"But," Mr. Villars proceeded, "there are some things you can do. You can embroider and paint, and do many fancy works for which the rich are ready to pay money. Mary understands music well. She may give lessons in music, and you can both of you teach a few small children. In this way, that is, by doing whatever you can, you may make enough to clothe yourselves. This is all I shall expect you to do at present,—I will pay all your other expenses; and also I will continue to pay for your French, Italian, and music lessons, till you have become so perfectly acquainted with them as to be able to teach them yourselves. You will then be always able to support yourselves respectably, even when you have no Uncle Villars to help you."
I cannot attempt to describe to you the feelings with which Mary and Ellen had listened to their uncle. They scarcely understood him, and what they did understand seemed like a strange dream. That they, who had always been waited on and surrounded with every luxury, should be obliged to work for money to buy their clothes—just like those whom they had been accustomed to call the poor—it seemed impossible; and they looked at Mr. Villars steadily, with the hope that they should discover something like a smile—something which would make them believe that it was a jest, or, as Ellen said to herself, "just done to frighten me." But on Uncle Villars' face there was no smile—all was graver, sadder than usual. He read their thoughts, and, as if to assure them of the truth of what he had said, told them to put on their bonnets and he would show them their future home. They obeyed him, and he took them to that small plain house in which I found them living, and introduced them to Mrs. Maclean as her future lodgers.
The next day Mr. Villars called at Colonel Melville's, and having related to him and Mrs. Melville his arrangements for Mary and Ellen, asked what they thought of them. They both exclaimed together, "They will never do—they will never do!"
"Why," proceeded Colonel Melville, "here are two children, Villars—two mere children—the eldest is only fifteen, I believe;" he paused, and Mr. Villars nodded. "Well, these children, hardly out of the nursery, you are going to—"
Mr. Villars interrupted him somewhat impatiently, "Going to place them in a comfortable room, with a kind and honest woman—going to demand of them that they shall do just as much as they can to help themselves, and no more; for all which they cannot do without injury to their health, I will. My children shall not want—at least while I live," and the old man's voice trembled. "From you, my friends, I ask that while I am absent you will watch over them. Do not let them want any thing necessary for comfort. I have told them to come to you, Mrs. Melville, for advice in their outlay of money. I would wish their wardrobe to be suited to their circumstances—plain, but neat, respectable, and comfortable. If it be necessary at any time, Melville, advance money for them, and I will repay you."
"Mr. Villars," said Mrs. Melville, earnestly, "I will do all you wish, if you persist in this plan, but I pray you think better of it. I do not doubt that Mrs. Brown would take Mary into her school as a sub-governess, and her services in this capacity would pay for Ellen's board and tuition, till she could do something for herself."
"My dear Mrs. Melville, I have not told you all the reasons which make me prefer my plan to yours—fair as yours seems. Poor Ellen's ungoverned temper must be subdued; but before Mrs. Brown could reduce her into a proper behaved boarding-school Miss, she must inflict and Ellen endure a course of discipline which would break Mary's heart to witness. Now I would give Ellen a discipline which she cannot escape from—which she will feel it is vain to fret against—which will be steady and unyielding, but never cruel and tyrannical,—the discipline which was God's own appointment for man—labor and privation. Do you think me right now?" he asked.
"I think that you may be. I hope that you are," said Mrs. Melville.