.

Chapter Third.

Chapter Fourth.

THE

CHRISTMAS EARNINGS.

"WHAT are you going to do about Christmas this year?" asked Abby Coles of her cousin Ethel Fletcher, as they walked home from school together one afternoon towards the close of December.

"I don't know," said Ethel; "I have not thought much about it yet."

"But Christmas is almost here," argued Abby, "and if you are going to make any thing, it is time you began it. I have almost finished my worsted shawl, and am going to knit some scarfs next. Father gave me five dollars to spend, and I am to have five more if I finish the arithmetic before holidays, as I am almost certain I shall. So you see I shall be well off for spending money. What have you commenced?"

"Nothing," replied Ethel: "I have not asked father for any money yet, and I don't exactly like to, for when mother told him the other day that she wanted some new things, he said she must wait if she could, for he could not afford it at present."

"Oh, that's nothing!" returned Abby. "My father says so half the time, and then very likely, he goes and buys something that costs twice as much as what we asked him for. That's always the way with men."

"But you know my father failed," said Ethel, "and we are not as rich as we were."

"So did my father fail," said Abby; "but I don't see that it makes any difference with us. Come, Ethel, ask your father for some money to-night, and to-morrow we can go out together and get our things. I want you to knit a shawl for your mother like the one I am doing. It would be so becoming to her. And then you ought to do something for Aunt Sally too. You know she won't like it if you don't."

"Mother told me to stop there and do an errand this afternoon," said Ethel: "I don't like to go to see her lately, she is so cross."

"She is cross sometimes," admitted Abby; "but then she always gives us very nice presents."

"Yes, and sometimes I almost wish she didn't," said Ethel. "I feel sometimes very much as if I should like to say, 'Aunt Sally, you may just keep your presents to yourself,' when she has made one of her provoking speeches."

Abby laughed. "Why, Ethel, the presents are just as good, and one need not mind what she says: I don't. Father says we must not get out of patience with her, because she is as rich as a Jew, and can leave her money to any one she pleases."

Ethel made no answer. In this speech, as in many of her cousin's remarks, there was something that grated on her feelings, and she was glad to be spared the necessity of a reply, by their arrival at the door of a house, which bore upon it the name of Mrs. Sarah Bertie.

If days should teach, Mrs. Bertie ought to have been very wise, for she was a very old lady, though she would hardly have thanked any one for telling her so. But the years which had passed over her head had only added to her self-esteem, without increasing her wisdom, and she was now, at seventy-nine, as self-willed, exacting, unreasonable, and petulant, as she had been at fifteen.

She had the misfortune to be the only child of very rich parents, who found it less trouble to humor her in every whim, than to control and regulate her naturally troublesome temper. They found it any thing but a saving of trouble in the end. True, her mother was spared a great deal of trouble by dying when her darling was about fourteen; but her father's death was supposed to be hastened by the perverse conduct of his daughter, who at fifteen ran away with her own cousin, a reckless, wild young man, who having spent all his own money, was desirous of continuing his career of pleasure by spending his cousin's. Mr. Bertie died suddenly, a few months after this marriage, without seeing his daughter, to whom he bequeathed his whole estate, taking care, however, so to arrange matters, that she should enjoy only the income of her property, the principal being tied up beyond the reach of herself or her husband. This was a great disappointment to the latter, and did not tend to sweeten his temper, or make him more patient with the whims and caprices of his young wife, who expected her husband to be her slave as her parents had been.

The result was, that after some years of strife and bitterness, the ill-matched pair separated, and Mr. Bertie went to Europe, where he died not very long after. Mrs. Bertie did not pretend to afflict herself greatly upon that event. She had no children or other incumbrance to prevent her from doing as she pleased, and after travelling about for some years, she finally settled herself down in one of the smaller northern cities, bought a handsome house, and commenced housekeeping in good style.

As she could always be very pleasant when she pleased, she had plenty of society, and her wealth caused her to be very much courted, especially by her husband's nephew, Mr. Coles, Abby's father. Mr. Coles and Mr. Fletcher were cousins, and the families were intimate from that circumstance, though there was between them a great difference, not only of sentiment, but of principle. With all her faults, Mrs. Bertie had some sterling good qualities. She was a warm and generous friend, and a good neighbor and mistress, and her sense of integrity and truthfulness was extreme almost to a fault.

She was sitting in her parlor knitting, with her dog at her feet, as the girls entered, and being in a good-humor, received them graciously.

"And what work are you doing for Christmas?" she inquired, after Ethel had delivered her message. "I shall expect to see something very handsome from you, Ethel, as you have improved so much in working the last year."

"I have not commenced any thing yet, Aunt Sally," replied Ethel.

"Only think, Aunt Sally," exclaimed Abby, who, though good-natured, was a very thoughtless child, "Ethel has not even asked her father for any money yet, just because she heard him tell her mother that he could not afford something."

"Of course he could not afford it, if it was something his wife wanted," ejaculated Aunt Sally, whose theory it was that all men abused all women.

"And Ethel says," continued Abby, unheeding her cousin's looks of entreaty, "that they are poor now, because her father has failed. I am sure we are not poor, and I don't see why cousin George should be."

