DORA'S NEW HOME.
One year has passed away since the night when, cold, weary and forlorn,
Dora followed her cousins up the graveled walk which led to her new
home. One whole year, and in that time she has somewhat changed. The
merry-hearted girl, who, until a few weeks before her mother's death,
was happier far than many a favored child of wealth, has become a
sober, quiet, self-reliant child, performing without a word of
complaint the many duties which have gradually been imposed upon her.
From her aunt she had received a comparatively welcome greeting, and
when Eugenia displayed her purchases, which had swallowed up the entire
three hundred and fifty dollars, Mrs. Deane had laid her hand on the
little girl's soft, auburn hair, as if to ask forgiveness for the
injustice done her by the selfish Eugenia, whose only excuse for her
extravagance was, that "no one in her right mind need to think of
bringing back any money from New York." And Dora, from her seat on a
little stool behind the stove, understood nothing, thought of nothing,
except that Eugenia looked beautifully in her velvet cloak and furs,
and that her aunt must be very rich, to afford so many handsome
articles of furniture as the parlor contained.
"And I am glad that she is," she thought, "for she will not be so
likely to think me in the way."
As time passed on, however, Dora, who was a close observer, began to
see things in their true light, and her life was far from being happy.
By her cousin Alice she was treated with a tolerable degree of
kindness, while Eugenia, without any really evil intention, perhaps,
seemed to take delight in annoying her sensitive cousin, constantly
taunting her with her dependence upon them, and asking her sometimes
how she expected to repay the debt of gratitude she owed them. Many and
many a night had the orphan wept herself to sleep, in the low, scantily
furnished chamber which had been assigned her; and she was glad when at
last an opportunity was presented for her to be in a measure out of
Eugenia's way, and at the same time feel that she doing something
towards earning her living.
The oft-repeated threat of Bridget's mother that her daughter should be
removed, unless her wages were increased, was finally carried into
effect; and one Saturday night, Mrs. Deane was startled by the
announcement that Bridget was going to leave. In a moment, Dora's
resolution was taken, and coming to her aunt's side, she said:
"Don't hire another girl, Aunt Sarah. Let _me_ help you. I can do
almost as much as Bridget, and you won't have to _pay_ me either. _I_
shall only be paying you."
Unclasping the handsome bracelet which had been purchased with a
portion of the remaining one hundred and fifty dollars, Eugenia, ere
her mother had time to reply, exclaimed:
"That is a capital idea! I wonder how you happened to be so thoughtful."
And so it was decided that Dora should take Bridget's place, she
thinking how much she would do, and how hard she would try to please
her aunt, who quieted her own conscience by saying "it was only a
temporary arrangement until she could find another servant."
But as the days went by, the temporary arrangement bid fair to become
permanent, for Mrs. Deane could not be insensible to the vast
difference which Bridget's absence made in her weekly expenses. Then,
too, Dora was so willing to work, and so uncomplaining, never seeking a
word of commendation, except once, indeed, when she timidly ventured to
ask Eugenia if "what she did was enough to pay for her board?"
"Just about," was Eugenia's answer, which, indifferent as it was,
cheered the heart of Dora, as, day after day, she toiled on in the
comfortless kitchen, until her hands, which, when she came to Locust
Grove, were soft and white as those of an infant, became rough and
brown, and her face gradually assumed the same dark hue, for she could
not always stop to tie on her sunbonnet, when sent for wood or water.
With the coming of summer, arrangements had been made for sending her
to school, though Mrs. Deane felt at first as if she could not be
deprived of her services. Still for appearance' sake, if for nothing
more, she must go; and with the earliest dawn the busy creature was up,
working like a bee, that her aunt and cousins might not have so much to
do in her absence. At first she went regularly, but after a time it
became very convenient to detain her at home, for at least two days in
every week, and this wrung from her almost the only tears she had shed
since the morning, when, of her own accord, she had gone into the
kitchen to perform a servant's duties.
Possessing naturally a fondness for books, and feeling ambitious to
keep up with her class, she at last conceived the idea of studying at
home; and many a night, long after her aunt and cousins were asleep,
she sat up alone, poring over her books, sometimes by the dim light of
a lamp, and again by the light of the full moon, whose rays seemed to
fall around her more brightly than elsewhere. It was on one of these
occasions, when tracing upon her map the boundary lines of India, that
her thoughts reverted to her uncle Nathaniel, whose name she seldom
heard, and of whom she had never but once spoken. Then in the presence
of her aunt and cousins she had wondered why he did not answer her
mother's letter.
"Because he has nothing to write, I presume," said Eugenia, who would
not trust her mother to reply.
And Dora, wholly unsuspecting, never dreamed of the five hundred
dollars sent over for her benefit, and which was spent long ago--though
not for her--never dreamed of the letter which Eugenia had written in
reply, thanking her uncle again and again for his generous gift, which
she said "was very acceptable, for _ma_ was rather poor, and it would
aid her materially in providing for the wants of Dora," who was
represented as being "a queer, old-fashioned child, possessing but
little affection for any one and who never spoke of her uncle
Nathaniel, or manifested the least gratitude for what he was doing!"
