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One bright, beautiful summer morning, a noble vessel
was sailing slowly into the harbor of New York. Groups
of passengers stood upon her deck, and a little apart from
the rest were Uncle Nat and Howard Hastings, the former
gazing eagerly towards the city, which had more than
doubled its population since last he looked upon it.

“We are almost home,” he said to his companion, joyfully,
for though the roof that sheltered his childhood was
further to the northward, among the granite hills, he knew
that it was America, the land of his birth, which lay before
him, and as a child returns to its mother after a long and
weary absence, so did his heart yearn towards the shore they
were fast approaching.

A crowd of memories came rushing over him, and when,
at last, the plank was lowered, he was obliged to lean upon
the stronger arm of Howard Hastings, who, procuring a
carriage, bade the hackman drive them at once to his sister's.
For some time Mrs. Elliott and Dora had been looking for
the travellers, whose voyage was unusually long, and they
had felt many misgivings lest the treacherous sea had not
been faithful to its trust; but this morning they were not
expecting them, and wishing to make some arrangements
for removing to her country seat on the Hudson, Mrs. Elliott
had gone out there and taken Dora with her. Mr.

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Hastings's first impulse was to follow them, but knowing that they
would surely be home that night, and remembering how
weary Uncle Nathaniel was, he wisely concluded to remain
in the city and suprise them on their return.

Like one in a dream, Uncle Nat walked from room to
room, asking every half hour if it were not almost time for
the train, and wondering if Dora would recognize him if no
one told her who he was. Scarcely less excited, Mr. Hastins,
too, waited and watched; and when, just at dark, he
heard the door unclose, and Dora's voice in the hall without,
the rapid beating of his heart was distinctly audible.

“That's her—that's Dora. I'll go to her at once,” said
Uncle Nat; but Mr. Hastings kept him back, and Dora
passed on to her room, from which she soon returned, and
they could hear the sound of her footsteps upon the stairs, as
she drew near.

With his face of a deathlike whiteness, his lips apart, and
the perspiration standing thickly about them, Uncle Nat
sat leaning forward, his eyes fixed upon the door through
which she would enter. In a moment she stood before
them—Dora Deane—but far more lovely than Mr. Hastings
had thought or dreamed. Nearly two years before, he
had left her a school girl, as it were, and now he found her
a beautiful woman, bearing about her an unmistakable air
of refinement and high breeding. She knew him in an instant,
and with an exclamation of surprised delight, was hastening
forward, when a low, moaning cry, from another part
of the room, arrested her ear, causing her to pause ere Mr.
Hastings was reached.

Uncle Nat had recognized her—knew that she was Dora,
and attempted to rise, but his strength utterly failed him,
and stretching out his trembling arms towards her, he said,
supplicatingly, “me first, Dora—me first.”

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It was sufficient, and Dora passed on with a welcoming
glance at Mr. Hastings, who feeling that it was not for him
to witness that meeting, glided noiselessly from the room in
quest of his sister. Fondly the old man clasped the young
girl to his bosom, and Dora could hear the whispered blessings
which he breathed over her, and felt the hot tears
dropping on her cheek.

“Speak to me, darling,” he said at last; “let me hear
your own voice assuring me that never again shall we be
parted, until your mother calls for me to come and be with
her.”

Looking lovingly up into his face, Dora answered, “I
will never leave nor forsake you, my father, but wherever
your home may be there will mine be also.”

Clasping her still closer in his arms, he said, “God bless
you, my child, for so I will call you, and never, I am sure,
did earthly parent love more fondly an only daughter than
I love you, my precious Dora. I have yearned so often to
behold you, to look into your eyes and hear you say that I
was loved, and now that it has come to me, I am willing,
almost, to die.”

Releasing her after a moment, and holding her off at a
little distance, he looked earnestly upon her, saying, as he
did so, “Yes, you are like her—like your mother, Dora.
Some, perhaps, would call you even more beautiful, but to
me there is not in all the world a face more fair than hers.”

In his delight at seeing her, he forgot for the time being
how deeply she had been injured, and it was well that he did,
for now nothing marred the happiness of this meeting, and for
half an hour longer he sat with her alone, talking but little,
but looking ever at the face so much like her whom he had
loved and lost. At last, as if suddenly remembering himself,
he said, “Excuse me, Dora; the sight of you drove

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every other thought from my mind, and I have kept you
too long from one who loves you equally well with myself,
and who must be impatient at the delay. He is worthy of
you, too, my child,” he continued, without observing how the
color faded from Dora's cheeks. “He is a noble young
man, and no son was ever kinder to a father than he has
been to me, since the night when I welcomed him to my
home in India. Go to him, then, my daughter, and ask him
to forgive my selfishness.”

From several little occurrences, Dora had received the impression
that a marriage between herself and Mr. Hastings
would not be distasteful to his sister, but she had treated
the subject lightly as something impossible. Still the
thought of his loving another was fraught with pain, and
when at last she knew that he was on the stormy sea, and
felt that danger might befall him—when the faces of his
mother and sister wore an anxious, troubled look as days
went by, bringing them no tidings—when she thought it just
possible that he would never return to them again, it came
to her just as two years before it had come to him, and sitting
alone in her pleasant chamber, she, more than once,
had wept bitterly, as she thought how much she loved him,
and how improbable it was that he should care for her, whom
he had found almost a beggar girl.