"Because your cousin George is a fool!" said Mrs. Bertie sharply.

She was always provoked at any mention of her nephew Fletcher's affairs, and being wholly unused to restrain herself from any consideration for the feelings of others, she did not hesitate to express her opinion on this occasion. She was not, however, quite prepared for the effect of her words on one of her auditors.

As she finished her remark, Ethel rose from her chair, and began to put on her gloves without speaking.

"Stop, Ethel, child!"' said her aunt, surprised. "Where are you going?"

"I am going home," replied Ethel with decision, but in a voice which trembled with agitation. "I am not going to stay anywhere to hear my father called a fool. I should think you would be ashamed, Aunt Sally."

Abby looked horrified at this bold speech. She hardly dared to glance at her aunt, but sat in silent terror, expecting some violent outburst. But Mrs. Bertie seemed rather amused than otherwise.

"Well done, Miss Fire-cracker! I like your spirit. But you must not go off so," she continued, seeing that Ethel continued to make preparations for departure. "You know nobody minds my speeches. I am an old woman, and always say just what I think. Come, come, kiss and be friends, and don't quarrel with your old auntie."

Ethel thought her aunt had not mended matters much by her apology, as she had no business to think so. But she was already sensible that she had spoken unbecomingly, and her mother's often repeated words recurred to her mind:

"Aunt Sally is a very old woman, and you must have patience with her."

So she conquered the rising storm so far as to allow herself to be kissed by her aunt and even to eat a piece of plum-cake, though she felt all the time as if it would choke her. She was glad when they were once more in the street, where she could speak her mind freely.

"Hateful old thing!" she said, more to herself than to her companion. "She may keep her cake and sweetmeats to herself. I will never go there again, if I can help it."

"Then you will be the loser," remarked Abby. "You know she can leave her fortune to whom she pleases."

"I don't care for her fortune," interrupted Ethel, more angry than ever. "She may leave it to whom she likes, for all I care. I should be ashamed to coax and flatter her for her money, or her presents either. To go and call my father a fool—" and here Ethel paused, partly for want of breath, and partly because she felt herself in imminent danger of crying.

"Well, well," said Abby soothingly, "you must not be angry with me, Ethel. I am sure I only spoke for your good. You know Aunt Sally says when she is in a good-humor, that she shall leave her money to whom she likes best; and after all, she is very good to us generally, though she does say vexatious things. But really, Ethel, I don't see into it—why you should be poor, I mean. A good many people failed in the fall besides your father. There was my father, and Mr. Peet, and Mr. Larkins, and the Mr. Wileys; and none of them were much the poorer for it that I could see, only the Wileys, and my father said they managed badly. But here is my turning-off place, so good-bye. Be sure and get your money to-night, and I will call for you to-morrow."

Ethel bade her cousin good-by, and walked on, pondering deeply, and feeling very unhappy and dissatisfied—first with herself for having been so much out of humor, and speaking unbecomingly, and then with her circumstances. She did not understand the matter any better than Abby. Her father had been for many years a manufacturer in very prosperous circumstances. The tastes and habits of Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher did not lead them to launch out into the foolish extravagance of dress and equipage which characterized so many people at the time of our story; but they were persons of very elegant tastes, fond of literature and art, and Mr. Fletcher prided himself upon his superb collection of engravings and books, to which he was constantly making additions.

Ethel was the only daughter, but there were two boys much younger than herself. Without being at all spoiled, she was very much indulged, and while she was expected to give some account of what she spent, she hardly knew what it was to ask for money without having it. Especially at Christmastime was her father liberal. The Fletchers were very strict Church people, and always "kept Christmas," with a good deal of care and expense. Mince-pies were made; the most elegant sweetmeats were reserved for this occasion; the children had new clothes, and the house was beautifully decorated with evergreens and flowers. The children hung up their stockings upon Christmas Eve, sure of finding them well filled; the whole family went to Church, and in the evening, a beautiful Christmas tree was lighted up for the benefit of Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher's Sunday-school classes, consisting of poor children, each of whom received a present, and as much cake as he could eat, besides a surplus to carry home.

Such was the state of the family at the commencement of the year, but the end of it found them in circumstances sadly changed. The financial crisis affected Mr. Fletcher as well as his neighbors; unpaid himself, he was unable to meet his liabilities, and after two or three weeks of miserable suspense, he was obliged to declare a failure, like his cousin, Mr. Coles, who had gone among the first. Unlike Mr. Coles, however, his failure was a perfectly honest one. The beautiful house and grounds went into the hands of one of the banks; the library and collections were sent to New York for sale; and all the handsome furniture, even to baby's swinging crib, and Mrs. Fletcher's china and silver, were sent to auction. They reserved only furniture enough of the plainest sort to furnish a small house which had been left to Mrs. Fletcher by her mother, and to this they removed, to begin life anew, after they supposed they had provided for their old age, and for their children after them.

