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Summer was over. The glorious September days were
gone. The hazy October had passed away, and the autumn
winds had swept the withered leaves from the tall trees
which grew around Rose Hill; when one cold, rainy November
morning, a messenger was sent to Mrs. Deane, saying
that Mrs. Hastings was sick, and wished to see her.

“Mrs. Hastings sent for mother! How funny! There
must be some mistake,” said Eugenia, putting her head in
at the door. “Are you sure it was mother?”

“Yes, quite sure,” answered the man. “Mrs. Hastings
thought she would know what to do for the baby, which
was born yesterday, and is a puny little thing.”

This silenced Eugenia, who waited impatiently until
nightfall, when her mother returned with a sad account of
affairs at Rose Hill. Mrs. Hastings was sick and nervous,
Mrs. Leah was lazy and cross, the servants ignorant and
impertinent, the house was in disorder; while Mr. Hastings,
with a cloud on his face, ill befitting a newly-made father,
stalked up and down the sick-room, looking in vain for an
empty chair, so filled were they with blankets, towels,
baby's dresses, and the various kinds of work which Ella
was always beginning and never finishing.

“Such an ignorant, helpless creature I never saw,” said

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Mrs. Deane. “Why, she don't know anything—and such
looking rooms! I don't wonder her servants give her so
much trouble; but my heart ached for him, poor man, when
I saw him putting away the things, and trying to make the
room a little more comfortable.”

It was even as Mrs. Deane had said. Ella, whose favorite
theory was, “a big house, a lot of things, and chairs
enough to put them in,” was wholly unprepared for sickness,
which found her in a sad condition. To be sure there were
quantities of French embroidery, thread lace and fine linen,
while the bed, on which she lay, cost a hundred dollars, and
the rosewood crib was perfect of its kind, but there was a
great lack of neatness and order; and as day after day Mr.
Hastings stood with folded arms, looking first from one window
and then from the other, his thoughts were far from
being agreeable, save when he bent over the cradle of his
first-born, and then there broke over his face a look of unutterable
tenderness, which was succeeded by a shade of
deep anxiety as his eye rested upon his frail young wife,
whose face seemed whiter even than the pillow on which it
lay.

After a few weeks, during which time Ella had gained a
little strength and was able to see her friends, Eugenia
came regularly to Rose Hill, sitting all day by the bedside
of the invalid, to whom she sometimes brought a glass of
water, or some such trivial thing. Occasionally, too, she
would look to see if the baby were asleep, pronouncing it
“a perfect little cherub, just like its mother;” and there
her services ended, for it never occurred to her that she
could make the room much more cheerful by picking up
and putting away the numerous articles which lay scattered
around, and which were a great annoyance to the more
orderly Mr. Hastings. Once, when Ella, as usual, was

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expatiating upon her goodness, asking her husband if she
were not the best girl in the world, and saying “they must
make her some handsome present in return for all she had
done,” he replied, “I confess, I should think more of Miss
Deane, if she did you any real good, or rendered you any
actual service; but, as far as I can discover, she merely sits
here talking to you until you are wearied out.”

“Why, what would you have her do?” asked Ella, her
large blue eyes growing larger and bluer.

“I hardly know myself,” answered Mr. Hastings; “but
it seems to me that a genuine woman could not sit day
after day in such a disorderly room as this.”

“Oh, Howard!” exclaimed Ella, “you surely cannot
expect Eugenia Deane to do a servant's duty. Why, she
has been as delicately brought up as I, and knows quite as
little of work.”

“More shame for her if this is true,” answered Mr. Hastings
somewhat bitterly, and Ella continued, “You've got
such queer ideas, Howard, of woman's duties. I should
suppose you would have learned, ere this, that few ladies are
like your mother, who, though a blessed good soul, has the
oddest notions.”

“But they make a man's home mighty comfortable, those
odd notions of mother's,” said Mr. Hastings; then, knowing
how useless it would be to argue the point, he was about
changing the subject, when the new nurse who had been
there but a few days (the first one having quarrelled with
Mrs. Leah, and gone home), came in and announced her
intention of leaving also, saying, “she would not live in the
same house with old mother Leah!”

It was in vain that Mr. Hastings tried to soothe the
angry girl—she was determined, and for a second time was
Ella left alone.

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“Oh, what will become of me?” she groaned, as the
door closed upon her late nurse. “Do, pray, Howard, go to
the kitchen and get me some—some—I don't know what,
but get me something!”