In the first surprise of meeting him she had forgotten everything,
save that he had returned to them in safety, and her
manner towards him then was perfectly natural; but now,
when Uncle Nat, after telling what he did, bade her go to
him, she quitted the room reluctantly, and much as she
wished to see him, she would undoubtedly have run away
up stairs, had she not met him in the hall, together with
Mrs. Elliott, who was going to pay her respects to Uncle
Nat.

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“I have not spoken with you yet, Dora,” he said, taking
her hand between both his. “Go in there,” motioning to
the room he had just left, “and wait until I present Louise
to your uncle.”

It was a habit of Dora's always to cry just when she
wished to least, and now entering the little music room, she
threw herself upon the sofa and burst into tears. Thus Mr.
Hastings found her on his return, and sitting down by her
side, he said gently, “Are you, then, so glad that I have
come home?”

Dora would not, for the world, let him know her real
feelings, and she answered, “Yes, I am glad, but I am crying
at what Uncle Nat said to me.”

Mr. Hastings bit his lip, for this was not exactly the kind
of meeting he had anticipated, and after sitting an awkward
moment, during which he was wishing that she had not answered
him as she did, he said: “Will you not look up,
Dora, and tell me how you have passed the time of my absence?
I am sure you have improved it, both from your own
appearance and what Louise has told me.”

This was a subject on which Dora felt that she could trust
herself, and drying her tears, she became very animated as
she told him of the books she had read, and the studies she
had pursued. “I have taken music lessons, too,” she added.
“Would you like to hear me play?”

Mr. Hastings would far rather have sat there, watching
her bright face, with his arm thrown lightly around her
waist, but it was this very act, this touch of his arm, which
prompted her proposal, and gracefully disengaging herself,
she crossed over to the piano, which was standing in the
room, and commenced singing the old, and on that occasion,
very appropriate song of “Home again, home again, from
a foreign shore.” The tones of her voice were rich and full,

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and they reached the ear of Uncle Nat, who in his eagerness
to listen, forgot everything, until Mrs. Elliott said, “It
is Dora singing to my brother. Shall we join them?”

Leading the way she ushered him into the music room,
where, standing at Dora's side, he listened rapturously to
her singing, occasionally wiping away a tear, called forth
by the memories that song had awakened. The sight of
the piano reminded him of Eugenia, and when Dora had
finished playing, he laid his broad hand upon her shoulder
and said, “Do you ever hear from them—the villains?”

Dora knew to whom he referred, and half laughing at his
excited manner, she replied, as she stole a mischievous
glance towards Mr. Hastings, “I received a letter from Eugenia
not long since, and she seemed very anxious to know
in what part of Europe Mr. Hastings was now travelling, and
if he were ever coming home!”

“Much good his coming home will do her, the trollop!”
muttered Uncle Nat, whispering incoherently to himself as he
generally did, when Eugenia was the subject of his thoughts.
“Don't answer the letter,” he said at last, “or, if you
do, say nothing of me; I wish to meet them first as a
stranger.”

Near the window Mr. Hastings was standing, revolving
in his own mind a double surprise which he knew would mortify
Eugenia more than anything else. But in order to effect
this, Uncle Nat must remain incog. for some time yet,
while Dora herself must be won, and this, with the jealous
fears of a lover, he fancied might be harder to accomplish
than the keeping Uncle Nat silent when in the presence of
Eugenia.

“To-morrow I will see her alone, and know the worst,”
he thought, and glancing at Dora, he felt a thrill of fear
lest she, in all the freshness of her youth, should refuse her

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heart to one, who had called another than herself his
wife.

But Ella Grey had never awakened a love as deep and absorbing
as that which he now felt for Dora Deane, and all
that night he lay awake, wondering how he should approach
her, and fancying sometimes that he saw the cold
surprise with which she would listen to him, and again that
he read in her dark blue eyes the answer which he sought.
The morrow came, but throughout the entire day, he found
no opportunity of speaking to her alone, for Uncle Nat
hovered near her side, gazing at her as if he would never
tire of looking at her beautiful face. And Dora, too, had
much to say to the old man, on this the first day after his
return. With his head resting upon her lap, and her soft
white hand upon his wrinkled brow, she told him of her
mother, and the message she had left for him on the sad
night when she died. Then she spoke of her aunt Sarah,
of Eugenia and Alice, and the wrath of Uncle Nat was
somewhat abated, when he heard her pleading with him not
to be so angry and unforgiving—

“I can treat Alice well, perhaps,” he said, “for she, it
seems, was never particularly unkind. And for your sake,
I may forgive the mother. But Eugenia never!—not even
if Fannie herself should ask me!”