Of course this change in their circumstances did not pass without many remarks from their friends. Mr. Cole, whose property had somehow been discovered to belong entirely to his wife and her brothers, did not hesitate to say that George Fletcher had acted like a fool. Mrs. Coles thought Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher ought to have more consideration for the prospects of their daughter. Mrs. Sarah Bertie, who loved her niece and nephew Fletcher as well as she loved any one in the world but herself, but who knew as much of business as her own gray parrot, was very angry at him for his bad management. At the same time that she snubbed Mr. Coles for expressing an unfavorable opinion of Mr. Fletcher, and informed him that George Fletcher knew more than he ever thought he did; a very bold assertion, which Mr. Coles, having an eye to the old lady's succession, received with great meekness and submission.

Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher did not find themselves as unhappy as they expected in their new abode. Mr. Fletcher's honor had come out untarnished, and his conscience told him, that if he had been imprudent in investments, he had at least done all in his power to make amends. No unpaid butcher's or baker's bills disturbed his slumbers, nor were those of his wife rendered uneasy by the vision of unsettled milliner's accounts. True, the want of birds and flowers was deeply felt, but as the possession of these things had never constituted the source of their happiness, so the want of them could not destroy it.

Perhaps Ethel was the most to be pitied of any of the family. She had never been accustomed to deny herself any thing she wanted from motives of economy, and she found it hard work to begin. The house seemed to her very small, confined, and gloomy, and she did not like to wash dishes and sweep, or to see her mother at work in the kitchen. All these things weighed upon her mind and spirits, and Abby's remarks and her aunt's observation had brought her discontent to a climax. A little girl of twelve does not usually know much about business, and she could not see why, if Mr. Coles had kept his fine house, and her cousin dressed as well as ever, she should be wearing all her old frocks, and living in a little house with only three rooms on the ground-floor, and no garden at all.

Now a cloud was not a very common sight upon Ethel's face, for though her temper was somewhat hasty, it was also sunshiny and cheerful; and Mrs. Fletcher was not very long in perceiving that something was amiss. Ethel had been sitting for some time silently looking out of the window, where nothing very interesting was to be seen, when her mother asked—

"Don't you feel well, Ethel?"

"Yes, mother," said Ethel, in a voice which sounded as though it came from the tombs.

"Has any thing gone wrong in school, or have you had a quarrel with Abby?"

"No, mother," replied Ethel again; but she did not offer any solution of the mystery.

Mrs. Fletcher said no more, but waited in silence, certain that it would not be long before her daughter opened her mind.

At last, after an interval of silence, Ethel said with some hesitation—

"Mother, shall we have any Christmas this year?"

"Of course," replied Mrs. Fletcher. "Christmas comes every year, does it not?"

"Yes," returned Ethel; "but shall we keep it ourselves, I mean?"

"Certainly, we shall keep it," replied Mrs. Fletcher. "We shall go to Church as usual, and there will be nothing to prevent our decorating our rooms with evergreens, though we shall have no flowers." And Mrs. Fletcher suppressed a little sigh as she spoke. She missed her green-house more than any of the luxuries she had lost.

"Shall we have—" any presents, Ethel was going to say, but she changed her mind. "Shall we have a Christmas tree for the poor children?"

Mrs. Fletcher sighed again. "No, Ethel, that must be given up. We cannot afford it now, and we shall have to content ourselves without our usual Christmas fare. There is no money to spend on such things."

"O mother!" exclaimed Ethel. "How disappointed the children will be. It will not be like Christmas. I do not think there is any use in trying to keep it, if we are to have nothing ourselves, and nothing to give away. I wish Christmas would not come at all."

The tears which had been gathering all the afternoon would no longer be restrained, and Ethel laid her head down on the windowsill and cried bitterly,—cried as she had not done when the house was sold, or even when her chief treasure, her watch was disposed of.

Mrs. Fletcher let the tears have their way, certain that they would not last long, and she was right.

In a few moments Ethel sat up and wiped her eyes, but she repeated as she did so, "I wish Christmas was not coming at all."

"My daughter," said Mrs. Fletcher gravely, "what is Christmas?"

"It is the Feast of the Nativity—of the birth of Christ," replied Ethel.

"What did God do for us on that day?" continued Mrs. Fletcher. "What does the Collect say?"

"He sent His only begotten Son to take our nature upon Him, and as at this time to be born of a pure virgin."

"Very right. And now why does the Church celebrate this day? What good came to men from Christ's coming down from heaven to earth, and taking our nature upon Him?"

"Christ came for our salvation," said Ethel in a low voice. She began to see what her mother was coming to.

"Yes. On Christmas day, our Saviour began His career upon earth, by taking upon Him the burden of our frail and sinful nature—began that life which ended with His death upon the cross, whereby He secured our redemption for us. Did you ever think why He might choose to come in the form of a child?"

"My Sunday-school teacher said it was in order that children might realize how He felt for their little troubles and cares, because He had passed through the same."

"True. And yet my little Ethel, because she cannot have just what she wants, and cannot celebrate Christmas in her own way, would rather not celebrate it at all. She does not care to thank God for the birth of His dear Son, because she cannot have what she has been accustomed to at this Holy Season, all the pleasures of which have, or should have, a direct reference to the great and unspeakable Gift made to us on this day. Is that right, my dear?"

"No, mother," said Ethel frankly. "I did not think of it in that way." She paused a little, and then added: "I was not thinking so much about getting presents, as about making them. I do so love to make presents! Cannot we have any Christmas money at all?"

