“Christ’s people?”

“Yes, like them in trade, at least.  They are poor and need help—­”

“Are we rich people now, and can we buy things for them?”

“Your grandfather left you a great deal of money, children, and you must learn to use it generously.  It was his wish, and mine, that you should begin at once to think about such things before you learn to love money for its own sake, and what it will buy.”

“O, we don’t care at all, do we, sister?” said Beth, stretching up on tiptoe to get her “bawheady” from the bureau.  “We’d just as lief give it away as not, ’cause we’ve always you, mother dear.”

“Is the money more than grandmother’s gold dollar?” asked Ethelwyn.

“Much more.”

“O, then we’ll have fun spending it for folks; I’d like to.  But, oh, I’m hungrier than I ever was before.”

“Me, too,” said Beth.  “I feel a great big appeltite inside me.”

They decided at once that the dining-room also was charming, with its cheery open fire of snapping pine knots, for the air outside was chilly.  Then, too, there was a parrot on a pole, who greeted them with, “Well, well, well, what’s all this?  Did you ever?”

Miss Dorothy Stevens had the kind of face that children take to at once.  There never could be any question about Aunty Stevens, who laughed every time they said anything, and who on top of their excellent breakfast, brought them in some most delicious cookies—­just the kind you would know she could make, sugary and melty, entirely perfect, in fact,—­to take down on the beach for luncheon.

After breakfast was over they at once started for the beach.  Sierra Nevada, their colored nurse, following them with small buckets, shovels, wraps, and cushions.

“Mother, this is the nicest place, and I love the Stevenses; but why are they sad around the eyes, and dressed in black, like you?  Has their father gone to Paradise too?” asked Ethelwyn, as they walked along.

“Yes, dear.  Besides, the young captain whom Dorothy was going to marry went away last year and, his ship was wrecked and he has never been heard from.  So they fear he was drowned.”

“O, mother, can this pretty sea do that?  What was it they were saying about a tide?”

Their mother tried to explain all she knew about the tides, and when she had finished, Ethelwyn said: 

“I think it would be easier to remember to call it tied, and then untied.”

CHAPTER III Beth and Her Dolls

    Dollie’s poor mother is quite full of care,
      As she who lived in a shoe,
    For this child is tousled, this one undressed—­
      Mother has all she can do. 
    More dollies there are, than possible clothes,
      Some of them must go to bed. 
    And some to be healed by mother with glue,
      Lacking an arm or a head. 
    Then others, wearing the invalid’s clothes,
      Care not a fling or a jot
    Nor know that to-morrow their own fate may be
      The bed, or the mucilage pot.