The Press., 1883-10-11
THE ADOPTED CHILDREN

over the bleak Berkshire hills
 70, Billy, isn't it nice ?" said little Re- becca Hale, as she skipped along 70, look, there's little striped squirrel, with a bushy tail, and such bright eyes, like black heads. O, dou't you wish we lived out doors always ?"
 1'Becky, don't jump about so, chided the boy, an ancient philosopher of ten years or so. s'There I knew it You've burst out that hole in your shoe that l sewed up so carefully ly-and one of your mittens Is gone."
 s'But it isn't cold.''
 ''No, but that's no sign that we never shall have any cold weather again. Be- sides, Aunt Keziah is dead.'
 "Well, don't care for that, said the little one, recklessly. s'Aunt Keziah was old and cross, and boxed our ears, and said we were the plaques of her life. !"
 ''Yes, /" said Billy, slowly, "but there IS no one to take care of us now that Aunt Keziah is dead. You should consider that, Becky"
 ''No one to take care of us. echoed Becky, standing still. 70, Billy, didn't think of that"
 Mrs. Harewood was frying doughnuts over the great cookihg-stove Ill the back kitchen An immense blue and white checked apron enshrouded her spare form, and pocket-handkerchief concealed her hair. Mrs. Harewood was not pretty at her best; in this impromptu uniform she was simply hideous.
 "Seventeen- eighteen-nineteen," said Mrs. Harewood, fishing the brown curls of paste out of the boiling liquid Twenty and four makes two dozer. Now, Michael, who is 1t And what do they want ?'
 1~.1 A,,-~x Keziah Proudfoot's,' 2 said Michael Hare thereabouts. "The old woman died last night
 "Well, what of that ?" said Mrs. Hare wood, who had gone back to the table and was cutting long strips of dough, and twisting them into spirals, ready for the pot of frizzling lard. They'll bury her, suppose. And, after her long sickness, the dear knows, nobody'n be very sorry. D
 sBut the little children. What is to be- come of them ?" said Michael, softly.
 "Why, send 'em to the poor-house, of course. There's nothing else to be done, as I know of, , snapped the dame.
 ''To the poor-house, Maria? Those pret- ty, delicate little children-Kate Hale's brothers children-to the poor-house P "Well, don't see why not" said Mrs. Harewood 'Thirty-four thirty five. Three dozen ought to be enough. If Kate had cared so much about her relations, she might staid to hum and looked after 'em, instead of running away with ships cap- tain and going to China or India, or Kam- schatka, or the Lord knows where. After ! she was engaged to you, too And" "Never mind about that now, Maria, " ] said the brother, with slight elevation of his eyebrows. 'sIt is all thing of the past and Kate could not foresee, when l when she left her native country, that her brothers little ones would so soon be alone 1 in the world, orphaned and without re- sources. So it has chanced, at all events. l The poor little things are in the sitting room now"
 "And s'pose they've come here because l my husband is poor-master," said Mrs. Harewood, dropping in her fresh batch of doughnuts, one by one. "Well, he won't l be home afore noon."
 'I was thinking of that, Maria, " said l Michael Harewood, gently. ''It occurred to me that, perhaps, since you had no chiI- uren of your own-'
 "That I'd fill my house with all the pauper children of the neighborhood, said Mrs. Harewood. 'sNo, Michael Harewood, you're mistaken there I wouldn't have Jim Hale's young ones in my house, after the way Kate treated you, not if was t., be paid a dollar day. And, besides, l ain't matron of the penthouse P ''Then what are they to do?' Mrs. Harewood shrugged her bony shoulders.
 ''Its no business of mine" she said. in- differently. Nor ain't going to concern myself in it. .''
 Michael Harewood went back to the room where the two little orphans were admiring a gaudy, stuffed parrot, that swung from the ceiling.
 "Children," said he, "get on your things"
 handed Becky. s'I'm so tired and so hungry! We didn't have any breakfast this morning."
 "Please, MT. Harewood," said Billy, ''where are we to go? Nobody wants us !''
 ''I want you," said Michael Harewood hif heart giving great jump as he saw Kate Hale's old look shining out of the wistful, upturned face of the child 'sYou shall be my little ones henceforward.
 There was no lack of talk and gossip in the neighborhood when Michael Harewood left his brothers house, and set up house. keeping for himself in little unoccupied cabin just on the verge of the woods, with the Hale children as proteges and com panions.
 x Michael Harewood was an artist by pro- fession-one of those cratic, irregular geniuses who seldom make much money, yet possess natures of genuine gold. He paid little attention to the buzz of the neighbors, the sarcasms of his sister-in- law, and the criticisms of the world in gen. eral, but painted serenely on, disposing of his pictures at ludicrously small small prices as fast as they were laid off his easel.
 "For it isn't as if I could wait for a good chance" said he. "They must sell at any figure; the little people can't starve."
 So the three led strange, eccentric life Little Becky swept and dusted, and dip what she could. Billy brought water, weededs.the onion beds, and made himself generally useful, and Michael Harewood did allsthe rest. When there chanced to be meat enough for three, he ate and was thankful; when there was not, he made his meal eff vegetables, and told the chil- dren it..was for his health's sake
 Don't you love Uncle Michael, Becky ?' said the little boy, one night when Michael had tucked them safely up in bed and heard their simple prayers.
 "Yes, said Becky, rearing up in her