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In a state of great anxiety, which increased each moment,
Eugenia looked for the twentieth time into the long hall, and
seeing no one, went back again to the glass, wondering if her
new hat, which, without her mother's knowledge, had that
afternoon been purchased, and now adorned her head, were
as becoming as the milliner had said, and if fifteen dollars
were not a great price for one in her circumstances to pay
for a bonnet. Then she thought if Mr. Hastings proposed
soon, as she believed he would, she should never again feel
troubled about the trivial matter of money, of which she
would have an abundance. But where was he and why did
he not come? she asked herself repeatedly, caring less, however,
for the delay, when she considered that if they were
late, more people would see her in company with the elegant
Mr. Hastings, who was well known in the city.

“Eight o'clock as I live,” she exclaimed at last, consulting
her watch, “and the concert was to commence at half-past
seven. What can it mean?” and with another glance
at her bonnet, she walked the length of the hall, and leaning
far over the balustrade looked anxiously down into the
office below, to see if by any chance he were there.

But he was not, and returning to her room, she waited
another half hour, when, grown more fidgety and anxious,

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she descended to the office, inquiring if Mr. Hastings had
been there that evening. Some one thought they had seen
him in the ladies' parlor that afternoon, but further information
than that, she could not obtain, and the discomfited
young lady went back to her room in no very enviable frame
of mind, particularly as she heard the falling of the rain,
and thought how dark it was without.

“What can have kept him?” she said, half crying with
vexation. “And how I wish I had gone home with
mother!”

Wishing, however, was of no avail, and when that night
at half-past ten, the hotel omnibus as usual went to the
depot, it carried a very cross young lady, who, little heeding
what she did, and caring less, sat down beneath a
crevice in the roof, through which the rain crept in, lodging
upon the satin bows and drooping plumes of her fifteen-dollar
hat, which, in her disappointment, she had forgotten
to exchange for the older one, safely stowed away in the
band-box she held upon her lap. Arrived at Dunwood
station, she found, as she had expected, no omnibus in
waiting, nor any one whose services she could claim as an
escort, so, borrowing an umbrella, and holding up her dress
as best she could, she started, band-box in hand, for home,
stepping once into a pool of water, and falling once upon
the dirty sidewalk, from which the mud and snow were
wiped by her rich velvet cloak, to say nothing of the frightful
pinch made in her other bonnet by her having crushed
the band-box in her fall.

In a most forlorn condition, she at last reached home,
where to her dismay she found the door was locked and the
fire gone out, her mother not having expected her to return
on such a night as this. To rouse up Dora, and scold her
unmercifully, though for what she scarcely knew, was under

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the circumstances quite natural, and while Mr. Hastings at
Rose Hill was devising the best means of removing Dora
from her power, she at Locust Grove, was venting the
entire weight of her pent-up wrath upon the head of the
devoted girl, who bore it uncomplainingly. Removing at last
her bonnet, she discovered the marks of the omnibus leak,
and then her ire was turned towards him as having been
the cause of all her disasters.

“I'll never speak to him again, never,” she exclaimed, as
she crept shivering to bed.

But a few hours, quiet slumber dissipated in a measure
her wrath, and during the next day she many times looked
out to see him coming, as she surely thought he would,
laden with apologies for his seeming neglect. But nothing
appeared except the huge box containing the piano, and in
superintending the opening of that her mind was for a time
diverted. Greatly Alice and Dora marvelled whence came
the money with which the purchase had been made, and
both with one consent settled upon Mr. Hastings as having
been the donor. To this suggestion Eugenia made no reply,
and feeling sure that it was so, Dora turned away and walking
to the window sighed as she wondered what Ella would say
if she could know who was to take her place in the heart
of Howard Hastings.

The instrument was finely toned, and Eugenia spent the
remainder of the day in practising a very difficult piece,
which she knew Mr. Hastings admired, and with which she
intended to surprise and charm him. But he did not come,
either that day or the next, and on the morning of the
next, which was Saturday, feigning some trivial errand to
Mrs. Leah, she went herself to Rose Hill, casting anxious
glances towards the windows of his room to see if he were
in sight. Dame Leah was a shrewd old woman, and readily

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guessing that Eugenia's visit was prompted from a desire to
see her master, rather than herself, she determined to tantalize
her by saying nothing of him unless she were questioned.
Continually hoping he would appear, Eugenia
lingered until there was no longer a shadow of excuse for tarrying,
and then she arose to go, saying as she reached the door,
“Oh, now I think of it, Mr. Hastings has a book in his library
which I very much wish to borrow. Is he at home?”

