One evening Austin and the children were coming home from their work in the gardens, tired and lonely. They could not get used to coming to the house so quiet and empty. Home was not as it used to be, but the brave children were making the best of it.
“I wonder if there will be a letter from Papa,” Amy said as they drew near the mail-box, “and if he has a new home for us yet. I should like to see Grandma, and I do want to see Doyle and Lila.” Harry, running on ahead, reached into the box and drew out a letter, at sight of which the other children quickened their steps. It was addressed to Austin and was in their father’s handwriting:
“Dear Austin, I have gotten things in shape to have you children come to me. I will send you tickets in a few days. In the meantime dispose of the things in the house excepting what you can bring in your trunks. Uncle John will help you do this and see that you get started all right. Write me a card early enough so that I shall know when to meet you. We are all well. Henry Hill.”
Austin was trembling all over with excitement mingled with tears. He was glad for the change, for the loneliness was nearly killing him, but he hated to leave Uncle John and his family, and all the neighbors, and Mother’s grave. He had almost ceased to hope that his father would send for them, but here was the letter at last.
Henry Hill was careless, we must admit, in his duty, but he was not careless of the opinions of others. Be had been stung to the quick more than once by the insinuations and admonitions of his parents and acquaintances that he was not doing his duty by his children. His mother especially nagged him about it. He might have passed her words off as the whims of childishness, but she was not alone in her condemnations.
“Henry, you are not doing right. Austin is only a little boy and you are laying on him too great a burden,” she would say.
“That is where you are mistaken, Mother. Austin is as tall as I am, and plenty strong enough to do all he is doing. They are getting along fine. Austin says so in his letters,” he would answer.
“You are not doing right,” retorted his mother, and her tones implied more than her words.
It seemed strange to Mr. Hill that he could not make any one understand the situation. Austin had been willing to stay. He had expressed no reluctance at all, and every week brought a letter from the children telling how well they were getting along. He was not hurt by any remorse at their words, but it seemed to him that they were unnecessarily partial to Austin in their judgment, and he felt a sort of animosity toward him on that account. Austin was only doing his duty by the children, so why should he be so praised and pitied? But a man can not long stand the bite of a fly without flinching, and Henry Hill found that he must do something to rid himself of these criticisms. He hated to do it, but he would have to send for the children and again set up housekeeping.
“O Elizabeth,” he thought, “why did you have to be taken from me when I need you so much? If you were here, I would not have all this to bear. You made my life easy and happy.”
It was with satisfaction that Mother Hill listened to her son explain that he had already sent for the children and must look for a house for them.
After a hasty toilet and a little to eat the children took the letter over to Uncle John’s. Mr. Moore read it through, then sat still for a while without comment. At last he spoke, “What does Henry mean by laying such heavy responsibility upon the boy? No instructions, no plans! One would think he believed Austin to be of age.”
“I suppose the only thing, Austin, for you to do is to make ready to go to him as your father tells us to do. I shall be glad to render you all the assistance possible. But I hate to see you go. If you remained here I could look after you and see that you get along all right. But it is not for me to say how your father shall manage his affairs.” If John Moore expressed a little bitterness in addressing the boy, he kept back most of what he felt. He knew the habit of drink that bound his brother-in-law, and how it was weakening his manhood, and he doubted either the interest or the capability of the man to care for the children. He was certain a great deal of responsibility would rest upon Austin, and he feared the father would not always be just with him. But he wisely kept all these doubtful thoughts to himself and helped the boy prepare for the journey.
The children were up early the next morning for their last day of work in the gardens of Mr. Long. That gentleman was much concerned when Austin told him of the letter and their plans.
“Austin,” he said, “you are a brave boy, and one that can be trusted. I am going to ask you to promise me one thing. When you are with your father again, do not follow in his steps. Your father has habits that are no good to him, and would only ruin your life.”
“Mr. Long, I promised Mother long ago that I would never touch a drop of liquor,” said Austin, knowing well what the man meant.
“Good for you, Austin; stand by that decision as long as you live, and it will be well with you.”
Uncle John and Aunt Tillie were true to their promise about helping the children prepare for the journey. They spent much of the time with the children, and when the little house was empty of its furniture, they took them to their own home till time for them to go. Every day they heaped Austin with advice and counsel. The children heard them talking to him telling him just how to make the changes on their journey and how to arrange the baggage, and how to conduct themselves, and it filled them with respect for their brother. They felt safe in his care and certain that he would bring them safely to their father once more.
“Austin,” said his uncle one day, “there is one promise I wish you to make me. You are a good boy and have started out the right way to make a noble man. I want you to say that you will not follow in your father’s footsteps. He is not the man he would have been without drink. He caused your mother many heartaches. You will promise?”
“I promised Mama that before she died, and I will always keep it,” answered Austin with feeling.
“I do not know how things will go when you are gone from here, but I tell you now, boy, that if you ever need a friend or find yourself out of a home, let me know, and I will send you money to come to us. I am sorry you are going so far away. I want to see that you have a chance to make good in life.”
To the neglected, over-burdened boy these tender words were like a balm to his heart. He felt no sense of protection from his father, and he missed his mother always. At times it seemed that his load was too heavy for him to bear. Yet to his father he would make no complaint, lest the home be broken up. He loved the children tenderly for their own sake, and with a deeper love yet for her sake who had been called away from them. Sometimes he had to forget that he was a boy and look ahead and think like a man.
“Austin, we hear you are going to your father. We are glad of it, but, boy, take the advice of a friend of your father’s, do not follow his footsteps. He is a good fellow and we like him, but he would have been a better man to his family if he never had learned to drink. It would never do you any good,” said Pete Dykes one day.
Pete was one of his father’s cronies, and this advice surprized Austin.
“Pete is right in that. You are better off if you never learn to drink,” said Sam Phipps, Pete’s companion.
“I have that settled and mean to stay by my decision,” answered Austin while his eyes rested on the two men in pity.
At last the day came to start, and everything was ready for the journey. They would be at least a day and a night on the way, and would have to change in the heart of a great city, but Austin was certain that by following his uncle’s careful directions they would get along all right. They started to the station early so that they should have time to stop and speak to the neighbors who would be at their gates to bid the children farewell. The eyes of the neighborhood were upon the children, and many expressions of disapproval of their father’s management were made. Also the kind people remembered with genuine sorrow the loss of their friend and neighbor, Elizabeth Hill. Tears wet honest faces as the people bade the children good-by.
Uncle John and Aunt Tillie stood with their arms about the children as the great engine drew near, and clasped them once more to their bosoms in a last caress, then they were on the train and away. This journey was like their first month alone, too uneventful to deserve any comment. Their father was at the station to meet them and took them directly to their grandfather’s home. As this home was too small to accommodate them long, their new home was waiting for them. Grandmother Hill received them with open arms. She felt much more contented to have them where she could know all was well. Lila and Doyle were delighted beyond measure to see their sisters and brothers, especially Austin. In all it was a most happy cottage that had been prepared for them.
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