In short, the impression left upon the mind of Uncle Nat was that Dora,
aside from being cold-hearted, was uncommonly dull, and would never
make much of a woman, do what they might for her! With a sigh, and a
feeling of keen disappointment, he read the letter, saying to himself,
as he laid it away, "Can this be true of Fanny's child?"
But this, we say, _Fanny's_ child did not know; and as her eyes
wandered over the painted map of India, she resolved to write and to
tell him of her mother's dying words--tell him how much she loved him,
because he was her father's brother, and how she wished he would come
home, that she might know him better.
"If I only had some keepsake to send him--something he would prize,"
she thought, when her letter was finished. And then, as she enumerated
her small store of treasures, she remembered her mother's beautiful
hair, which had been cut from her head, as she lay in her coffin, and
which now held a place in the large square trunk. "I will send him a
lock of that," she said; and kneeling reverently by the old green
trunk, the shrine where she nightly said her prayers, she separated
from the mass of rich, brown hair, one long, shining tress, which she
inclosed within her letter, adding, in a postscript, "It is mother's
hair, and Dora's tears have often fallen upon it. 'Tis all I have to
give."
Poor little Dora! Nathaniel Deane would have prized that simple gift
far more than all the wealth which he called his, but it was destined
never to reach him. The wily Eugenia, to whom Dora applied for an
envelope, unhesitatingly showing what she had written, knew better than
to send that note across the sea, and feigning the utmost astonishment,
she said: "I am surprised, Dora, that after your mother's ill-success,
you should think of writing to Uncle Nat. He is a suspicious, miserly
old fellow, and will undoubtedly think you are after his money!"
"I wouldn't send it for the world, if I supposed he'd fancy such a
thing as that," answered Dora, her eyes filling with tears.
"Of course you wouldn't," continued Eugenia, perceiving her advantage
and following it up. "You can do as you like, but my advice is that you
do not send it; let him write to _you_ first if he wishes to open a
correspondence!"
This decided the matter, and turning sadly away, Dora went back to her
chamber, hiding the letter and the lock of hair in the old green trunk.
"How can you be so utterly void of principle?" asked Alice, as Dora
quitted the room; and Eugenia replied: "It isn't a lack of principle,
it's only my good management. I have my plans, and I do not intend they
shall be frustrated by that foolish letter, which would, of course, be
followed by others of the same kind. Now I am perfectly willing that
Uncle Nat should divide his fortune between us and Dora, but
unfortunately he is a _one idea_ man, and should he conceive a fancy
for our cousin, our hopes are blasted forever; so I don't propose
letting him do any such thing. Mother has given up the correspondence
to me, and I intend making the old gentleman think I am a most perfect
specimen of what a young lady should be, saying, of course, an
occasional good word for _you!_ I believe I understand him tolerably
well, and if in the end I win, I pledge you my word that Dora shall not
be forgotten. Are you satisfied?"
Alice could not say yes, but she knew it was useless to reason with her
sister, so she remained silent; while a curious train of thoughts
passed through her mind, resulting at last in an increased kindness of
manner on her part towards her young cousin, who was frequently
relieved of duties which would otherwise have detained her from school.
And Dora's step grew lighter, and her heart happier, as she thought
that Alice at least cared for her welfare.
On New Year's Day there came a letter from Uncle Nat, containing the
promised check, which Eugenia held up to view, while she read the
following brief lines:
"Many thanks to Eugenia for her kind and welcome letter, which I may
answer at some future time, when I have anything interesting to say."
"Have you written to Uncle Nat, and did you tell him of me, or of
mother's letter?" exclaimed Dora, Who had been sitting unobserved
behind the stove, and who now sprang eagerly forward, while her cheeks
glowed with excitement.
Soon recovering her composure, Eugenia answered, "Yes, I wrote to him,
and of course, mentioned you with the rest of us. His answer you have
heard."
"But the other paper," persisted Dora. "Doesn't that say anything?"
For a moment Eugenia hesitated, and then, deciding that no harm could
come of Dora's knowing of the money, provided she was kept in ignorance
of the object for which it was sent, she replied, carelessly, "Oh
that's nothing but a _check_. The old gentleman was generous enough to
send us a little money, which we need badly enough."
There was not one particle of selfishness in Dora's disposition, and
without a thought or wish that any of the money should be expended for
herself, she replied, "Oh, I am so glad, for now Aunt Sarah can have
that shawl she has wanted so long, and Alice the new merino."
Dear little Dora! she did not know why Eugenia's eyes so quickly sought
the floor, nor understand why her aunt's hand was laid upon her head so
caressingly. Neither did she know that Alice's sudden movement towards
the window was to hide the expression of her face; but when, a few days
afterwards, she was herself presented with a handsome merino, which
both Eugenia and Alice volunteered to make, she thought there was not
in Dunwood a happier child than herself. In the little orphan's pathway
there were a few sunny spots, and that night when, by the old green
trunk, she knelt her down to pray, she asked of God that he would
reward her aunts and cousins according to their kindnesses done to her!
Need we say that childish prayer was answered to the letter!