“No,” answered Mrs. Leah, “he went to New York,
Thursday morning, on the early train.”

“To New York!” repeated Eugenia, “for what? and
when will he be home?”

“He said he had important business,” returned Mrs. Leah,
adding that “maybe he'd be home that night.”

Eugenia had heard all she wished to know, and forgetting
entirely the book, bade Mrs. Leah good morning, and walked
away, feeling in a measure relieved, for the business which
took him so suddenly to New York, had undoubtedly some
connection with his failing to call at the hotel for her!
He had never called upon Sunday evening, but thinking that
after so long an absence he might do so now, she sat in
state from six o'clock till nine, starting nervously at every
sound, and once when sure, she heard him, running from the
room, so he would not find her there, and think she had been
waiting for him. But he did not come, and the next day,
feeling exceedingly anxious to know if he had returned, and
remembering the book, which she had failed to get, and must
have, she towards night sent Dora to Rose Hill, bidding
her if she saw Mr. Hastings tell him that her piano had
come and she wished him to hear it.

In the long kitchen by a glowing stove, Dame Leah sat,
busy with her knitting, which she quickly suspended when
she saw Dora, who was with her a favorite.

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“So Eugenia sent you for that book?” she said, when
told of Dora's errand. “I'll see if he will lend it.”

Mr. Hastings was alone in his library. All that day he
had been making up his mind to call at Locust Grove, where
he knew Eugenia was impatiently expecting him, for Mrs.
Leah had told him of her call, winking slily as she spoke of
the forgotten book!

“Yes, I will go and have it over,” he thought, just as
Mrs. Leah entered, telling him that “Miss Deane wanted
that book.”

Thinking that Eugenia was in the house, he answered
hastily. “Take it to her, and pray don't let her in here.”

“It's Dora, not Eugenia,” said Mrs. Leah, and instantly
the whole expression of his countenance changed

“Dora!” he exclaimed. “It's a long time since I saw
her in this room. Tell her to come up.”

Very gladly Dora obeyed the summons, and in a moment
she stood in the presence of Mr. Hastings.

“I am glad to see you,” he said, motioning her to the little
stool, on which she had often sat when reciting to him
her lessons, and when she now sat down, it was so near to
him that, had he chosen, his hand could have rested on her
beautiful hair, for she held her hood upon her lap.

Two months before and he would not have hesitated to
smooth these shining tresses, but the question of his sister,
“Do you love her?” had produced upon him a curious effect,
making him half afraid of the child-woman who sat before
him, and who, after waiting a time for him to speak, looked
up into his face, and said, “Do you want me for anything
in particular, Mr. Hastings?”

“Want you, Dora? Want you?” he said, abstractedly,
as if that question, too, had puzzled him; then remembering
himself, and why he had sent for her, he

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answered, “I want to talk with you, Dora—to tell you something.
Do you remember my sister Mrs. Elliott?”

The eager, upward glance of Dora's eyes, was a sufficient
answer, and he continued. “I saw her last week and
talked with her of you. She wishes you to come and live
with her. Will you go?”

Dora could never tell why she cried, but the thought of
living with Mrs. Elliott, whom she regarded as an almost
superior being, overcame her, and she burst into tears,
while Mr. Hastings looked at her, quite uncertain as to what,
under the circumstances, it was proper for him to do. If
his sister had never bothered him with that strange question,
he would have known exactly how to act; but
now in a state of perplexity, he sat motionless, until, thinking
he must do something, he said gently, “Dora, my child.”
The last word removed his embarrassment entirely. She
was a child, and as such he would treat her. So he said
again, “Dora, my child, why do you cry?” and Dora answered
impulsively, “It makes me so glad to think of living
with Mrs. Elliott, for you do not know how unhappy I have
been since she found me four years ago.

“I know more than you suppose. But it is over now,”
he said; and stretching out his arm, he drew her nearer to
him, and resting her head upon his knee, he soothed her as
if she were indeed the child he tried to believe she was, and
he her grey-haired sire, instead of a young man of twenty-seven!

And Dora grew very calm sitting there with Mr. Hastings's
hand upon her head, and when he told her it was all arranged,
and she should surely go, she sprang to her feet,
and while her cheeks glowed with excitement, exclaimed, “It
is too good to come true. Something will happen, Aunt
Sarah will not let me go.”

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“Yes, she will,” said Mr. Hastings decidedly. “I am
going there to-night to talk with her.”

