One eventful morning, when the twins were but two years old and their sister Grace a baby, their father had gone down with some workmen in the rough bucket to the bottom of the largest mine, when a mass of heavy stone near the top became detached and fell, carrying death and sorrow into the family at the big white house. Mrs. David had not long survived her husband, and so the twins and their little sister were suddenly left orphans.
The children were too young to remember much of their father or their mother, and under the care of their Aunt Clarissa and Uncle Nathan they had been allowed to grow up like young wild flowers—much as they pleased.
There were no children near them with whom they were allowed to associate, for the coldness that had existed between the Hewes family and the Frothinghams had, on the latter's part, grown to the verge of hatred, and the two mansions were seven miles apart.
Insensibly the boys had imbibed some of the mannerisms of their stern, hot-tempered uncle, and had been influenced by the airs and affectations of the proud and haughty Mrs. Frothingham. But their devotion and love for one another it was almost pathetic to have seen.
If William, who was the elder, thought anything, George seemed to appreciate it without an expression from his brother, and both fairly worshipped their little sister Grace. She accompanied them in all but their longer rambles, and was their comrade in many of their adventures and misfortunes.
Since they were babies they had been placed more or less under the care and tutelage of the old colored man, Cato Sloper, and his wife, Polly Ann. The children loved their aunt and uncle in a certain indefinite way, but their real affections went out toward their foster-mother and their faithful black adherent.
With this short excursion into the history of the Frothinghams, we come back again to the banks of the clear deep pool.
After Cato, the old colored man, had departed, the boy in the blue breeches called across to the other, who had baited his hook afresh: "George," he said, "we ought not to have taken Gracie with us this morning. Aunt Clarissa will be angrier than an old wet hen."
"Won't she? Just fancy!" said the young lady in white, quite demurely. Then she laughed, quite in tune with the waterfall.