"I fear not, my child, unless you can contrive some way to earn it. We have no right to indulge in luxuries so long as we are in debt, and the giving of Christmas presents is certainly a luxury."

"But the poor children, mother. We might give them only such things as they need, and leave out the candy and toys. Those little Brown girls have hardly comfortable clothes."

"I know it, Ethel, but we must be just before we are generous."

Ethel was silenced, if not entirely satisfied by her mother's reasoning. But after a little interval, she resumed the conversation.

"Mother, how does it happen that failing makes so much more difference with some people than it does with others? Why is Mr. Coles rich, while father and the Mr. Wileys are poor? Now cousin Anna has every thing just as she always did: they do not make any difference in their housekeeping, and Abby is dressed just as well as ever. She told me to-day, that her father had given her five dollars, and was going to give her five more if she finished the arithmetic. She wanted me to ask father for some money to-night, that we might go out shopping together to-morrow, but I thought I would speak to you first."

"I am glad you were so thoughtful, my love."

"But why is it, mother?" persisted Ethel. "I want to understand it, if I can."

"And I will try to explain it to you," replied Mrs. Fletcher. "If in doing so, I should be obliged to speak freely of the faults of others, you must remember that what I say is not to be repeated."

"I will, mother," said Ethel. "But tell me first what it is to fail, please, for I don't know exactly."

"When a man is unable to pay all his debts," said Mrs. Fletcher, "he is said to fail, or to become insolvent. This may come to pass in many different ways. He may have lived so extravagantly as to use up all his means, and then have run into debt for what he wanted till people would trust him no longer. He may have been imprudent in his business, by trusting those who were unworthy of confidence, and by selling his commodities to people who could not or would not pay him. He may have signed notes with other people to enable them to get money, not expecting to have to pay it himself, and then have been obliged to do so. Or he may suffer from the failure of others, and this was the case with your father."

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

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

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

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

"He loses his money," said Ethel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ethel almost wished it were any other day, but she was accustomed to implicit obedience, so she picked up her papers, and put away her colors with a very good grace. She tried hard to prevent the thought of her new employment from intruding on her prayers, and succeeded pretty well; but her dreams were haunted by pictures, and she thought of them the first thing in the morning. She could not resist the temptation to take a peep at her work of the night before, and had even taken her brush is hand to alter the shading of the old woman's cap, when she recollected herself, and put the pencil away with a blush.

"It would be as bad as Abby doing her arithmetic on Sunday, for fear she should not finish it before Holidays."

As her mother said, Ethel had too much the habit of drawing comparisons between Abby and herself. She was given to nourish a Pharisaic spirit of thanking God that she was not as others.

For once, Sunday seemed a long day to Ethel. She could not interest herself in her favorite pursuits—her Sunday-school book seemed dull, and she was tempted to speak harshly to the children several times in the course of the afternoon.

Her father remarked her impatience, and took an opportunity of saying gently, "Ethel, if your employment is going to spoil your Sundays, it would be better to give it up at once. Your earnings will cost more than they come to, if they lead you into sin."

Ethel acknowledged her fault, and made an effort to do better. She called the children to her, and began to tell them Bible stories. And when they were tired of that, she interested herself in her lessons for next Sunday, so that the afternoon passed more quickly than she had supposed possible.

Monday being washing day, Ethel had more work to do than usual, so that she had no time to touch her pictures before school. When she arrived at the school-house, she found Rosa and Bessy waiting for her, anxious to know the result of her conference with their uncle. Ethel told them of the bargain she had made.

"That is more than he gives us," remarked Bessy, rather inclined to be hurt at first.

"Ethel does them better than we," said sweet-tempered little Rosa. "You know uncle would not trust those flower paintings with us, for fear we should spoil them."

"And besides, Bessy," said Ethel, "you can do a good many more of the cheap ones than I can do of the nice ones, so it will come to just the same in the end."

Bessy, who cared rather more for the honor than for the money, was not quite satisfied with this argument, but she was contented when Ethel promised to give her lessons, that she might improve.

All this conversation was carried on in a low tone in a recess of the window apart from the other girls. And Abby, coming in while it was in progress, naturally approached the group to see what they were talking of.

Ethel, who was chatting very eagerly, checked herself at her cousin's approach: the other girls stopped because she did, and the whole party looked embarrassed.

"Talking secrets!" said Abby, carelessly, though she felt rather hurt at the sudden silence. "If you are, I won't intrude."

"We are through now, at any rate," said Ethel, laughing rather awkwardly.

"Oh, I don't want to creep in where I am not wanted," returned Abby, walking away. "I dare say I can find companions."

"Don't be silly, Abby," said Ethel, following her. "You know very well I am not fond of secrets. I will tell you all about it after school," she added, in a lower tone. "There is no privacy about it that I know of, only one don't want to be talking of every thing before the whole world."

Abby, always good-natured, allowed herself to be easily pacified, though she was very curious to learn what it was which was not to be talked of before the whole world.

Great was her wonderment when Ethel opened the matter to her as they were walking home. And when her cousin concluded with "Isn't it nice?" she answered—

"It may suit you, Ethel, but I would not do it for the world. What would Aunt Sally Bertie say, if she knew that you worked for money? Or suppose any ladies should come in and catch you at it, how ashamed you would be!"