Then, as it was already growing dark, he arose to accompany
Dora home, both of them forgetting the book, which
Eugenia seemed destined never to receive. But she did not
think to ask for it in her joy at meeting Mr. Hastings, who
succeeded in appearing natural far better than he had expected,
telling her, not that he was sorry for having failed
to keep his appointment, but that it was not consistent for
him to do so, and adding that he hoped she was not very
much disappointed.

“Oh, no,” she said, “I know of course that business detained
you;”—then, as she saw him looking at her piano,
she advanced towards it, and seating herself upon the stool,
asked, “if he would like to hear her play?”

He could not conscientiously answer “yes,” for he felt
that the sound would sicken him; but he stood at her side
and turned the leaves of her music as usual, while she dashed
through the piece she had practised with so much care.

“How do you like it?” she said, when she had finished;
and he answered, “I always admired your playing, you
know, but the tone of the instrument does not quite suit me.
It seems rather muffled, as if the wires were made of hair!”
and his large black eyes were bent searchingly upon her.

Coloring crimson, she thought, “Can he have learned
my secret?” then, as she remembered how impossible it was
for him to know aught of the money, she answered, “Quite
an original idea,” at the same time seating herself upon the
sofa. Sitting down beside her as he had been in the habit
of doing, he commenced at once upon the object of his visit,
asking if her mother were at home, and saying he wished to
see her on a matter of some importance; then, knowing who
was really the ruling power there, he added, as Eugenia

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arose to leave the room in quest of her mother, “perhaps I
had better speak of my business first to you!”

Feeling sure now of a proposal, the young lady resumed
her seat, involuntarily pulling at her fourth finger, and mentally
hoping the engagement ring would be a diamond one!
What then was her surprise when she found that not herself,
but Dora was the subject of his remarks! After telling
her of his visit to his sister, and of her wishes with regard
to Dora, he said, “since the death of my wife and
baby, I have felt a deep interest in your family, for the
kindness shown to me in my affliction. I promised Ella that
I would befriend Dora, and by placing her with Louise, I
shall not only fulfill my word, but shall also be relieved of
all care concerning her. Do you think I can persuade your
mother to let her go?”

Eugenia did not know. She would speak to her about
it after he was gone, and tell him on the morrow.

“I shall rely upon you to plead my cause,” he continued;
“Louise's heart is quite set upon it, and I do not wish to
disappoint her.”

“I will do my best,” answered Eugenia, never suspecting
that Mr. Hastings was quite as anxious as his sister, who,
she presumed, intended making a half companion, half waiting-maid
of her cousin.

“But it will be a good place for her, and somewhat of a
relief to us,” she thought, after Mr. Hastings had gone.
“She is getting to be a young lady now, and growing each
year more and more expensive. I presume Mrs. Elliott will
send her to school for a time at least, and in case our
families should be connected, it is well for her to do so. I
wrote to Uncle Nat that we wished to send her away to
school, and this is the very thing. Mother won't of course
insist upon her having all that money, for she will be

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well enough off without it, and if Mr. Hastings ever does propose,
I can have a handsome outfit! Fortune does favor
me certainly.”

Thus Eugenia mused, and thus did she talk to her mother,
and she was the more easily persuaded when she saw how
eager Dora was to go.”

“I shall be sorry to leave you, Aunt Sarah,” said Dora,
coming to her side, and resting her hand upon her shoulder,
“but I shall be so happy with Mrs. Elliott, that I am sure
you'll let me go.”

Mrs. Deane was naturally a cold, selfish woman, but the
quiet, unassuming Dora had found a place in her heart, and
she would be very lonely without her; still it was better
for her, and better for them all that she should go; so she
at last gave her consent, and when the next day Mr. Hastings
called he was told that Dora could go as soon as he
thought best.

“Let it be immediately, then,” he said. “I will write to
Louise to night, and tell her we shall come next week.”

“I wish I could go to New York with her,” said Eugenia.
“It's so long since I was there.”

“You had better wait till some other time, for I could
not now show you over the city,” answered Mr. Hastings,
who had no idea of being burdened with Eugenia.

“He expects me to go with him sometime, or he would
never have said that,” thought Eugenia, and this belief
kept her good natured during all the bustle and hurry of
preparing Dora for her journey.

The morning came at last on which Dora was to leave,
and with feelings of regret Mrs. Deane and Alice bade her
good-bye, while Eugenia accompanied her to the depot,
where she knew she should see Mr. Hastings.

“I've half a mind to go with you as far as Rochester,” she

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said to Dora, in his presence, as the cars came up, but he
made no reply, and the project was abandoned.

Kissing her cousin good-bye, she stood upon the platform
until the train had moved away, and then walked slowly
back to the house, which even to her seemed lonesome.

p594-129

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