Thus passed that day, and when the next one came,
Uncle Nat still staid at Dora's side, following her from
room to room, and never for a moment leaving Mr. Hastings
with her alone. In this manner nearly a week went by, and
the latter was beginning to despair, when one evening as
the three were together in the little music room, and Mrs.
Elliott was with her mother, who was ill, it suddenly occurred
to Uncle Nat that he had appropriated Dora entirely to
himself, not giving Mr. Hastings a single opportunity for
seeing her alone.

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“I have wondered that he did not tell me he was engaged,”
he thought, “but how could he when I haven't
given him a chance to speak to her, unless he did it before
me; strange, I should be so selfish: but I'll make amends
now—though I do hope he'll be quick!”

Rising up, he walked to the door, when thinking that Mr.
Hastings might possibly expect him to return every moment,
and so keep silent, he said, “I've been in the way of
you young folks long enough, and I feel just as if something
might happen if I left you together! Call me when you
want me?” so saying he shut the door, and Mr. Hastings
was alone at last with Dora Deane!

Both knew to what Uncle Nat referred, and while Dora
fidgeted from one thing to another, looking at a book of
prints wrong side up, and admiring the pictures, Mr. Hastings
sat perfectly still, wondering why he was so much
afraid of her. Two years before he felt no fear; but a
refusal at that time would not have affected him as it
would do now, for he did not then know how much he loved
her. Greatly he desired that she should speak to him—
look at him—or do something to break the embarrassing
silence; but this Dora had no intention of doing, and she
was just meditating the propriety of running away, when he
found voice enough to say, “Will you come and sit by me,
Dora?”

She had always obeyed him, and she did so now, taking
a seat, however, as far from him as possible, on the end of
the sofa. Still, when he moved up closely to her side,
and wound his arm about her, she did not object, though
her face burned with blushes, and she thought it quite likely
that her next act would be to cry! And this she did do,
when he said to her, “Dora, do you remember the night
when Ella died?”

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He did not expect any answer yet, and he continued,
“She told me, you know, of a time when, though not forgetting
her, I should love another—should seek to call
another my wife. And, Dora, she was right, for I do love
another, better, if it be possible, than I did my lost Ella.
'Tis four years since she left me, and now that I would have
a second wife, will the one whom I have chosen from all the
world to be that wife, answer me yes? Will she go back
with me in the autumn to my long deserted home, where her
presence always brought sunlight and joy?”

There was no coquetry about Dora Deane, and she could
not have practised it now, if there had been. She knew
Mr. Hastings was in earnest—knew that he meant what he
said—and the little hand, which at first had stolen partly
under her dress, lest he should touch it, came back from its
hiding-place, and crept slowly along until his was reached,
and there she let it lay! This was her answer, and he was
satisfied!

For a long, long time they sat together, while Mr. Hastings
talked, not wholly of the future when she would be his
wife, but of the New Year's morning, years ago, when he
found her sleeping in the chamber of death—of the bright
June afternoon, when she sat with her bare feet in the running
brook—of the time when she first brought comfort to
his home—of the dark, rainy evening, when the sight of
her sitting in Ella's room, with Ella's baby on her lap, had
cheered his aching heart—of the storm she had braved to
tell him his baby was dying—of the winter night when he
watched her through the window—of the dusky twilight
when she sat at his feet in the little library at Rose Hill—
and again in his sister's home on the Hudson, when he first
knew how much he loved her. Of all these pictures so indelibly
stamped upon his memory, he told her, and of the

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many, many times his thoughts had been of her when afar
on a foreign shore.

And Dora, listening to him, did not care to answer, her
heart was so full of happiness, to know that she should be
thus loved by one like Howard Hastings. From a tower not far
distant, a city clock struck twelve, and then, starting up, she exclaimed,
“So late! I thought 'twas only ten! We have kept
Uncle Nat too long. Will you go with me to him?” and with
his arms still around her, Mr. Hastings arose to accompany her.

For half an hour after leaving the music-room Uncle Nat
had walked up and down the long parlors, with his hands
in his pockets, hoping Mr. Hastings would be brief, and
expecting each moment to hear Dora calling him back! In
this manner an hour or more went by, and then grown very
nervous and cold (for it was a damp, chilly night, such as
often occurs in our latitude, even in summer) he began to
think that if Dora were not coming, a fire would be acceptable,
and he drew his chair near to the register, which was
closed. Wholly unaccustomed to furnaces, he did not think
to open it, and for a time longer he sat wondering why he
didn't grow warm, and if it took everybody as long to propose
as it did Mr. Hastings.

It “didn't take me long to tell my love to Fanny,” he said,
“but then she refused, and when they accept, as Dora will,
it's always a longer process, I reckon!”

This point satisfactorily settled, he began to wish the
atmosphere of the room would moderate, and hitching in
his chair, he at last sat directly over the register! but even
this failed to warm him, and mentally concluding that,
“though furnaces might do very well for New Yorkers, they
were of no account whatever to an East India man,” he fell
asleep. In this situation, Dora found him.

“Poor old man,” said she, “'twas thoughtless in me to

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leave him so long,” and kissing his brow, she cried, “Wake
up, Uncle Nat—wake up!” and Uncle Nat rubbing his eyes
with his red stiff fingers, and looking in her glowing face,
knew “that something had happened!”

p594-160

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