"I don't see why," said Ethel. "Why should I be ashamed of working for money, any more than my father?"

"That is different, and besides, I don't believe your father likes it very well. Mother says she should think your father would be mortified enough to be only a book-keeper in an establishment where he has been head so long."

"I don't believe he cares," said Ethel, her face flushing with a feeling which she could not easily have defined.

"I don't know what mother will say, Ethel," Abby continued, without heeding her cousin's remark. "I know she would be very much mortified at the thought of my working for money. When Cousin Eliza stayed at our house, she used to give music lessons to the two Parkins girls, and mother always made her go round the back way, so that no one should see her. But I won't tell her about this, Ethel, if you don't want me to."

"You can do as you like about it, Abby," replied Ethel, with spirit. "I never intend to do any thing that I am ashamed of. But perhaps you would rather not be seen walking with any one that works for money."

"Now, Ethel, you know I did not mean any such thing. I don't care about it for myself. It is only what people will say, and I know they will think it strange."

"They may as well wonder at that as any thing else," said Ethel. "But good-bye, Abby. Come and see me, and I will show you what pretty work it is."

Abby promised, and walked home faster than usual, anxious to tell her mother all she had heard.

Mrs. Coles exclaimed, and wondered, and lamented, and being, though weak, rather an amiable woman, felt a sincere regret that her cousin should have fallen so low. Mr. Coles thought it just of a piece with their other conduct, and opined that Fletcher would not be ashamed to be seen driving a cart through the streets, if he could not find any thing else to do; in which opinion he came nearer to the truth than was always the case with him.

Poor Mrs. Coles was really distressed, and took the first opportunity of seeing Mrs. Bertie, to consult with her as to what could be done to awaken Mrs. Fletcher's sense of propriety, and save the family from any further degradation.

As she had expected, Mrs. Bertie flew into a passion, declared that her nephews and nieces were all fools together, and finally told Mrs. Coles to hold her tongue if she could, and leave the matter to her.

Mr. Coles was very well satisfied with the result of the conference, when his wife reported it to him. He had his own reasons for wishing the old lady to be not too well pleased with his cousin Fletcher. Whether he was as well satisfied in the end, may be discovered in the course of these pages.

Meantime Ethel spent all the time she could spare from her lessons and her house-work upon her pictures, laboring with more and more satisfaction as she perceived herself to improve. When she had finished a dozen of the common and one of the fine engravings, she took them down to Mr. Beckford's store to show them. Mr. Beckford approved of them, but told her that she took too much pains. "You might as well do them twice as fast, my dear young lady. I fear the price I named will not remunerate you for the labor you bestow upon them."

Ethel could not think for a moment what was the meaning of the long word Mr. Beckford had used, but when she had remembered that it meant pay, she answered gayly: "I like to make them look as pretty as I can, Mr. Beckford. It is much pleasanter."

"Well, well, my dear, that is the right spirit," replied Mr. Beckford, evidently much pleased. "I am quite satisfied with the pictures, and shall be able to give you as much employment as you desire from now till Christmas. Would you prefer to be paid by the piece, or have your money all together?"

After some consideration, Ethel decided that she would rather be paid by the piece. She felt as though it would be pleasant to see her hoard grow before her eyes; and there arose before her the image of a certain ivory box with a lock and key in which she meant to store her treasure.

Mr. Beckford went to his drawer and counted out six five-cent pieces and five three-cent pieces, besides a dime for the flower painting.

No money Ethel had ever possessed seemed in her eyes so valuable as this. She put it carefully into her purse, and taking her way homewards, she looked up at the shop windows, calculating what she could get for her mother and the boys; and she even went into a store to ask the price of a pretty little stained willow sewing chair, the same shape as a favorite one of her mother's which had been sold with the rest. It was marked two dollars, but the man said he would sell it for ten shillings.

"If I can only get enough to buy that for mother, how glad she will be," said she to herself; "but then I must get something for father and the boys, and for Abby, if I can."

And she plunged at once into a deep calculation as to the probable amount of her means—so deep that she did not notice how far she had gone, till she heard her name sharply called. And looking up, saw her aunt's face at the open window of her own house.

"Come in, Ethel," repeated her aunt more sharply than before. "I want to speak to you."

It was with no very pleasant feelings that Ethel mounted the steps. She divined at once that Aunt Sally had heard of her employment, and meant to call her to account for it. She entered the parlor with her bundle under her arm, and found herself face to face with her aunt, before she had exactly made up her mind what to say.

"Good afternoon to you, Miss Fletcher," said her aunt, making her grandest courtesy. "What is that bundle you have under your arm?"

"Pictures, Aunt Sally," said Ethel, her eyes sparkling rather mischievously. "Would you like to look at them? They are very pretty."

And before Mrs. Bertie, who was somewhat taken aback, could reply, she had opened her bundle and displayed her treasures, descanting upon their beauties, and calling her aunt's attention to the fact that the dog in old Mother Hubbard exactly resembled Mrs. Bertie's dog Fido.

