“Oh, Mrs. Keith,” she exclaimed, “I can’t write fast, and I’m ever so afraid that Mrs. Coote will call us to come home before I could possibly get the letter done!”
“Well, then, suppose I write it at your dictation, and you sign it when finished,” said the lady.
Ethel gave a joyful assent, dictated quite rapidly, telling of Harry’s sore punishment for his slight fault, and the severity to which they were all subjected more or less, and begging that they might be taken from the care of those who treated them so ill; adding that she was almost sure Harry would be a good boy if he were with someone who would be kind and patient with him; but Mr. Coote was never that.
“There, I believe that is all I need to say, Mrs. Keith,” concluded the little girl.
“Well, dear child,” said Mrs. Keith, “suppose you sit down here and add in your own handwriting that this has been, written at your dictation, and sign your name to it.”
Ethel did so, Mrs. Keith directed an envelope, enclosed the letter in it, and sent it by a trusty messenger directly to the post-office.
“Oh,” asked Ethel, “do you think, Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Keith, that my uncles can be angry with me for doing this?”
“No, dear, I am very sure they would never be willing to have their brother’s orphan children so ill treated,” said Mrs. Weston, “and I think they will not let many days pass before they come to see about it.”
Mrs. Keith expressed the same opinion and the little girl gave a sigh of relief; then her face clouded.
“But oh, I shall be so sorry to go away where I can never see you dear ladies!” she exclaimed, looking lovingly into their faces, while tears gathered in her eyes—“or little Mary again.”