Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 52302-h.htm or 52302-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52302/52302-h/52302-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52302/52302-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/thosebrewsterchi00kingiala THOSE BREWSTER CHILDREN [Illustration: The occasion was not wholly barren of material for a trained psychologist (page 56)] THOSE BREWSTER CHILDREN by FLORENCE MORSE KINGSLEY Author of "The Singular Miss Smith," "And So They Were Married," etc. With Illustrations by Emily Hall Chamberlain New York Dodd, Mead & Company 1910 Copyright, 1908 By Phelps Publishing Company Copyright, 1910 By Dodd, Mead and Company Published, March, 1910 ILLUSTRATIONS The occasion was not wholly barren of material for a trained psychologist (page 56) _Frontispiece_ "Cwyin'?" he observed in a bird-like voice _Facing page_ 146 "She'll remember it, you'll find, better than one of Mrs. Stanford's whippings" " " 182 I Elizabeth Brewster sat by the window of her sewing-room in the fading light of the winter afternoon. She had been straining her eyes a little over her work and the intent look did not leave them as she glanced out into the gathering dusk. She could see all three of the children at their play on the lawn. Carroll, tall and sturdy for his eight years; Doris slim and active, her reddish blond hair streaming out from under her hood and blowing about her eager little face, and three-year-old Baby Richard, toiling manfully to keep up with the others as they piled damp snow-balls into the rude semblance of a human figure. "Darlings!" murmured the mother to herself, a happy light seemingly reflected from the red winter sunset shining on her face. She raised the sash a hand's breadth and called to them, "Come in now, children; it is growing too cold for Richard to stay out any longer." She glanced regretfully at her unfinished sewing as she rose, gathering up thread, scissors and thimble with the absent-minded carefulness born of long habit. Something was scorching on the kitchen range, she feared, a well-founded distrust of the heavy-handed Norwegian maid hastening her steps down the precipitous back stairway. The range was heated to redness, and several saucepans huddled together over the hottest place were bubbling furiously. Celia, the maid, was setting the table in the dining-room, with slow, meditative motions like those of an ox. She did not appear at all disturbed at sight of her mistress hurriedly dashing water into one of the utensils, from which arose an evil-smelling steam.