Mrs. Bertie did not exactly know what to do next, for like a skilful general, Ethel had foiled her tactics by marching out of her intrenchments, and attacking, instead of waiting to be assaulted. However, she did not mean to give it up so easily, so she tried another way.

"What are you going to do with all these pictures?" she asked.

"I am going to paint them, aunt. Then Y shall give them back to Mr. Beckford, and he will pay me the money for them. I have earned fifty-five cents already."

"Umph!" said her aunt, drily. "What are you going to do with so much money?"

"I am going to buy Christmas presents with it, if I get enough."

"I should think your father might let you have money for such a purpose, without your degrading yourself by working for a bookseller," said Mrs. Bertie.

"Why is it degrading, aunt?" asked Ethel.

"Because it is!" was the short reply.

"Father cannot afford to give me money now," pursued Ethel, "and mother said I might earn some if I could. So I got these pictures to paint, and really, Aunt Sally, I like it very much. It is pretty work, in the first place, and then there is all the time a pleasure in thinking you are going to be paid for it!"

"The long and the short of the matter is, Ethel, that you must leave off this business at once—at once, do you hear?" said Mrs. Bertie, growing angry as usual on finding herself opposed. "If you don't, you need never expect any thing from me. Perhaps you think, because you are my relative, that I am bound to leave my fortune to you, whether or no; but I can tell you, you will find yourself mistaken. I will never leave you one penny, unless you do as I tell you in this matter."

"You must do as you like about that, Aunt Sally," said Ethel, modestly but firmly. "If you think I shall take any more pains to please you because you are rich, you are very much mistaken. I should do it just as much if you were as poor as old Mammy Rachel."

"And pray, who taught you such fine sentiments, Miss Fletcher?"

"My mother taught me, aunt. She said—" and here Ethel stopped, for she was not quite sure that she ought to repeat what her mother had said.

"Well, what did she say? Come, don't be afraid."

"I am afraid you won't like it, Aunt Sally; but mother said we children ought to take pains to come and see you, and to please you when we could, because you are an old lady, and not very strong, and have no children of your own to wait on you and be company for you."

"Umph!" said Mrs. Sally again. "And so you come here out of pity, I suppose, and not because you find it pleasant?"

"No, aunt, I like to come, only—"

"Only when I am cross, I suppose."

"I don't mind any thing you say to me, aunt, but I don't like it when you talk about my father and mother as you do sometimes, and I do not think it is right. If it were not for that, I should always like to come here, for you have been very kind to me ever since I can remember."

Mrs. Bertie was silent for a few moments, and Ethel could not tell whether she was angry or not.

Presently she said: "Suppose I should give you the money to buy your presents with,—would not that do as well?"

"No, aunt, because they would be your presents and not mine."

"Well, then, I will make a bargain with you. You shall come and read to me two hours a day, and I will pay you as much for that as you can earn by painting. We will read something you like—say Miss Yonge's stories—and when they are finished you shall have them for your own."

Ethel hesitated. The offer was certainly a tempting one, for she was fond of reading aloud, and she had been very anxious to read the books in question.

Mrs. Bertie thought she had gained the day, when all at once Ethel's face changed.

"Auntie, I don't see how I can do it, though I should like it very much. You see I have made a bargain with Mr. Beckford, so that he depends upon me for the work, and I know he could not easily find any one else to do it, if I should give it up. I don't think it would be honorable for me to creep out of my agreement, and break my word, because I find something to do that I like better, do you?"

Quite unconsciously, Ethel had touched the old lady upon her most assailable side. She had, as we have said, a high sense of honor, and her ideas of integrity were very strict.

"You are quite right, Ethel," she replied, after a little thought. "If you have made an agreement with this person, you must not break it on any account. But, my dear, you must consult me another time, before you make a bargain."

Ethel smiled, but she did not promise to do so, though she was glad to see that her aunt's ill-humor was fast passing away. "I will come and read to you any day when I have time, aunt, if you like to hear me. I love to read aloud."

"Very good," replied Mrs. Bertie. "Come when you please, I shall always be glad to see you. And, my dear, you must not think I am angry with you or your mother for your plain speaking. I believe you always tell the truth, and that is more than I can think of some folks. Now run home, for the old woman is tired with so much talking."

Ethel kissed her aunt and went her way, much pleased with the result of the dreaded conference, and not a little satisfied with herself for the part she had played in it.

Mrs. Bertie sat alone for some time, apparently thinking deeply. At last she rang the bell, and sent the man-servant to summon her lawyer, with whom she had a long conference, and of whom she made some particular inquiries respecting her nephew, George Fletcher.

Mr. Simonton, the lawyer, being an honest man himself, had a great admiration of the same quality in others, and he gave Mrs. Bertie such an account of Mr. Fletcher as greatly raised him in his aunt's estimation: one consequence of which was, that the next time Mr. Coles ventured in his aunt's presence to lament over the obstinacy and folly of his cousins, he was politely informed by his relative that George Fletcher was an honest man, and an honorable man, which was more than could be said of all the family.

ETHEL'S work went on prosperously, and by the Christmas week she had finished all her pictures. Christmas came on Saturday, and on Thursday she went to carry them home.

