oldest, was twelve years old; little Phil, the youngest, was four, and
the rest fitted in between.

Dr. Carr, their Papa, was a dear, kind, busy man, who was away from home
all day, and sometimes all night, too, taking care of sick people. The
children hadn't any Mamma. She had died when Phil was a baby, four years
before my story began. Katy could remember her pretty well; to the rest
she was but a sad, sweet name, spoken on Sunday, and at prayer-times, or
when Papa was especially gentle and solemn.

In place of this Mamma, whom they recollected so dimly, there was Aunt
Izzie, Papa's sister, who came to take care of them when Mamma went away
on that long journey, from which, for so many months, the little ones
kept hoping she might return. Aunt Izzie was a small woman, sharp-faced
and thin, rather old-looking, and very neat and particular about
everything. She meant to be kind to the children, but they puzzled her
much, because they were not a bit like herself when she was a child.
Aunt Izzie had been a gentle, tidy little thing, who loved to sit as
Curly Locks did, sewing long seams in the parlor, and to have her head
patted by older people, and be told that she was a good girl; whereas
Katy tore her dress every day, hated sewing, and didn't care a button
about being called "good," while Clover and Elsie shied off like
restless ponies when any one tried to pat their heads. It was very
perplexing to Aunt Izzie, and she found it hard to quite forgive the
children for being so "unaccountable," and so little like the good boys
and girls in Sunday-school memoirs, who were the young people she liked
best, and understood most about.

Then Dr. Carr was another person who worried her. He wished to have the
children hardy and bold, and encouraged climbing and rough plays, in