With a very vague idea as to what he was to get or to
do, Mr. Hastings left the room just as it was entered by
Eugenia, to whom Ella detailed her grievances. “Her
head ached dreadfully, Howard was cross, and her nurse
gone. Oh, Eugenia!” she cried, “what shall I do? I wish
I could die. Don't ever get married. What shall I do?”

And hiding her face in the pillow, poor Ella sobbed
bitterly. For a time Eugenia stood, revolving the propriety
of offering Dora as a substitute in the place of the girl who
had just left. “Mother can work a little harder,” she
thought. “And Alice can help her occasionally. It will
please Mr. Hastings, I know. Poor man, I pity him!”

So, more on account of the pity she felt for Mr. Hastings,
than for the love she bore his wife, she said at last, “We
have a little girl at our house, who is very capable for one
of her years. I think she would be quite handy in a sick
room. At all events, she can rock the baby. Shall I send
her up until you get some one else?”

“Oh, if you only would,” answered Ella. “I should be
so glad.”

So, it was arranged that Dora should come next morning,
and then Eugenia, who was this time in a hurry, took
her leave, having first said that Mrs. Hastings “needn't
think strange if Dora called her cousin, and her mother aunt,
for she was a poor relation, whom they had taken out of
charity!”

At first Mrs. Deane objected to letting her niece go,
“for she was needed at home,” she said; but Eugenia
finally prevailed, as she generally did, and the next morning

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Dora, who was rather pleased with the change, started
bundle in hand for Rose Hill. She had never been there
before, and she walked leisurely along, admiring the beautiful
house and grounds, and thinking Mrs Hastings must be
very happy to live in so fine a place. Ella was unusually
nervous and low-spirited this morning, for her husband had
gone to Rochester; and when Dora was shown into the
room she was indulging in a fit of crying, and paid no
attention whatever when Mrs. Leah said, “This is the new
girl.” “She'll get over it directly,” muttered the housekeeper,
as she went from the room, leaving Dora inexpressibly
shocked at witnessing such grief in one whom she had
thought so happy.

“Can I do anything for you?” she said at last, drawing
near, and involuntarily laying her hand on the golden curls
she had so much admired.

There was genuine sympathy in the tones of that childish
voice, which touched an answering chord in Ella's heart,
and lifting up her head she gazed curiously at the little
brown-faced girl, who stood there neatly attired in a dress
of plain dark calico, her auburn hair, which had grown
rapidly, combed back from her open brow, and her darkblue
eyes full of tears. No one could mistake Dora Deane
for a menial, and few could look upon her without being at
once interested; for early sorrow had left a shade of sadness
upon her handsome face, unusual in one so young. Then,
too, there was an expression of goodness and truth shining
out all over her countenance, and Ella's heart yearned
towards her at once as towards a long-tried friend. Stretching
out her white, wasted hand, she said, “And you are
Dora. I am glad you have come. The sight of you makes
me feel better already,” and the small, rough hand she held
was pressed with a fervor which showed that she was

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sincere in what she said. It was strange how fast they grew
to liking each other—those two children—for in everything
save years, Ella was younger far than Dora Deane; and it
was strange, too, what a change the little girl's presence
wrought in the sick-chamber. Naturally neat and orderly,
she could not sit quietly down in the midst of disorder, and
as far as she was able, she put things in their proper places;
then, as her quick-seeing eye detected piles of dust which
for days had been unmolested, she said, “Will it disturb
you if I sweep?”

“Not at all. Do what you like,” answered Ella, her own
spirits rising in proportion as the appearance of her surroundings
was improved.

Everything was in order at last. The carpet was swept,
the furniture dusted, the chairs emptied, the curtains looped
back, and the hearth nicely washed. Fresh, clean linen
was put upon the pillows, while Ella's tangled curls were
carefully brushed and tucked under her tasteful cap, and
then for the first time Dora took the baby upon her lap. It
was a little thing, but very beautiful to the young mother,
and beautiful, too, to Dora, when she learned that its name
was “Fannie.”

“Fannie!” how it carried her back to the long ago,
when her father had spoken, and her precious mother had
answered to that blessed name! And how it thrilled her
as she repeated it again and again, while her tears fell like
rain on the face of the unconscious infant.

“Why do you cry?” asked Ella, and Dora answered, “I
am thinking of mother. Her name was Fannie, and I shall
love the baby for her sake.”

“Has your mother long been dead? Tell me of her,”
said Ella; and drawing her chair close to the bedside, Dora
told the sad story of her life, while Ella Hastings's tears fell

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fast and her eyes opened wide with wonder as she heard of
the dreary room, the dead mother, the bitter cold night, and
of the good lady who brought them aid.