It was rather late, and the store was full of people buying Christmas presents, so that even Mr. Beckford was hurried for once. He hastily counted over the pictures, said they were all right and very pretty, and handing her the money, he went to attend to the customers who were calling upon him.

Ethel had waited for some time in the store, and it was almost dark when she came out. She had a nervous dread of being out late in the street, and hurried home without looking at her money which she had put into her glove.

"Make haste down, Ethel," said her mother, as she went up-stairs to put away her bonnet and shawl, "I want you to help me."

Ethel obeyed, and dropped her money into the box without counting, or even looking at it. She was very busy all the evening helping her mother finish up the ironing and mending, that nothing might be left to do on the morrow.

When she went up to bed, however, she took her box from its hiding place, and prepared to count her treasure. She spread it out upon the table, and there among the quarters and dimes lay a bright yellow quarter-eagle!

How could it have come there? Ethel picked it up and looked at it, admiring the beauty of the coin. It almost doubled the amount of her finances, but there arose the question as to whether she had any right to it. She did not think she had earned so much, but then she could not exactly remember how many pictures she had painted.

Now the right course would have been for Ethel to go directly to Mr. Beckford, and ask him if he had intended to pay her the extra sum; but here arose a temptation.

"If this money were mine, I could buy that willow chair for mother, and a piece of pretty chintz to make a cushion for it, and yet have enough to get Tom the ten-pins he wants so much."

If Ethel had done as she had been taught, she would have put the whole matter aside till she had said her prayers and asked to be guided in the right way. But the confidence in herself which had been increasing for some time put, had arrived at such a pitch, that she no longer felt so much the need of Divine direction. She considered herself, as she said, competent to manage her own affairs; and when a little girl or a large girl arrives at that point, that girl is in great danger of a sad fall. She began to debate the matter with herself, but consciously or unconsciously she looked only at one side of the argument.

"Mr. Beckford said I did the pictures better than any one else, and that the price he first named would not pay for the trouble; so perhaps he meant to give me more. I am sure my work is worth a great deal more than Bessy's and Rosa's."

If Ethel had known Mr. Beckford better, she would have been aware, that though he often gave money away, he never on any occasion paid more than he felt himself bound to do. Neither was she entirely satisfied with her own reasoning, though she tried very hard to be so. If she had been, she would have gone to her father with the matter, and she would have said her prayers without that uneasy feeling at her heart which made them an unwelcome task; nor would the text she had lately learned in school have recurred so vividly to her memory:

   "'If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.'"

It was with the same uneasy feeling that she awoke in the morning and came down to breakfast without having again looked at her money.

At the breakfast table she was rather silent, and her father said smilingly—

"You seem rather absent, my daughter; are you calculating the amount of your capital?"

"How much have you got, Ethel?" asked little Tom.

"Perhaps Ethel would rather not tell how much she has," remarked her mother, seeing that Ethel looked a little disturbed. "We must not question her too closely. I suppose you will like to go out this morning to make your purchases, my dear: don't be too extravagant; you know you will want spending money after holidays are over."

Ethel knew that very well, but she wanted still more to buy the willow chair for her mother. She put the gold piece into her purse with the rest of her money, saying to herself that a person so careful in money matters as every one said Mr. Beckford was, would never have made such a mistake, and that he must have done it on purpose. Still she did not feel easy about it, and it was not with a very light heart that she set out to make her purchases, intending first to do some errands for the family: for Ethel had learned to be quite a little market-woman, and could judge very sensibly between different qualities of sugar and tea!

She sighed as she concluded her list of small purchases at the family grocer's, thinking of the large orders they had been accustomed to make at this time of the year.

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.

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!"

"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.

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

THE CHRISTMAS TREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Bertie had left written directions for her funeral along with her will, in the hands of Mr. Simonton; and according to the tenor of them, the families of both her nephews were provided with handsome mourning at her expense.

The funeral was put off for a week, greatly to the secret annoyance of Mr. Coles, who was all impatience to have the will opened. He had long felt pretty sure in his own mind that Abby would be her aunt's heiress, but recent events had somewhat shaken his confidence, and he felt rather nervous about it. As he told his wife in the carriage going up to the cemetery, "She was such an unaccountable old piece, no one ever knew where to have her, or what to expect from her."

"For shame! father," said Abby, who had not been brought up to be as respectful in her manners as was desirable. "How dare you speak so of poor Aunt Sally, now she is dead and gone? I am sure she was always good to us." And Abby, who really loved Aunt Sally for her own sake, began to cry afresh.

Mr. Coles was silent, and Mrs. Coles made a moral reflection upon the vanity of earthly things. She always had a moral reflection ready for every occasion, and Aunt Sally used to tell her that she talked like a copy-book.

After the funeral, the family again met at the house to hear the reading of the will.

Mr. Coles' face was properly solemn, but he could not help glancing around the rooms and estimating the probable value of the furniture, &c. Mrs. Coles had already decided that she should send it all to auction, or perhaps give it to her cousin Fletcher. Abby and Ethel sat side by side on the sofa, Ethel holding poor little Fido, who missed his kind mistress sadly, and watched the door eagerly with his black eyes, as though he expected to see her enter! As often as a hand was laid on the lock, he brightened up and wagged his tail; and at every fresh disappointment, he gave a little whine, and drew up closer to Ethel, as though asking her sympathy in his bereavement.

