"I never expect to be anybody, or go any where;" then, as her services were no longer needed, she ran away to her humble room, where from her window she watched the many brilliant lights which shone from Rose Hill, and caught occasional glimpses of the airy forms which flitted before the open doors and windows. Once she was sure she saw Eugenia upon the balcony, and then, as a sense of the difference between herself and her cousins came over her, she laid her down upon the old green trunk, and covering her face with her hands, cried out, "Nobody cares for me, or loves me either. I wish I had died that winter night. Oh, mother! come to me, I am so lonely and so sad."
Softly, as if it were indeed the rustle of an angel's wings, came the evening air, through the open casement, cooling the feverish brow and drying the tears of the orphan girl, who grew strangely calm; and when at last the moon looked in upon her, she was sleeping quietly, with a placid smile upon her lips. Years after, and Dora Deane remembered that summer night, when, on the hard green trunk, she slept so soundly as not to hear the angry voice of Eugenia, who came home sadly out of humor with herself and the world at large.
At breakfast, next morning, she was hardly on speaking terms with her sister, while Stephen Grey was pronounced "a perfect bore-a baboon, with more hair than brains."
"And to that I should not suppose you would object," said Alice, mischievously. "You might find it useful in case of an emergency."
To this there was no reply, save an angry flash of the black eyes, which, it seems, had failed to interest Stephen Grey, who was far better pleased with the unassuming Alice, and who had paid the haughty Eugenia no attention whatever, except, indeed, to plant his patent leather boot upon one of her lace flounces, tearing it half off, and leaving a sad rent, which could not well be mended. This, then, was the cause of her wrath, which continued for some time; when really wishing to talk over the events of the evening, she became a little more gracious, and asked Alice how she liked Mrs. Elliott, who had unexpectedly arrived from New York.
"I was delighted with her," returned Alice; "she was such a perfect lady. And hadn't she magnificent hair! Just the color of Dora's" she added, glancing at the little cropped head, which had been so suddenly divested of its beauty.
"It wasn't all hers, though," answered Eugenia, who invariably saw and spoke of every defect. "I heard her telling Ella that she bought a braid in Rochester as she came up. But what ails you?" she continued, speaking now to Dora, whose eyes sparkled with some unusual excitement and who replied—
"You said Mrs. Elliott, from New York. And that was the name of the lady who was so kind to me. Oh, if I only thought it were she, I'd——"
"Make yourself ridiculous, I dare say," interrupted Eugenia, adding, that "there was more than one Mrs. Elliott in the world, and she'd no idea that so elegant a lady as Mr. Hastings's sister ever troubled herself to look after folks in such a miserable old hovel as the one where Dora had lived."
This, however, did not satisfy the child, who, during the week that Mrs. Elliott remained in the neighborhood, cast many longing glances in the direction of Rose Hill, gazing oft with tearful eyes upon a female figure which sometimes walked upon the balcony, and which, perhaps, was her benefactress. One night it was told at Locust Grove that Mrs. Elliott had gone, and then, with a feeling of desolation for which she could not account, Dora again laid her face on the old green trunk and wept.