Starting up in bed and looking earnestly at Dora, Ella
said, “And you are the little girl whom Howard and Mrs.
Elliott found sleeping on her mother's neck that New Year's
morning. But God didn't let you freeze. He saved you
to live with me, which you will do always. And I will be
to you a sister, for I know you must be good.”

And the impulsive creature threw her arms around the
neck of the astonished Dora, who for some time could not
speak, so surprised and delighted was she to learn that her
benefactress was indeed the sister of Mr. Hastings. After
a moment, Ella continued, “And you came to live with
some distant relatives—with Mrs. Deane?”

“Yes, with Aunt Sarah,” answered Dora, stating briefly
the comparatively double relationship that existed between
herself and her cousins, and casually mentioning her uncle
Nathaniel, whom she had never seen.

“Then he is your uncle, too—the old East India man,
whose heir Eugenia is to be. I should think he would send
you money.”

“He never does,” said Dora, in a choking voice. “He
sent some to Eugenia once, but none to me,” and a tear at
her uncle's supposed coldness fell on the baby's head.

Ella was puzzled, but she could not doubt the truth of
what Dora had said, though she wisely refrained from betraying
Eugenia, in whom her confidence was slightly
shaken, but was soon restored by the appearance of the
young lady herself, who overwhelmed her with caresses,
and went into ecstasies over the little Fannie, thus surely
winning her way to the mother's heart. Owing to a severe
cold from which Eugenia was suffering, she left for home

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about dark, and soon after her departure, Ella began to expect
her husband.

“If you will tell me where to find his dressing-gown and
slippers, I'll bring them out for him,” said Dora, wheeling
up before the glowing grate the large easy-chair which she
felt almost sure was occupied by Mr. Hastings.

“His gown and slippers!” repeated Ella. “It's an age
since I saw them, but I guess they are in the dressing-room,
either behind the door, or in the black trunk, or on the
shelf—or, stay, I shouldn't wonder if they were on the closet
floor.”

And there, under a promiscuous pile of other garments,
Dora found them, sadly soiled, and looking as if they had
not seen the light for many a day. Shaking out the gown,
and brushing the dust from off the slippers, she laid them in
the chair, and Ella, who was watching her, said, “Pray,
what put that into your mind?”

“I don't know,” returned Dora; “only I thought, perhaps,
you did so, when you were well. Ever so long ago,
before pa died, mother made him a calico dressing-gown, and
he used to look so pleased when he found it in his chair.”

“Strange I never thought of such things,” softly whispered
Ella, unconsciously learning a lesson from the little
domestic girl, who brushed the hearth, dropped the curtains,
lighted the lamp, and then went out to the kitchen in quest
of milk for Fannie.

“He will be so happy and pleased!” said Ella, as, lifting
up her head, she surveyed the cheerful room.

And happy indeed he was. It was the first time he had
left his wife since her illness, and with a tolerable degree of
satisfaction he took his seat in the evening cars. We say
tolerable, for though he was really anxious to see Ella and
the baby, he was in no particular haste to see the room in

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which he had left them; and rather reluctantly he entered
his handsome dwelling, starting back when he opened the
door of the-sick chamber, and half thinking he had mistaken
another man's house for his own. But Ella's voice
reassured him, and in a few moments he had heard from her
the story of Dora Deane, who ere long came in, and was
duly presented. Taking her hand in his, and looking down
upon her with his large black eyes, he said, “I have seen
you before, I believe, but I did not then think that when we
met again I should be so much indebted to you. I am glad
you are here, Dora.”

Once before had he held that hand in his, and now, as
then, the touch sent the warm blood bounding through her
veins. She had passed through much since that wintry
morning, had grown partially indifferent to coldness and
neglect, but the extreme kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Hastings
touched her heart; and stammering out an almost inaudible
reply, she turned away to hide her tears, while Mr. Hastings,
advancing towards the fire, exclaimed, “My double
gown! And it's so long since I saw it! To whose thoughtfulness
am I indebted for this?”

“'Twas Dora,” answered Ella. “She thinks of everything.
She is my good angel, and I mean to keep her
always, if she will stay. Will you, dear?”

“Oh, if I only could,” answered Dora; “but I can't. They
need me at home!”

“Why need you? They have servants enough,” said
Ella, who had not yet identified Eugenia's waiting-maid
with the bright, intelligent child before her.

“We have no servants but me,” answered the truthful
Dora. “We are poor, and I help Aunt Sarah to pay for
my board; so, you see, I can't stay. And then, too, I must
go to school.”

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Perfectly astonished at this fresh disclosure, Ella glanced
towards her husband, whose quizzical expression kept her
silent, for it seemed to say, “I told you all the time, that
Miss Eugenia was not exactly what you supposed her
to be.”