When Mr. Simonton finally read the will, it astonished every one but himself. Mrs. Bertie began by bequeathing her wardrobe and her jewels, of which she had a splendid collection, to her grandniece Abby Coles, and a thousand dollars to Abby's father. The house, with its contents, was given to Ethel, on condition that she should take care of the dog and parrot as long as they lived. Three or four valuable pictures, and a cabinet of shells, were to go to Mr. Simonton; there were some legacies to servants, and then all the rest of her property, amounting to about sixty thousand dollars, was bequeathed "to my beloved nephew George Fletcher, in whose integrity and Christian principles I have the utmost confidence." There was no condition attached, but Mrs. Bertie expressed a wish that her cousin should live in the house, and keep the furniture, at least till Ethel should come of age.

Mr. Fletcher was as much amazed as any one by this sudden change in his circumstances, for he had never taken any particular pains to court Mrs. Bertie, and she had been so angry at him for his failure, that he supposed himself to have lost her favor forever. He could hardly realize what had happened; and it was not till Mr. Simonton, having finished the will, begged to congratulate him upon his good fortune, that he felt himself to be awake. He returned the grasp of Mr. Simonton's hand warmly; but if he had known how much he was indebted to the good little man's representations, he would have returned it more warmly still.

Mr. and Mrs. Coles were still more astonished than their cousin. Mr. Coles, indeed, could hardly believe his ears, and asked to look at the will, which Mr. Simonton politely put into his hands, with the gratifying remark that he would find it perfectly formal and correct.

"Well, Fletcher," he said, bitterly enough, but trying to smile, "you have played your cards cleverly, I must allow, and won the game. I believe you understood the old lady better than I did, after all."

"It may be well for those to play such a game who can stoop to it," said Mrs. Coles, who was as angry as her husband, and had less prudence. "For my part, I should be ashamed of it."

"Cousin Anna," said Mr. Fletcher calmly, "do not say any thing which you will afterwards be sorry for. You are angry now, and not in a condition to weigh your words. You both know very well that I never courted Aunt Sally's favor by subserviency, though I always intended to treat her with all the respect due to her age and our relationship. No one can be more surprised than myself at the disposition she has made of her property, with which, let me remind you, she had a perfect right to do as she pleased."

Meantime Ethel and Abby were talking on the sofa.

"You are quite an heiress now, Ethel," said Abby, who, childlike, was perfectly satisfied with the prospect of possessing all Aunt Sally's cashmere shawls and diamonds. "Only think how funny it will seem to own a house, and such a large one too!"

"It seems very strange," said Ethel. "I cannot feel right about it somehow. One minute I feel pleased to think we are going to be well off again, and the next it seems wicked to be glad of any thing that comes from Aunt Sally's dying. I am sure I will always take care of you, dear Fido," she continued, addressing the dog, and hugging him in her arms, "and of poor old Polly, too. I hope you will both live to be fifty years old."

"I am glad she did not leave him to me, for I don't like dogs much," said Abby; "not but that I would have taken as good care of him as I could. Well, Ethel, I am very glad that your father has the money, for now we shall be alike again. It always made me feel mean to be dressed up myself and have every thing that I wanted, while you were wearing all your old things, and living in that little stuck-up house."

So spoke Abby, whose naturally kind and generous disposition had not been spoiled by the worldly influences to which she had been subjected, and who was perhaps too young to understand exactly what she had lost by her cousin's gain.

It was with no small pleasure that the Fletcher family took possession of their new abode, where every thing was kept as far as possible unaltered, out of respect to Aunt Sally's memory. Mrs. Coles, was very ready to be on friendly terms with her cousins again, after the first heat of her disappointment had passed away, advised them to have the house papered, or at least to cover up that hideous old brown India paper in the dining room.

But Mrs. Fletcher only smiled and said the house was Ethel's, and Ethel cherished a great admiration for the processions of elephants and long-tailed Chinamen, and Chinese ladies drinking tea out of thimbles, with their little fingers turned up in the air, and would not hear of their being covered: so every thing remained just as it had been for thirty years past.

Fido mourned for his mistress a long time, but he gradually became attached to his new friends, especially to Ethel, who occupied her aunt's bed-room, and seems likely to live to a good old age.

The first use Mr. Fletcher made of his means was to pay off all his remaining debts, after which he felt himself a free man once more. It was with a wonderful satisfaction that when the last receipt was signed, he walked into a bookstore and gave an order for new books.

"Here come the books, mother!" said Ethel laughing, as the large package made its appearance. "Father is going back to his old ways, and you will soon be saying again—'I wish there was one table in the house, that was not covered three deep with books.' After all, mother, I feel rather sorry to leave the little house. It seems as if I had learned more there than I ever knew in all my life before."

"I have no doubt of that, my dear Ethel," replied her mother. "Experience is a hard teacher, but her lessons are worth all they cost. I only hope we shall none of us forget in prosperity the lessons we learned in adversity, nor to thank God for all His mercies to us. We may truly say with the Psalmist: 'We went through fire and through water: but Thou broughtest us out into a wealthy place.'"