Part 3 (2/2)

Aunt Maria had some very stylish friends who occasionally visited her.

They sent word beforehand concerning their coming, and great preparations were made. On the day of their arrival, the little folks were arrayed in their very best, and Edith and Mabel took their dolls, and were seated in the parlor, that they might not get into the least disorder.

”Mrs. Featherfew is very particular,” said Aunt Maria. ”She will be sure to take notice, if you don't behave splendidly.”

”I'll be glad when she's been and gone,” remarked Johnnie.

Mrs. Featherfew however was quite different from what the children had been led to expect. She was a slender pretty looking lady, who seemed to float down the long parlor, she walked so lightly and gracefully, her long silk dress trailing behind her. The next day the two little girls amused themselves by playing ”Mrs. Featherfew,” Edith putting on a long gown of her aunt's for the purpose.

Two very elegant children came with Mrs. Featherfew, Wilhelmine and Victorine. They spoke very primly and politely, and seemed to our little folks like grown-up ladies cut down short. But when after dinner they all went out into the grounds to play, Mine and Rine, as they called each other, could play as merrily as the others.

The little girl to whom the dolly had been lent happened to be looking through the palings, just when the fun was at its height. She had rather a dirty face, and a very torn dress.

”Do look at that impertinent creature actually staring at us, as if she belonged here!” exclaimed Victorine, with amazement.

”Go right away, child,” said Wilhelmine.

Now as these little girls were guests themselves, they were taking too much responsibility in ordering anybody off. Edith's face flushed, and she felt vexed. She would have preferred, after all her Aunt Maria had said about it, to have the Alley children keep a little more distance; but she could not let anybody hurt their feelings.

”That little girl is a friend of mine, Wilhelmine,” spoke out the loyal little soul bravely. It was not in Edith, to be ashamed of any friend, no matter how humble.

Wilhelmine looked surprised, and Johnnie went on to tell how they had gotten acquainted. Before he had finished, the little visitors were so interested in the ragged girl, that they each gave her a bright five-cent piece.

So Edith did good by her fearlessness. We never know how much good we may do, by speaking according to our conscience.

The Featherfew girls had a very nice time, and went away well pleased; but they told their mamma that the Evans children were very droll.

”It's the way they have been brought up, I imagine,” said Mrs.

Featherfew.

Two or three days after that, the children were in a part of the garden, in which was a bridge over a darling little brook, as Edith called it.

They were expecting their parents by the first steamer, and Johnnie had been gathering a basket of the ripest and reddest cherries he could find, to have them all ready for offering to mamma on her arrival. As he was running lightly over the bridge, his foot slipped, and he came near falling in, but Edith and Mabel flew to the rescue, and held him up by his cap, and his curls, and his arm, till he recovered his balance. One foot was very wet. It had gone ”way, way in,” and in that condition, splashed and barefoot, for he pulled off the wet boot and stocking, he went back to the house with the girls.

Just as they reached the front door, a carriage drove up. A gentleman sprang out, and lifted a lady next, and the servants began to take off the bags and trunks. Could that be mamma? It needed only a glance to satisfy the eager children, and in a moment all three were rapturously hugging and kissing her and their father.

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Mamma had grown quite plump and rosy. She was ever so much better, and Johnnie asked, the first thing, whether she could bear a noise now.

”A little noise, dear, I hope,” she said smiling. It had been a great trial to Johnnie to keep so still as had been necessary when they were at home.

”She is not so very strong yet, Master John,” said Mr. Evans. ”I'm afraid an earthquake or a volcano would use her up. We'll have to take care of her yet awhile.”

But the children found that they had gotten their old mamma back. She was a great deal nicer than anybody else, they thought.

That night, when it grew almost bedtime, and Chloe appeared as usual at the parlor door, with the candles on a silver tray, and the great silver snuffers, ready to light the young folks up stairs, they went and kissed their father and mother and Aunt Maria for good night. But when they were undressed, and the little dresses and skirts were hung smoothly over the chairs, the little shoes and stockings set side by side on the floor, and the little nightgowns on, somebody came quietly in, somebody who sat down in the rocking-chair, and with one little white-robed figure in her lap, and another with an arm thrown around her neck, and another on a footstool at her feet, heard their hymns, and told them a little story, and listened while each prayed to the dear Saviour. The three little hearts were satisfied that night, because they had had their mother to comfort them and bless them again.

A few days after that, they bade good-by to the beautiful seaside home, and to Luce, and the black cat, and the horses and cow, the geese and the chickens. To Miss Rose and Aunt Maria they gave a very warm invitation to come and see them in their own home.

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