In Love's Hands by Bertha M. Clay — Read

Christmas had come and gone before Mr. Aylwinne returned to Orwell Court. The change those months had wrought in his wards was almost marvelous. Their frames, like their intellects, had expanded in the bracing air and healthy companionship they had been enjoying; and the shrinking nervousness of the past was scarcely ever discernible now.

Working out her own ideas of what was best for them, Florence had wisely made much of her teaching of the simplest kind. Nothing was ever allowed to interfere with the preparation of their lessons for Mr. Lumley; but when this was done, she walked with them, played croquet, and entered into their sports and plans with a heartiness that infused additional spirit into them. For a long time they could not conquer their dread of the daily visit to the vicarage and the sly taunts leveled at them by lads of their own age whose acquirements were far beyond their own. But Florence walked to Mr. Lumley's with them, often awaited their return, and had so much sympathy for their troubles mingled with such brave, hopeful auguries for their future, that Walter grew too manly to fret over little difficulties, and Fred had too much boyish pride not to imitate him.