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One year has passed away since the night when, cold,
weary and forlorn, Dora followed her cousins up the gravelled
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.”

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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 was 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

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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 sun-bonnet, 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's 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

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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
eye wandered over the painted map of India, she resolved
to write and to tell him of her mother's dying words—tell

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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!”

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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

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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 aunt and cousins according to their kindnesses
done to her!

Need we say that childish prayer was answered to the
letter!

p594-038

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