"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?"