Signing the Contract and What it Cost

“Dear child, sorrow and care will sometimes press heavily; you will sadly miss the old loves; but take heart: ‘He careth for you,’ He who loves you with a greater, tenderer love than a mother’s, and hath all power in heaven and in earth.”

“Good news, I see! and I’m real glad for you, poor child!” said Hetty softly, as she handed Floy a cup of fragrant tea and a slice of hot buttered toast, and in so doing caught the look of sweet peace and joy in the dewy eyes lifted from the letter to her face.

“Good news? oh, yes indeed! that I’m not forgotten, that I’m loved and cared for still by – ”

“Ah, yes, don’t I know how nice it is to be remembered by home friends when you’re far away!” Hetty put in quickly, as the low, tremulous tones faltered and fell, and Floy hastily drew out her handkerchief to wipe away the tears she could not keep back.

“I too,” said John, buttering his toast and taking a sip of tea; “a fellow gets awfully homesick sometimes at school, and a letter such as you, for instance, dash off once in a while, Het, does him a world of good.”

“News from home,” whispered Floy to herself, as she laid her weary head upon her pillow; “yes, from my Father’s house; a sweet message from my Elder Brother on the throne, reminding me anew that He cares for me; how strange that, knowing that, I can ever be sad and anxious!”

It was the last waking thought. But, alas! what a pang of remembrance came with the first moment of returning consciousness! One year ago how loved and cared for, to-day how lonely and forsaken!

Ah no, not that! “He careth for you,” sweetly whispered the Comforter to her aching heart, and she was comforted.

A few quiet tears dropped upon her pillow, but they were not all of sadness.

A faint rustling sound came from the bed on the other side of the room, then a whisper from Hetty.

“Merry Christmas, mothery! how are you this morning?”

“Oh, I’m splendid! I’m going to say everything’s splendid now. Merry Christmas to you too. I wish I had a million to give you.”

“A million of what, mothery?” laughed the girl.

“Dollars, to be sure! But what is it Shakespeare says?”

“Don’t know, mothery; but it’s getting light, and I must get up and see about breakfast.”

“Yes, and we’re to have Indian; Thorne insisted on it.”

“What in the world is that?” thought Floy, raising her head to look at Hetty, who was making a hasty but very quiet toilet.

“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!” they cried simultaneously, ending in a merry laugh.

“We’ll exchange Yankee sixpences when we get our faces washed,” said Hetty. “Breakfast in twenty minutes precisely. Indian all hot and hot!” and with the last word she darted from the room.

“Thorne gives a good bit o’ trouble one way and another,” observed Mrs. Goodenough, who had risen also and was dressing much more deliberately than Hetty had done; “he’ll have what he wants in spite of everything (in the line of trouble to other folks ’specially). But then there ain’t many that’s equivalent to him in learning. There isn’t anything but what he’s read; he knows everything. So it’s quite natural Prue should be proud of him and spoil him with humoring all his whims.”

“Do we all breakfast together this morning, Mrs. Goodenough?” asked Floy.

“Yes; but I’m going to wear this thick wrapper; it’s not handsome or dressy, but the comfort supersedes the outward appearance.”

With this remark she left the room.

Floy was glad of the few moments of solitude thus afforded her. It was growing light, and she found time before the call to breakfast for another peep at her precious letter. She hurried down at the first stroke of the bell, anxious to avoid meeting the Sharps on the stairway.

Patsy, in her ordinary soiled, frowsy-headed, slipshod condition, was setting the chairs up to the table, on which Mrs. Goodenough and Hetty were arranging an unusually inviting meal.

“Don’t delude yourself with the hope that you are about to be regaled upon pound-cake, Miss Kemper,” remarked Hetty, placing a loaf of hot corn-pone near Floy’s plate, another at the farther end of the board.

“No, it’s only Indian,” said Mrs. Goodenough, “but it’s splendid, and more than equivalent to pound-cake for breakfast.”

“Yes indeed,” said Floy, “I greatly prefer it, at any rate; I’m extremely fond of good corn-bread.”

“Well, Hetty’s is always superior to the best.”

“Superior to the best, eh?” sneered the Thorne, as with pompous air he came leisurely in and took his accustomed seat. “Madam, that is a contradiction in terms.”

“Well, if it isn’t good enough for you, you needn’t eat it,” she returned indifferently; “but let’s sit down and begin while it’s hot.”

The Thorne was evidently in no holiday mood. “Where are the children?” he demanded, with a scowl, glancing about upon the empty seats as he took up the carving knife and fork.

“Don’t wait for them; they’ll be here presently,” said his wife.

“Presently, madam!” he growled; “they ought to have been ready an hour ago. You are bringing up your children to ruinous habits of self-indulgence.”

“Example is better than precept,” Hetty could not help remarking.

“And pray, miss, what do you mean by that?” he asked, turning almost fiercely upon her.

“Surely a man of Mr. Sharp’s talent and erudition can have no difficulty in understanding words so simple,” she replied, with a twinkle of fun in her eye.

“Come, don’t let’s quarrel to-day of all days in the year,” put in her mother good-humoredly. “Here’s John, anyhow,” as the lad came briskly in with a “Merry Christmas to you all!”

“Where have you been, sir, that you are so late to this very late breakfast?” asked his father, ignoring the greeting.

“Round to the grocer’s on the corner, sir.”

“Doing an errand for me,” said Hetty, “and he’s not to be scolded; for if it hadn’t been for him – getting me kindling to hurry up my fire, and assisting in various ways – breakfast would have been later than it is.”

“Where now, Prudence?”

Mrs. Sharp had risen hastily and pushed back her chair.

“I must go up and see if Araminta is sick, Thorne; the poor thing was too tired yesterday with her journey to do anything but lounge about.”

“Humph! I dare say; you are ruining that child with your coddling.”

“Ah, here she comes! Lucian too,” said Mrs. Sharp in a relieved tone, resuming her seat as the door opened and a girl of fifteen, looking only half awake and far from neat, in a loose, somewhat soiled morning dress and hair in crimps, came languidly in, followed by a lad some four years older, the veritable counterpart of his father in appearance and manners.

The latter had a scowl and rebuke for each, which were received as matters of course.

“Don’t scold ’em, Thorne,” said their aunt; “the poor things have so much book attention when they’re at school!”

“You’re rather late, children,” the mother remarked, helping them bountifully; “times are changed since you were little things. Then we could hardly keep you from waking us too soon Christmas morning.”

“That was when we were children indeed, and hung up our stockings,” said Lucian, “and didn’t know what was in them. Now you just give us the money and let us buy for ourselves.”