“How could she deceive me so?” thought Ella, while Mr.
Hastings was mentally resolving to befriend the child, in
whom he felt such a strong interest.

Wishing to know something of her education, he questioned
her during the evening concerning her studies, and
the books she had read, feeling surprised and pleased to find
how good a scholar she was, considering her advantages.

“There's the germ of a true, noble woman there. I wish
my sister could have the training of her,” he thought, as he
saw how animated she became when he mentioned her
favorite books, and then watched her as she hovered round
the bedside of his wife.

Very swiftly and pleasantly passed the three following
days, and during all that time Eugenia did not once appear;
but at the close of the fourth day, a note was brought to
Ella, saying that both Eugenia and her mother were sick,
and Dora must come home.

“Oh, how can I let you go?” cried Ella, while Dora
crept away into a corner and wept.

But there was no alternative, and just at dark she came
to say, good bye. Winding her feeble arms around her
neck, Ella sobbed out her adieu, and then, burying her face
in her pillow, refused to be comforted. One kiss for the
little Fannie—one farewell glance at the weeping Ella, and
then, with a heavy heart, Dora went out from a place where
she had been so happy—went back to the home where no
one greeted her kindly, save the old house cat, who purred
a joyous welcome, and rubbed against her side as she

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kindled a fire in the dark, dreary kitchen, where, on the
table, were piles of dishes left for her to wash. That night,
when, at a late hour, she stole up to bed, the contrast
between her humble room and the cozy chamber where she
had recently slept, affected her painfully, and, mingled with
her nightly prayer, was the petition, that “sometimes she
might go back and live with Mr. Hastings!”

Meantime at Rose Hill there was sorrowing for her, Ella
refusing to be comforted unless she should return. Mr. Hastings,
who had spent the day in the city, and did not come
home until evening, felt that something was wrong the
moment he entered the door of his chamber. The fire was
nearly out, the lamp was burning dimly, and Ella was in
tears.

“What is it, darling?” he asked, advancing towards
her; and laying her aching head upon his bosom, she told
him of her loss, and how much she missed the little brown-faced
girl, who had been so kind to her.

And Howard Hastings missed her, too—missed the tones
of her gentle voice, the soft tread of her busy feet, and
more than all, missed the sunlight of comfort she had shed
over his home. The baby missed her, too; for over her
Dora had acquired an almost mesmeric influence, and until
midnight her wailing cry smote painfully upon the ear of
the father, who, before the morning dawned, had concluded
that Rose Hill was nothing without Dora Deane. “She
shall come back, too,” he said, and the sooner to effect this,
he started immediately after breakfast for the house of
Mrs. Deane. Very joyfully the deep blue eyes of Dora,
who met him at the door, looked up into his, and her
bright face flushed with delight when he told her why he
had come. Both Eugenia and her mother were convalescent,
and sitting by the parlor fire, the one in a shilling calico,

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and the other in a plaid silk morning gown. At first
Mrs. Deane objected, when she heard Mr. Hastings's errand,
saying, with a sudden flash of pride, that “it was not
necessary for her niece to work out.”

“And I assure you, it is not our intention to make a
servant of her,” answered Mr. Hastings. “We could not do
otherwise than treat so near a relative of yours as an equal.”

This last was well timed, and quite complacently Mrs.
Deane listened, while he told her that if Dora were allowed
to stay with them until his wife was better, she should be
well cared for, and he himself would superintend her studies,
so she should lose nothing by being out of school. “Come,
Miss Eugenia,” he continued, “please intercede for me, and,
I assure you, both Ella and myself will be eternally grateful.”

He had touched the right chord at last. Rumor said
that Ella Hastings would never see another summer, and if
before her death the husband was eternally grateful, what
would he not be after her death? Then, too, but the day
before they had received a remittance from Uncle Nat, and
with that they could afford to hire a servant; so, when
Eugenia spoke, it was in favor of letting “Mr. Hastings
have Dora just when he wanted her, if it would be any satisfaction
to poor dear Ella!”

A while longer Mr. Hastings remained, and when at last
he arose to go, he was as sure that Dora Deane would
again gladden his home as he was next morning, when from
his library window he saw her come tripping up the walk,
her cheeks flushed with exercise, and her eyes sparkling
with joy, as, glancing upward, she saw him looking down
upon her. In after years, when Howard Hastings's cup was
full of blessings, he often referred to that morning, saying
“he had seldom experienced a moment of deeper thankfulness
than the one when he welcomed back again to his
fireside and his home the orphan Dora Deane.”

p594-076

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